Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

I’d screw True any second of any day if she wanted to fuck.

I’m giving like that.

“You suddenly got quiet,” she says, stabbing at her potatoes. “Was it all the talk of marriage? Ha ha.”

“No, I was making a mental checklist and ticking things off,” I admit like an idiot before I can stop myself.

“What mental list?”

“Um.” Shit. “I googled pregnancy symptoms and was wondering when you’re going to hit the stage where all you want to do is have sex.”

Her expression is blank.

She blinks twice. Three times.

“Who says I haven’t?” Stuffs a forkful of food in her mouth and chews, grinning between swallows—or is that a smirk? Hard to say.

“Uh—you haven’t used my body for your own purposes enough. I’m offended. That’s what it’s here for.”

“Mateo, you’ve known a couple days that we’re having a baby, I’m not going to start jumping your bones—we ease into that.”

“You’re a few months along and we’ve only done it twice, the first time included. Which means we have catching up to do if you want—take my body, it’s yours.”

True laughs. “Men are so easy. As if there was any doubt.”

“I take offense to that…kind of.”

She scoffs. “You do not—but thank you for the offer.”

There’s hesitation in my voice when I ask, “Does that mean you’re not interested in sex at all, orrr…?”

“It means that right now, this very second, I do not want to bang you. What I want is chocolate.”

Fair enough. “What about after chocolate?”

“Oh my god, Mateo, would you let me eat in peace! Jeez.” She huffs, polishing off the rest of her meal with a satisfied sigh, nodding when the server comes by to ask if we’d like to see the dessert menu.

The question is a no-brainer for True; if I don’t give her something sweet, she’s going to gnaw my arm off, or at the very least, chew my ass out.

Pregnant chicks are scary as fuck.

I remember when Sophia was pregnant; I remember her being irrational and irritable, snapping at her poor husband Mark when he forgot to do something. I also vaguely remember Sophia wanting food brought to her in the middle of the night—fast food, usually—and Mark having to deliver. French fries and ice cream. Cheeseburgers. Tacos. Lo mein.

“Have you had any cravings yet?”

“Not really. I haven’t been able to eat anything so I’ve been craving nothing. Hopefully I won’t—it would be great if I didn’t have to buy new clothes. My leggings have lots of stretch.” She laughs at her own little joke, eyes scanning the small dessert menu. “Ugh, too many choices. I can’t decide.”

I’m terrified to tell her to order whatever she wants or one of everything because she might do it, and there isn’t enough room at this tiny, square table.

I silently wait.

She glances up at me after a few quiet moments. “Doesn’t lava cake sound good? Or this warm blondie brownie with ice cream on the side and caramel drizzle? Mmm.” She hums. “Oh! They have key lime pie. I wonder what the crust is like…”

It goes on like this for another ten minutes—at least—the expression on her face a mask of confusion and excitement as she deliberates. Kind of like a little kid at Christmas waiting to see Santa Claus at the mall, she’s practically vibrating.

And all over dessert…

Wish she was this excited about the idea of having sex with me again, but I can’t win every battle.

Fifteen

True

Dear True…

Dear True and the baby.

Stuffed to the gills, I ate half of two desserts. Unable to make up my mind, Mateo put me out of my misery by ordering one himself and handing me the spoon once it was set in front of him.

I didn’t hesitate to dig into the warm raspberry crumble.

What a glutton.

I’ve removed the letter Mateo handwrote, reading and rereading the salutation. It seems this first part was written and erased several times. Dear True.

My name, just mine. Then, and the baby, which brings a smile to my face as I lie on my bed, in the dark at Tripp’s house.

A key falls out of the folded sheets of paper, and I furrow my brow, curious, and read on…

Dear True and the baby,

I just wanted to let you know how…excited I was to find out we are going to be a party of three. Maybe not a family that lives together, but a family all the same. I always thought I would be a young dad, but there has never been anyone who’s come into my life who I wanted to keep here. And sure, maybe we’re having a baby because we made alcohol-fueled choices, but sometimes the best things come from a simple mistake. Shit, I don’t even want to call it a mistake, because I’m not even mad about it, not even a little.

That’s not why I’m writing, though, and not what I wanted to say.