Chapter Thirteen-Remy
“How far?” I ask, gritting out the question like it pains me.
Because it fucking does.
“Remy—”
“How. Far.”
She hesitates.
My jaw tightens. “Tell me.”
“Thirteen weeks,” she whispers, almost like she’s ashamed.
Thirteen weeks.
I do the math in my head, and it checks out. It’s just past three months since I saw her last.
Since I was inside her.
Without a condom.
Because she said I didn’t need them.
“You said you were on birth control—”
“No, I said you didn’t need protection,” she corrects me.
Fuck. She’s right. I’d assumed she meant she was on birth control.
“You did this on purpose? Got pregnant with my baby on purpose, didn’t you?”
“I always wanted a baby, and I’m already thirty-two. Did you know they consider me a geriatric pregnancy?” she whispers, and her look is equal parts frightened and hopeful.
“What?”
“It’s true. Over thirty and your eggs are considered old and high risk,” she shakes her head, wiping at her tears.
I don’t know what she’s fucking talking about.
But my hands curl into fists at my sides when I realize she didn’t want me, not really.
She just wanted my sperm.
I step closer. Rage and pride and guilt at war inside me.
“Goddamn it, Andy, I am so damn mad right now.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, you just meant to use me.”
“Remy, what can I do—”
“You’re carrying my child, right?”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.
Because I see it all in her face. The guilt. The fear. The flicker of something that might be regret.
And suddenly I’m not in a furniture store anymore—I’m standing in the middle of a slow-motion explosion.
“But you didn’t try to get in touch. You didn’t fucking tell me.”
“I was thinking about it,” she says quietly.
“You were what? Were you gonna send a text? When?” My voice sharpens. “When the baby was born? When I ran into you on the street like this? When they put my name on the fucking birth certificate? Oh wait, you weren’t gonna do that, were you?”
“Remy, be reasonable. You weren’t exactly looking for a happy ever after, were you? Just a happy ending!” she snaps back.
“I’m telling you right now, Andy, no child of mine is gonna be born a bastard!”
She flinches, tears welling, and I immediately feel like a dick—but not enough to stop.
I shake my head. “You had no right to keep this from me, Andy.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Remy. This is my concern, and I’ll take care of them.”
“Them?” I ask, freezing in place, glancing at Callie to make sure she’s okay. She is. Giggling with the saleslady.
“Um, yeah. Twins,” she whispers, smiling through her tears.
“I’m a twin,” I choke, throat constricting.
“You are?”
“I, uh, had a sister. She died,” I tell her, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, Remy—”
“For lying? For sneaking around? For hiding this from me,” I grit the words between my clenched jaws.
“Honestly, I figured you wouldn’t be interested. I thought you’d walk away,” she says, like that’s an excuse.
“You didn’t give me the chance, did you?”
There’s a pause. Her hand rests protectively on her belly.
“Look, I don’t know what to say,” she whispers. “I just really wanted this. I needed this. Understand?”
“Well, guess what, sweetheart,” I growl, stepping in until there’s barely air between us. “You need this? Well, you’ve got this. That includes me, too. Whether you like it or not.”
She gasps at that, blinking fast.
“You don’t mean that,” she says.
“You think I’d walk away from my kid? From you? I fucked up by letting you push me away, but this? These are our babies, Andrea.”
She flinches when I say her full name.
We’re quiet for a moment.
The tension between us vibrates so loud, it practically drowns out the elevator music in the store.
Then a little voice interrupts.
“Daddy, I want the one with glittery stairs!”
Andrea blinks, turning toward the sound.
Callie.
And that’s when she sees her.
Her expression softens with confusion, and I watch her try to make sense of the tiny tornado barreling toward us.
Callie flings herself at my leg and clings. “I picked everything! And I want the unicorn pillow too!”
Andrea looks between us, lips parting again.
“You have a daughter?” she asks softly.
“Technically, my niece,” I say, brushing Callie’s hair back. “But I’ve raised her since she was born. She lives with me now. Full time.”
Andrea stares at me.
At us.
Then, her eyes flick to her own belly again. And something cracks behind her eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Seems we’re both full of secrets.”