14. Clover
By the time I reach my apartment building, I've worked myself into such a state that I have to stop and take about twenty deep breaths before my hands stop shaking enough to get the key in the lock.
Banks isn't home. Thank god. Relief washes over me, followed immediately by a wave of guilt because I'm such a coward. I'm going to have to tell him—and soon—but right now I'm just pathetically grateful for a few hours to figure out what the hell I'm going to say.
I strip off my work clothes that reek of vomit and booze, take a shower, brush my teeth, then pull on my softest, most worn-in pajamas. The ones with the hole in the knee and the faded words across the chest. The ones Banks always smirks at when he sees me in them.
As if I don't have enough to deal with, now I'm thinking about his stupid smirk.
I need to bake. To work out what I’m going to do.
By the time I’m tired enough to sit down, I've got bread dough rising on the counter, a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and I'm elbow-deep in pie crust. My kitchen looks like a bakery exploded in it, and I keep having to wipe tears away with my forearm to avoid getting flour paste on my face. The apartment smells like vanilla and cinnamon and butter, but even the comfort of baking can't settle the tornado in my chest. I'm going to have to tell Banks that our onetime mistake is now an eighteen-year commitment.
I put the kettle on for ginger tea and sink into a chair at my kitchen table. I don’t even clean up after myself, which normally would make me itch in my brain until I fixed it. I try to imagine how the conversation might go, playing it out in my head from every angle over and over and over again.
But no matter how I imagine it going, it always ends in disaster.
For the next three days, I watch Banks like I'm seeing him for the first time.
I notice things I've been pretending not to see for weeks. Like how he fixes stuff around the apartment without being asked or expecting praise. How he leaves my favorite blueberry muffin on the counter with a stupid note that says Eat me, Freckles ;). How he remembers I like extra cinnamon in my coffee and adds just the right amount every single time without me having to ask. The way his entire face transforms when he laughs at those ridiculous reality shows we've started watching together—his arm stretched across the back of the couch behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel his body heat radiating toward me like a human furnace.
The terrifying truth slams into me during one of these quiet moments: I can see a future with him. A real one. Where we're more than temporary roommates or a one-night stand that resulted in an oops baby. Where this tiny person growing inside me has his laugh and my stubbornness and both of us to love them.
It scares the absolute shit out of me how badly I want that future. How possible it seems in these quiet moments when we're just existing together in a comfortable silence that makes this apartment feel more like home than it ever did before he moved in.
But nothing says "shit just got real" quite like a positive pregnancy test, and on the fourth day after discovering those two pink lines, reality comes crashing back when Kasen shows up at my door completely unannounced.
"There's my favorite sister!" he says, pulling me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet.
My stomach immediately revolts. I swallow hard against the wave of nausea as he swings me around like I'm not growing a tiny human that really doesn't appreciate the motion. "I'm your only sister, dumbass."
He sets me down with a grin, then does that stupid complicated handshake-into-bro-hug thing with Banks that all guys seem programmed to do. It makes me roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my head.
"How's the roommate situation working out? Has she organized your socks by length and then color yet?" Kasen asks Banks, thinking he's hilarious.
"Every time I do laundry," Banks answers with that stupid smirk that makes my stomach do a series of gymnastics moves that have absolutely nothing to do with morning sickness (okay, constant all-day sickness). "But I've been secretly reorganizing her linen closet to get even."
"Which is a direct violation of house rule number eight," I point out, crossing my arms over my chest partly to look stern but mostly because I’m freaking out that Kasen’s going to realize something’s off, and I need the distance before the guilt eats me alive and I blurt out the truth before I’ve even told Banks.
Kasen looks between us, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Huh. You two seem to be getting along way better than I expected."
There's something in his tone that makes my heart skip. Does he know something? Has Banks said something to him? Oh god, can he somehow tell I'm pregnant just by looking at me?
"So," I say quickly, desperate to change the subject, "What’s up? Please don't tell me you're asking for another favor, because I'm still recovering from the last one." I try to make it sound like a joke, but there's a sharp edge to my voice that even I can hear, and Banks tilts his head, those hazel eyes I’m weak for sweeping over me like he knows something’s off.
"Actually," Kasen says, dropping onto my couch like he owns the place, "I came to tell Banks the good news in person. His apartment is finally going to be ready next week.” My brother turns toward his best friend who’s taken the other side of the couch. “I ran into your landlord this morning while I was getting coffee, and he asked me to let you know."
The room goes completely silent. Like, hear-a-pin-drop silent. My whole body freezes as my eyes dart to Banks, who looks just as blindsided as I feel.
"That's..." Banks clears his throat, and I swear I see something like panic flash across his face. My own heart’s staging an absolute riot against my ribs at the thought of him not being here anymore and for some stupid reason my eyes prickle. "That's great. Thanks for letting me know."
"Figured you'd be stoked to get out of this tiny place and back to your own space," Kasen continues, completely oblivious to the fact that he just dropped a nuclear bomb in my living room. "Plus, I'm sure Clover's dying to have her couch back, right sis?"
I force my face into what I hope resembles a normal human smile but probably looks more like I'm having a stroke. "Yeah. Totally."
The conversation keeps going around me, but I'm not even there anymore. It's like I'm floating above my body, watching myself nod at the right moments while my brain screams one thing on repeat:
Banks is leaving in a week. Banks is leaving in a week. Banks is leaving in a week.
And he has absolutely no idea he's about to become a father.
I have to tell him. Soon. Before I lose my nerve completely.
I spend the entire next day rehearsing what to say. I practice in the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth, with Mai Tai, the Pothos that lives on my bedroom floor, in the shower where no one can see me cry, during my Business Ethics class where I should be paying attention but instead, I'm writing and rewriting this impossible speech in my head.
Nothing sounds right. Nothing feels big enough for news that's literally going to change his life forever.
By the time Banks's shift ends, I'm a complete nervous wreck. I've paced so many circles in my living room I'm surprised the downstairs neighbors haven’t banged on their ceiling. I've stress-baked enough cookies to feed half the city. I’ve thrown up at least four times, and I've changed my outfit so many times I lost count before saying screw it and putting on the same damn leggings and oversized sweater I started with.
The sound of his key in the lock makes my heart climb into my throat, and for a second I think I might throw up again.
The door swings open, and there he is—all six-foot-two of firefighter perfection, still in the joggers he wears to the gym that show off everything and a navy blue PFD t-shirt that stretches across those ridiculous shoulders of his. The same shoulders I dug my nails into six weeks ago, which is exactly how we ended up in this mess.
His usual easy smile dies the second he sees me. "What happened? Are you okay?"
The immediate concern in his voice is enough for my stupid hormones to go into overdrive and make me want to both melt into a puddle at his feet and cry while he feeds me cookies and kisses me until I can’t breathe.
This is exactly what Navy was talking about—the way he's always looking out for me, always ready to jump in front of a metaphorical (and probably literal) bullet if I need him to. Even when I insist I don't need anyone. Even when I've pushed him away every chance I get because I'm terrified of how he makes me feel.
"I’m okay," I say, but my voice comes out all wobbly and pathetic. "But we need to talk."
He sets his gym bag down slowly, his eyes locked on my face like he's trying to figure out what's wrong before I even say it. "Okay."
"Maybe you should sit down for this."
He doesn't budge an inch. "I'm fine right here."
Of course he is. The man has never once in his life done what I've asked him to.
I take a deep breath that's supposed to be calming but doesn't help at all. Every word I came up with, every speech I've practiced all day has completely vanished from my brain. All that's left is the terrifying truth I need to spit out before I lose my nerve completely.
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out while he's bent over unlacing his boots, my fingers clasped together so hard my knuckles are white. "It's yours. Obviously."
Banks freezes with one boot half-unlaced like someone hit pause on him. For what feels like the longest moment of my entire life, he doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to breathe. Then, slowly, he straightens up, and his face is completely unreadable.
"You're pregnant," he repeats, his voice flat.
I nod, not trusting my voice to work.
"You're sure?" His eyes dart down to my stomach, then back up to my face.
"I haven’t gone to the doctor or anything, but I don’t think three tests, a missed period, and constant throwing up for the last two weeks are wrong." I wrap my arms around myself because I suddenly feel freezing cold despite the fact that it's like eighty degrees in my apartment. "From the night of the storm." Way to state the obvious, Clover. It's not like you've been sleeping with anyone else. Or Banks again. "We didn't... You didn’t wear a condom and I’m not on birth control."
The silence stretches so long I swear I can hear the seconds ticking by on the clock in the kitchen. His continued silence feels like a rejection, like he's mentally mapping the fastest route to the door and out of my life forever. I can literally feel my walls going back up, protecting me from what I know is coming next.
"You don't have to be involved," I say, the words rushing out so fast they trip over each other. "I know this isn't what you signed up for when you moved in. I just... I thought you deserved to know before you leave next week. I'm not asking for anything."
Something flashes across his face—shock? Anger? Hurt? I genuinely can't tell, and it makes my stomach twist into another knot. It’s a whole damn pretzel factory in there right now.
"Is that what you really think of me?" His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him. "That I'd just walk away from this? From you? From our baby?" He takes a step closer with every question until he’s standing in front of me, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him.
The way he says "our baby" makes something in my chest break wide open.
Before I can respond, Banks moves with a suddenness that steals my breath. His hands slam against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. The impact makes me jump, but there's no fear—only a rush of heat that floods my body when he leans in close enough that I can feel his breath on my face.
What is it with us and walls?
Now’s not the time, Clover.
"Let me make something perfectly fucking clear," he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that turns my insides to liquid. "I don't walk away. Not from responsibilities, not from people I care about, and sure as hell not from the woman carrying my child."
His eyes burn into mine, fierce and unblinking. I'm trapped between the solid wall at my back and the wall of muscle that is Banks Priestly in front of me. I should feel cornered, threatened even. Instead, my treacherous body is practically humming with awareness, my nipples tightening painfully against my shirt as his scent—fresh air and smoke and pure Banks—overwhelms me.
"You think I don’t want to be here?" he continues, his face so close to mine our noses almost touch. “I can't sleep unless I know you're safe. I don’t hold your hair back when you're sick or help you study or watch those stupid fucking shows with you because I have to. For someone so smart, you can be incredibly fucking dense, Clover."
He's so close I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can hear it.
"Banks—" I whisper, but he cuts me off.
"No." He shakes his head, one hand moving to cup my cheek with a gentleness that’s completely different from the fierce expression on his face. "I'm not done. I'm here because the thought of being anywhere else—of not being the one who takes care of you, who makes sure you eat, who feels our baby kick for the first time—would fucking destroy me. Do you understand?"
I can only nod, my voice caught somewhere in my throat as his thumb traces over my cheekbone.
"Good," he says, and then he's pushing away from the wall, leaving me breathless and unsteady.
Then he does the absolute last thing I'm expecting.
He drops to his knees in front of me.
His hands—those big, capable hands that have pulled people from burning buildings and fixed my leaky shower and cooked me dinner—come to rest on my hips. Then, like I'm made of glass, one hand slides to my stomach. His touch is so gentle, so reverent, that tears immediately flood my eyes.
"Clover James," he says, and his voice breaks on my name as tears fall in rivers down my face. There’s no stopping them. It’s a full-on flood. "There hasn't been a damn thing casual about you and me, not since the moment I met you."
Whatever walls I've been desperately trying to rebuild around my heart just completely crumble at his words. I couldn't stop the tears now if my life depended on it.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, and then—oh my god—he presses his forehead against my stomach, like somehow he's already talking to our baby. Our baby . "You hear me? This isn't just about the baby, Clover. It's about you. It's always been about you."
His words unlock something in my chest that's been rusted shut for so long I forgot it was even there. This hope I've never let myself feel, this future I've been too terrified to imagine because I was so sure it could never be real.
"Banks," I whisper, reaching out to touch his hair before I can stop myself. It's soft between my fingers, still a little damp from his post-shift shower, and he leans into my touch like a man dying of thirst who just found water.
"I know," he says, his lips moving against my shirt, against my stomach where our baby is growing. The words are a little muffled but there's no mistaking them. “I'm not going back to my apartment next week, and you better not try to make me."
A sob rips its way out of my chest, and suddenly his arms are around me, holding me up as my knees completely give out. We end up on the floor together, his big body curled around mine like he's trying to protect me from the world, while I cry all over his chest.
"I'm scared," I admit between hiccupping sobs. "I'm so fucking scared, Banks."
"I know," he says, his lips pressed against my hair. "Me too. But we're gonna figure this out. You and me.”
"You and me,” I repeat, and the words feel strange in my mouth. But they also feel right.
His hand finds its way back to my stomach, and I cover it with mine without even thinking, linking our fingers together. For the first time since I saw those two pink lines, the panic that's been choking me starts to loosen its grip. In its place is something that feels dangerously like hope.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers into my hair. "Not a chance in hell. You can’t make me."
And despite all my fears, despite the walls I've spent years building to keep everyone out, despite the fact that my life plan has been my safety blanket for as long as I can remember—I actually believe him.