11. Luke
LUKE
Bertie can’t cook.
Not that I’m about to open my mouth up and tell her that.
“This is great,” I say, taking a second bite of the rubbery noodles and burnt sauce. I didn’t even know it was possible to burn spaghetti sauce.
“It is?” Her eyes light up at the praise.
She sets down her bowl and pulls out the chair across from me.
Fuck, I didn’t think about the fact that she’s going to be eating it too and there’s no way she won’t know how awful it is.
“Mhm.” I chew at the gummy noodles.
She twirls the spaghetti around on her fork and pops it in her mouth. Immediately her face falls after the first chew.
“You liar.” She points an accusing finger at me. “These are horrible.”
“It’s not … horrible.”
“Well, it’s certainly not edible.” She swipes up her bowl and grabs mine, dumping the contents in the trash. The dishes clang as they go in the sink and she quickly gets rid of the rest of the sauce and noodles.
“I’ll order pizza,” I say, hoping to make this better.
She huffs out a little sound that I’m not quite sure how to interpret.
“What do you like on your pizza?”
She looks up at me, her hands clasped on the edge of the sink. When her bottom lip wobbles my stomach sinks.
“Luke,” my name is a whine. “What am I going to do? I’m going to have a child, and I can’t even cook spaghetti, which is arguably supposed to be one of the easiest things to cook.”
“My mom is a good cook, maybe she can teach you.”
Her shoulders fall. “Your mom works and she’s busy. The last thing she needs is to try to teach me to cook in her spare time.”
“I don’t think she’d mind.”
She shakes her head and I can tell she’s still fighting back tears. “Why am I such a failure at all of this?”
Fuck.
I go around the counter and wrap my arms around her. At first, I think she might resist, but then she sinks into me, wrapping her arms around my torso. Her tears quickly soak my shirt.
I let her cry out and when her sniffles all but disappear I take her cheeks in my hands and pull her back, so she has to look at me.
“You are not a failure, Bertie. Not by a long shot. We both have a lot to learn before this baby comes. If you want to take cooking classes, I’ll be right by your side, okay? ”
“You probably don’t even need cooking classes,” she grumbles and I can’t help but laugh. I don’t tell her, but no, I don’t need them but if it’s something she wants to do then I’m more than happy to be there with her.
“Are you good with pizza?” I ask again.
She thinks about it for a moment. “Baby says pizza will be okay.”
I throw my head back and laugh, my whole body shaking. “Does that mean that the thought of it doesn’t make you sick?”
She smiles, looking lighter than she did before. “Correct.”
Thirty minutes later, I walk into the house with a meat and veggie pizza for my mom and me and a margherita for Bertie.
She kept insisting I take her card to pay for it, to which I refused, but I should’ve known how stubborn she is.
When I got to the restaurant to pick it up, she’d called over the phone and paid already.
“I’m getting you back for this.” I point to the boxes as I set them on the table.
She smirks at me. “I’d like to see you try.”
“My mom texted while I was out and another waitress called out at the last minute so she’s staying until things slow down.”
Bertie flips open the lid on the smaller box, pulling out a slice. She takes one bite and hums. “Oh, this is delicious.” Once she swallows, she adds, “I’ve been so cautious about what I’m eating. Even though the sickness has gotten a lot better I’m still scared I’m going to trigger it in some way.”
Clearing my throat, I say, “I saw where the fire department hosts an infant CPR class once a month. I was thinking we should sign up.”
I haven’t told her, and I barely like to admit it to myself, but ever since she told me she was pregnant I haven’t been able to get rid of the thought of the baby choking and being unable to do anything to help.
It terrifies me not to know the proper way to give our child CPR or the Heimlich.
Not to mention the other thought I can’t seem to shake, and that’s of Bertie going into labor and I’m the one that has to deliver the baby.
I know the chances of that happening are slim, but they’re not zero either. That’s the thing with my brain—when I latch onto something like this it’s really hard for me to shake the thought.
“That’s a good idea.” She tosses her crust in the box. “I know it’s different with babies and kids. I wonder if there’s anything else like that, we should do? You know, besides cooking.”
I like that she says we. I like it a little too much considering there’s no label on what we are.
“There are labor classes.” I remember from one of my numerous Google searches. “To help you with birth.”
Her lips purse questionably. “Maybe.”
“Why maybe?” I ask, curious.
She grabs another slice. “I don’t know … I guess labor sounds scary enough without taking a class to learn about it. I’ll think about it, though.”
We finish our dinner and while Bertie showers I straighten things up in the main part of the house and clean the dirty dishes.
I learned at a young age to help around the house.
My mom wanted me to be able to handle these things, especially since she was working most of the time.
Some kids might’ve resented that, but I had always liked helping around the house.
The bathroom door opens and steam billows out behind Bertie. Her blond hair hangs down in a long, wet sheet. She’s changed into a pair of gray shorts and an oversized yellow crewneck.
“Is something wrong?” She looks down at herself. It’s then that I realize I’ve been staring.
“N-No,” I stutter. “Nothing wrong at all.”
The thought hits me then that we’re going to be sharing a bed tonight and many more nights to come.
God, I’m so fucking screwed. Being this close to her is going to be the worst kind of torture.
“I’m going to go lay down if that’s okay with you. I’m pretty tired after today.”
“Yeah, of course that’s fine.”
I follow her into my room, swiping a pair of sleep pants. Normally I’d just sleep in my underwear but I’m trying to be respectful.
Bertie settles herself on my bed, crisscrossing her legs as she looks at the stack of books on my nightstand. All the ones on parenting.
“I won’t be long. I’m pretty tired too.”
She gives a tiny nod to signal that she’s heard me
The bathroom is still humid from Bertie’s shower when I lock myself inside. Her floral scented soap lingers in the air, and I have to bite back a groan. I never realized a scent could be such a turn on. When it comes to Bertie, though, I think everything is a turn on for me.
Reaching inside, I turn the shower on. Yanking off my clothes, I toss them in the hamper. It’s almost full so I make a mental note that I need to do the laundry in the morning.
Shoving the curtain aside, I can’t help but smile when I find Bertie’s various bottles sat beside mine. I know she doesn’t want to be in the way, but I like seeing her stuff around.
I finish up my shower, shave, and brush my teeth before I go across the hall to join Bertie in my bed. I almost freeze in the doorway when I find her there, hair splayed out over the pillows and scrolling on her phone.
“Hey.” She smiles softly and sets her phone on my nightstand. “Have a good shower?”
“Yep.” She gives me a funny look, probably because the word was so clipped, but I’m currently trying to will my dick not to get hard but it’s damn near impossible when she looks so pretty in my bed.
I ease the door shut behind me.
“It doesn’t really matter to me which side I sleep on, but I have been peeing a lot so I was thinking it might be better for you to take the side against the wall.”
“That works for me.”
She eases out of the bed before I can protest so that I can slide in against the wall. My bed is too small for both of us, but we’ll make it work. It won’t be that long until we move to Nashville.
Bertie settles back beside me, stifling a yawn as she does. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to sleep here?”
Am I absolutely tortured by her proximity? Yes. Am I telling her that? Absolutely not.
“Completely fine.”
“Okay.” She rolls her to her left side away from me. “Oh.” She gives a jolt. “That was a strong kick. Give me your hand.” She takes my hand, placing it on the lower part of her stomach. “Just wait and see if they kick again.”
Her skin is warm beneath my palm even through the cotton of her top. I hold my breath, waiting and hoping, but I feel nothing.
“Come on,” she coaxes. “Kick again.”
She groans in frustration a minute later.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. I want to kiss the crook of her neck in comfort, because I don’t like seeing her upset. “The baby isn’t ready for me to be a part of this yet.”
She doesn’t say anything in response, just wiggles around to get comfortable. I realize then that my hand is still on her stomach. Before I can pull it away though, she settles her hand over top of mine.
“Goodnight, Luke,” she murmurs, voice already heavy with sleep threatening to pull her under.
“Night, B.”