“And what?” Dean asks.
And I don’t know if he loves me back.
Sometimes I think he does, but in the back of my mind there’s always a little nugget of doubt. I’m honestly not certain if Tucker wants to be with me because he loves me, or because he thinks we should be together for the sake of our baby.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say hoarsely. “You’re right. This baby is screwing up his plans.” I wipe my face again. “The least I can do is make sure it doesn’t ruin more than it has to. I’ll take on the bulk of the responsibility. That’ll free up a lot of his time so that he can open a business he loves.”
Dean hesitates. “What about Harvard?”
“I’m still going.” Bitterness joins the sorrow clinging to my throat. “Don’t worry, you’ll have three more years to hate me and call me a bitch.”
“Actually, I won’t be there,” he confesses.
I frown. “Since when?”
“I accepted a teaching job at a private school in Manhattan.” He shrugs. “I realized law school isn’t where I want to be.”
“Oh.” I wonder why Tucker didn’t mention that, but I guess it doesn’t surprise me. He’s already admitted that Dean hasn’t exactly been Mr. Supportive about the baby.
“After Beau died,” Dean starts, but his voice cracks and he stops to clear his throat. “After he died, I kind of went batshit crazy for a while. But then I crawled out of the hole I dug for myself and really took stock of my life, you know?”
I nod slowly. Joanna Maxwell had done the same thing. So had I. Beau’s death made me realize how important life is, how short it can be. I wonder if losing Beau was a game-changer for everyone who knew and cared about him.
“It changed stuff for me too,” I confess.
It’s Dean’s turn to nod. “I can tell.” He pauses ruefully. “Sometimes I can’t believe you and I ever hooked up. It seems like a million years ago.”
I manage a laugh. “Yup.”
“You really love Tuck, huh?”
“I do.”
He lets out a heavy breath. “You should tell him.”
“No.” I swallow. “And you’re not going to tell him either.”
“He needs to know—”
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I mean it, Dean. Don’t say anything to him. You owe me.”
Humor flickers in his eyes. “How do you figure?”
I jut out my chin. “You didn’t deserve that A in Statistics sophomore year.”
“Ah. So keeping my mouth shut is my punishment for the undeserved grade?”
“So you admit it was undeserved!”
“Of course it was.” His tone becomes pained. “Trust me, I did everything I could to try to get the professor to fail me.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. After I aced that project we teamed up on and you only got a B, I realized the TA was fucking around with my grades. I asked the prof to go over all my tests and papers, and turns out I was supposed to be failing.”
“Oh my God. I knew it.” Though I don’t feel as smug about it as I thought I would. My beef with Dean suddenly feels incredibly unimportant. And, like he said, as if it happened a million years ago.
“Well, I didn’t,” he says frankly. “I know you think I was boning the TA for the grades—” He flashes a grin, “—but I was boning her because she had a great rack and the sweetest ass.”
I pretend to gag before going serious. “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”
He snickers. “Because we’re not friends.”
I snicker back. “True.” I mull something over. “But maybe we should call a ceasefire.”
“Jesus. Has hell frozen over?”
Embarrassment tickles my belly. “You’re one of Tucker’s best friends. I’m about to have his kid. It makes sense for us to try to co-exist.”
“Makes sense,” he agrees.
Dean hops off the floor and holds out a hand.
I hesitate for only a second before allowing him to help me to my feet. “Thanks.”
An awkward silence stretches between us, which I don’t try to fill by talking. I’m still not convinced that Dean isn’t a superficial playboy, and I’m sure a part of him still thinks I’m a bitch. But the hostility is gone, and even though we’re never going to be best buds, I know Tucker will appreciate it if I make an effort to get along with Dean.
It’s the least I can do, considering how much Tucker has already sacrificed for me.
29
Sabrina
June
“Holy crap, babies need a lot of shit.” Carin staggers into my bedroom loaded with three bags. “I think your incoming babelette has more gear than Hope.”
“Not possible,” says Hope’s boyfriend, who we corralled into picking up a crib I found at a garage sale over in Dunham.
He and Tucker muscle the pieces inside and look around at the small space.
“You going to fit everything in here?” D’Andre asks dubiously.
I rub a hand over my belly. Nothing seems to fit anymore. Not my clothes. Not my shoes. And now, not the crib. My bedroom is big enough for a desk and a bed but not a desk and a bed and a crib.
I sigh. “I guess the desk is going to have to go.”
Tucker keeps his mouth shut, but I see frustration flare briefly in his eyes. We’ve been over this before. He wants me to move out, but I refuse to.
We’ve settled into a nice routine this past month, in which I’ve been doing exactly what I told Dean I would do—trying to make life as easy as possible for Tuck.
I don’t ask him for anything. I won’t let him pay for or even split the cost of all the baby stuff I’m buying. I don’t call him in the middle of the night when the baby kicks me awake and my back is throbbing. And I’m definitely not going to commit to an apartment with him. I’d never be able to afford anything decent and I need to pay my way or this is never going to work.
Still, asking John Tucker not to help out is like asking the sun not to rise. He comes to my doctor’s appointments, rubs my back and feet every time we’re on the couch together, has read as many baby books as we can get our hands on, and is always picking me up little snacks—a pint of cookie dough ice cream, a bag of double-stuff Oreos, a jar of olives. I’ve started to keep my random cravings to myself, because if I even hint that something sounds enticing, Tucker’s in his truck on his way to the grocery store.
“Where are you going to study?” Carin asks in alarm.
D’Andre grunts and tries to re-adjust his grip on the crib.
“Out in the kitchen,” I answer. Pointing to the closet door, I ask the guys to set the pieces down. “Over there, and then I guess we’ll put this desk out on the curb and hope someone picks it up.”
As the two men maneuver the crib parts into the room, I start cleaning out the desk drawers, dumping papers on the bed. Carin hops over to help.
“Good call on Dunham,” I tell Tucker. It was his idea to head over to that posh town twenty minutes outside of Boston.
He shrugs as if it was no big deal. “I looked at property over there and the cheapest place was six figures. Figured it would have some good stuff for us.”
“What you doing over in Dunham?” D’Andre asks.
“Looking around at some businesses for sale. I’m buying one with my dad’s insurance money.” Tucker crouches beside me and starts to paw through the pieces of the crib.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Lots of franchises, but nothing feels right. I can’t see myself making sub sandwiches for the rest of my life, even if the P&L statements are good. I could buy a couple of small rentals. Good cash flow with that.”
D’Andre nods. “Yeah. You’d be able to do most of the maintenance too. What else is out there?”
“In my price range? Mostly small businesses. There are a couple gyms, lots of foodie places, and a few other things which I think are a big money drain.”
“Gotta find something you like.”
“You know it.” Tucker hops to his feet. “I’m going to get the rest of the shit from the truck.”
I give him an absent nod as he leaves. In no time, we have the desk cleared out. Hope and I start to move it, but D’Andre stomps over and pushes me away.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Get over there and sit down.” He shakes his head. “Fool girl. The size of a house and she’s still trying to pretend she’s not pregnant,” he mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him.
Chastised, I make my way over to the bed to start sorting things. I’m going to have to clean out my closet and dresser drawers because, as Carin said, babies require a lot of shit. Diapers are already stacked in the corner of the closet—they were a gift from Hope. I can’t imagine going through all of them, even if the books say that you change a diaper six to ten times a day.
The books I picked up at the used bookstore were old, so I’m guessing some of the information is outdated. Because six to ten times a day? Who’s got time for that? Tucker has some newer books, so I can compare notes with him later.
Hope joins me on the bed. “‘Most Likely to be a Lawyer, 8th Grade.’” She makes a face. “You were a barrel of laughs as a kid, weren’t you?”