Chapter 15
Fitz
Tessa gets up from the table unsteadily and hobbles to the patio door.
I sweep up our papers and wrappers off the table, take them to the trash, and wave to Maria. As I rush to keep up with Tessa, who is moving at a good clip, I notice she’s going in the opposite direction from where I left Dolly.
“Hey,” I say. “Slow down. You need to watch it on that ankle.” I catch up with her in a second. A light wind sends her dark hair blowing into her face, and I feel the urge to reach out and tuck the strands behind her ear so I can see her better. But my instinct warns me against touching her.
I settle for placing a hand on her arm, and she faces me, eyes chilly and glaring. Holding up a finger, she lectures me like a stern schoolmarm. “It takes two people, you know, to be irresponsible.”
I can handle her attempt at bravado. I can even handle the news she just dropped like an atom bomb.
It’s the flicker of hurt in her eyes that guts me.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“You were there that night, the same as me, and I don't think I should bear all of the blame or responsibility. You have no clue how it’s been. The exhaustion, the pain in my boobs, the worry about how I’m going to raise a child on my own.
Jesus, it's always the woman who is expected to deal with everything. Not like I haven't been through enough, throwing up every morning and feeling my body turn into some sort of delivery vehicle. It’s not easy, you know.” Her voice cracks and tears well in the corners of her eyes.
I keep quiet, watching her, listening to her, taking it all in. Her words, her raw emotion, the exhaustion—it’s written all over her face.
“I didn’t even have your name, never mind a number to call. I’ve been trying to navigate without any help, and now I’m supposed to apologize when you label me irresponsible?”
She lets out a jagged breath, finally spent enough to pause.
I catch a tear on my thumb and gently wipe it from her cheek. “Hey. I’m sorry. That's not what I meant. I wasn't saying you’re irresponsible for getting pregnant.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what you said.”
“No.” I inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm upset that you were out climbing around on a ten-foot berm in…high heels when you're carrying a baby.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders drop, and she looks genuinely surprised. “Yeah, that probably wasn’t my best idea. I didn’t plan it, if that makes it any better.”
“Slightly. Also, you did have my name. I gave you a picture of my driver’s license.”
“Yeah. I…the picture was slightly out of focus.” She frowns. “I have no defense, Your Honor. I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m carrying a baby and can’t just do what I’d normally do.”
“I’m getting my brain around the idea that climbing a hill in heels is something you’d normally do.”
She nods, then looks confused and tilts her head. “So you're fine with knowing you're going to be a dad in seven months, but you're mad that I climbed up a hill in the wrong shoes?”
My breath catches at the word “dad.” Talking about her pregnancy in the abstract was one thing, but hearing that word drives home a reality that I still need to process.
Talk about not having planned something.
I intentionally steered my life in the opposite direction, never wanting to be the kind of father my dad was to me.
But now, the last thing I intend to be is the kind who runs away, which would be even worse.
“First of all, I’m not sure ‘fine’ is the word I’d use. ‘Shocked’ is probably closer,” I say. “Can we at least agree that you shouldn't be putting yourself in danger when you're carrying a baby? Pregnancy 101, if you ask me.”
She blows out a breath. “You're a pregnancy expert?”
“Darlin’, if you think that basic bit of advice counts as expertise, you’ve got bigger troubles than I thought.”
The sun beams down on us, and I can’t help noticing the bluebird sky. A few cars cruise by in what counts as heavy traffic after lunch. I want to point out those things even though that doesn’t make sense.
But not much makes sense right now.
She closes her eyes for a long beat as though she can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
“Look, I realize we don’t know each other well, and obviously, this whole situation was unexpected…
” Her forehead creases with lines. I can’t decide what hurts more, the pain etched across her face or the dawning realization that I could have a child looking up to me and expecting me to be a better man.
“True…”
She juts her chin out as if to tell me to shut my trap until she’s finished talking. “But you should know this about me—I’m a planner. I don’t rush into things without considering all the angles and possibilities—”
I can’t help raising a skeptical brow. “Seems like ‘not thinking’ was exactly what we did on your birthday.”
She presses her lips together. Undeniable that I’m right. And also that I’m trying her patience.
“Yeah. I wanted to feel carefree for one night, and look where it got me. That was a one-off, but I think you’ll find that my proposal is an excellent example of a good plan.”
“Proposal? Is there a ring?”
She lets out a cackle that seems to surprise her as much as me. “Not that at all. I’m not trying to trap you into a relationship. I have a full life and a career in LA. I don’t expect you to jump in and be involved if fatherhood isn’t your jam. I’m fine doing this alone. Totally fine.”
“My ‘jam’?” She’s too much. This conversation sounds like we’re discussing decor for a dinner party, not how to navigate a surprise pregnancy.
It’s taking all my self-control not to get on Dolly and ride like hell to a quiet mountaintop so I can think this all through.
I’m no good at thinking on my feet. And despite the circumstances, I’m still wildly distracted by her.
“What if I want to be involved?” I ask.
She goes so still I can see her pulse beating under the pale skin of her neck. “Do you?”
I choose my words carefully. “I don’t know.”
This whole conversation has me feeling gut-punched. The last thing I need is one more person depending on me, one more person I could let down. But there’s something else in the muddy fog. Something like a tiny glimmer of excitement.
“I get that. It’s fine,” she says.
“It’s not fine. It’s complicated, though, and if you’re looking for a relationship, I’m not your guy.
I want to be clear. I am not boyfriend or husband material, and I won’t budge on that.
But I have a large capacity for taking care of people.
It may actually be my most redeeming quality.
” I stare at her flat stomach beneath her skirt and try to imagine her round and pregnant with a baby.
Our baby. A hard lump forms in my throat, and I struggle to keep talking because it’s important.
“I’m not gonna be someone who runs away from either one of you. So…yeah, I want to be involved.”
“Oh,” she says, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Okay, then. I’d welcome a father figure.”
I slap a hand against my forehead. “You’d welcome a father figure? Did you really just say that?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s so…emotionless.”
“Well, I think it’s smart to keep emotions out of it.
We barely know each other. You just said you don’t want a relationship and neither do I.
We live separate lives in separate worlds.
We made an impulsive decision one night, but we can behave like grown-ups and be good parents. If you’re interested.”
I let out an agonized huff that doesn’t capture half of my frustration. “Can you…give me a minute? Just…stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I need to think without her doe eyes pinning me down like a taxidermized animal.
As I stride down the next block, I rake a hand through my hair and try to unclench my jaw. My mind floods with the information she just laid at my feet.
She’s pregnant. I’m the father. I will have a child in seven months, give or take. She doesn’t want anything from me, but she’s willing to have me act as a co-parent. A father figure. Like a business deal.
What the actual fuck?
I’ve never met anyone so disinterested in emotional ties of any sort. Other than myself, I guess. I’m sure she has her own baggage, and God knows I’m never far from troubles with Chad and my employees depend on me for their livelihoods. It’s not about watering a few plants. It’s about people.
And a new one who will be my son or daughter within the year.
When I reach the grocery store, I walk through robotically, grabbing a couple of items and nodding with glassy eyes when asked if I’d like a bag.
Mentally rehearsing what I’ll say to Tessa when I get back, I try to take slower, calming breaths. I don’t have time to work through every emotion that comes with the idea of parenthood when I’ve rounded the final corner, but I’ve worked through enough.
Tessa sits patiently on a bench with those worry lines etched across her forehead. They don’t disappear until I drop down next to her and offer her my hand.
“Okay, Duchess. You and me. We can do this,” I say, handing her the bag.
“What’s this?” She peeks inside and removes a box of saltine crackers and a six-pack of ginger ale.
“For the nausea. Maybe there’s something better. I’ll do a little research.” Her lips part, and she blinks at me in confusion or maybe gratitude. Doesn’t matter which.
I scoop her up and carry her back over to Dolly. She squirms in my arms, but I grip her waist more tightly, holding her against my chest. “I can walk, you know.” Her protest doesn’t carry much conviction, so I keep her right where she is.
“Shh.”
“Don’t shush me. And don't think that I'm going to let this become a habit—you carrying me around,” she says.
“Would you just…stop being stubborn for one half of a goddamn second?”