Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Hailey
If You’re in a Shootout, You Have to Face the Truth
Here’s the thing no one tells you about pregnancy: it’s not just a life-changing event. It’s a full-time job that you didn’t apply for, weren’t trained for, and now can’t quit. Nope, you’re here for at least thirty-eight weeks. Then you’re promoted to Mom. In all honesty, I’m not sure if that’s a title I should hold. So far, I suck at this motherhood thing and it’s just the beginning.
My best friend knows more about my pregnancy than I do. Every time I start reading one of those books he bought me, I’m out like a light. At this point, I’m less of an expectant mother and more of a sleep-deprived woman finally cashing in on years of missed rest. Which, to be fair, started the second I set foot at NYU—against my father’s wishes. A minor moving to New York for school? Not exactly his dream. Thankfully, my grandmother won that battle. Now, if only she could win the war against my eyelids.
The point is that I can’t get through a chapter of a pregnancy book and . . . well, I’m never going to be prepared.
Now, if only I could take a break so I can catch up with my body. But nope. There’s no off switch. And unlike normal, functional jobs, this one doesn’t even have the decency to let you call in sick. Which, frankly, feels deeply ironic given that I spend ninety-five percent of my time being sick.
The past week has been one long, unholy cycle of misery. My morning sickness—which, let’s all agree, should be sued for false advertising.
Like clockwork, every evening at exactly 6:00 PM, my body stages a full-scale rebellion.
It doesn’t matter what I’ve eaten (or haven’t eaten), what I’m doing, or how much positive thinking I’ve attempted. Morning sickness—which is the biggest scam in medical terminology—has decided it will be an evening affair for me. Every. Single. Day.
Leif has noticed.
Which is why, at precisely 5:58 PM, he glances at me with mild concern, like a man watching a storm roll in from the distance—calm, resigned, and mentally preparing for the impact.
By 6:00, I’m fighting it. A deep breath. A silent pep talk. A desperate, last-ditch attempt to will my body into submission. Usually before 6:02, I’m in the bathroom, paying for my life choices while he holds my hair back, his other hand tracing soothing circles on my back, murmuring reassurances like he’s in this with me—like I’m not entirely alone in the mess I’ve made.
His behavior makes me teary every time, because he’s the best. I mean, not anyone would be putting up with a puking woman with a life crisis. Leif? He’s just a prince holding hair, tending to my every need and covering me with a blanket every time I fall asleep.
The past week has been a blur of nausea, interrupted sleep, and an absurd amount of ginger-based products that have done absolutely nothing except make me resent ginger as a concept. In all forms. Ginger tea? Useless. Ginger chews? Satanic. That smug little root sitting in the kitchen like it knows something I don’t? I hate it.
I brace my hands on either side of the toilet, my forehead nearly resting against the seat, because my body has officially turned against me. My stomach clenches again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this to be over.
A warm hand gathers my hair, sweeping it away from my face like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Leif.
Of course it’s Leif. As usual, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just kneels beside me, his fingers gentle as he keeps my hair back, waiting me out like he has nothing better to do than sit through this horror show.
Once I finish, he helps me stand already holding a napkin. Then I proceed to brush my teeth and use the mouthwash.
“Water?” he asks.
His gaze flicks over my face, assessing, and something about the quiet way he watches me makes my throat close up. This is the part where I always want to cry because my life choices suck. I’ve been so busy avoiding life that now I’m pregnant and alone. There’s no partner and this guy who always goes above and beyond is stuck with me. I should just . . . I don’t even want to think because the one thing I’ve caught up from some articles is that the hormones can make me think irrational thoughts.
I simply shake my head.
“No?” he asks.
“No.”
He doesn’t argue. “Crackers?”
Another glare.
“Ginger ale?”
I groan.
There’s a beat of silence before he exhales dramatically. “Would you like me to burn this bathroom to the ground and pretend this never happened?”
I blink at him. “Actually . . . yes. That one.”
He nods solemnly. “Noted.”
And then, like this is routine, he disappears for a second and returns with a glass in hand.
I squint at him. He stares back, unbothered. “You have to stay hydrated, babe.”
“But do I have to?” I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe coffee?—”
“We already discussed coffee, and wine,” he says so gently. “I know it’s a lot to adjust to.”
He makes me take the tea and then hands me a stick of ginger gum. “You need this.”
“You have a whole system,” I mutter.
“I have an entire strategy,” he corrects. He sets the toothbrush down, uncaps the mouthwash, and hands it to me. “Now drink. I refuse to let this break you.”
I shoot him a look. “You refuse?”
“That’s right.” His arms cross over his chest, his mouth twitching like he’s barely restraining a smirk. “I’m drawing a line. You are not losing a battle to your own body. Not while I’m here.”
“Your level of competency is disturbing.”
I take a slow sip of water, letting it settle before popping a piece of gum into my mouth. The sharp burst of ginger—which I hate—does little to mask the lingering nausea, but it’s something.
“I accept this insult with honor,” he says, his tone mockingly grand, like he’s just been knighted for exceptional patience.
I drag a hand down my face, exhausted. “You could quit,” I mumble. “No one would blame you if you just—” I wave a hand vaguely toward the door, too tired to finish the thought. Leif doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
Instead, his gaze softens, something unreadable flickering behind it before he says, simply, “I’m not quitting—not on you. Never.”
Leif watches as I push up from the bathroom floor, bracing a hand on the counter like I’ve just emerged from some kind of brutal endurance trial.
“Kitchen?” he asks, already knowing the answer and pushing. “You have to do it, Hailey Bean. If not for you, for the . . . grape, was it?”
I roll my eyes, because his fixation with the size of the baby is endearingly annoying. Yet, I follow him down the hall. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the under-cabinet lighting, making it feel oddly intimate for a space that is not designed for coziness. It’s sleek, modern—probably costs more than what I make in a year. In no time, Leif’s pulling open the fridge and grabbing a sleek, black bento box.
I lower myself onto a stool at the island, resting my elbows on the cool surface, watching as he starts laying out the options like some kind of nutrition guru.
“The chef left this for you,” he says, popping open one of the compartments. “And before you reject it on principle, let me just say: it is pregnancy-approved and designed to prevent further, uh, bathroom incidents.”
“Is that the official term?” I arch a brow, rolling the gum between my teeth. “You know it’s going to fail. You two should just give up on me.” I sigh, leaning my head back against the cool tile. “I shouldn’t be eating until my stomach settles. No matter what you do, you’ll lose this one, Crawford.”
I peek up at him, expecting frustration, but all I get is that infuriating, unwavering patience. Then, after a long pause he gestures toward the small spread in front of me.
There’s a neat row of cucumber and carrot sticks, some kind of whole-grain crackers, a handful of nuts, and these little bite-sized energy balls that look suspiciously like they contain chia seeds—probably meant to balance my blood sugar or something else they read about while Leif is secretly becoming the world’s most prepared almost-uncle—or whatever title he’ll take when the tiny creature is born.
There’s also a small container of diced mango, a hard-boiled egg, and—because this is still me we’re talking about—two squares of dark chocolate off to the side, like a peace offering.
I stare at it all. Then I look at Leif.
“Did you personally request the chocolate?”
He shrugs. “I may have suggested it. Though he only authorized dark chocolate. He believes that the milk in the other chocolates might make you puke—again.”
“Did you also personally inspect this for ginger?”
His lips twitch. “I did, in fact, confirm that this is a ginger-free zone. We’re sticking to gum.”
A slow, dramatic sigh escapes me as I pull the gum from my mouth, wrapping it in a napkin before tossing it in the trash. Only then do I pick up a cracker and pop it into my mouth.
“Have I mentioned I like you, Leif Crawford?”
“Not enough.” Leif grins, leaning against the counter as I nibble my way through half a cucumber stick. He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to make conversation, just lets me settle.
Which is exactly why I do not expect myself to say, mid-chew—“I think I found Marcus.”
The words slip out before I can second-guess them, and the second they do, the atmosphere shifts. Not drastically. Not in a holy shit way. Just a small shift—like a temperature change that’s barely noticeable at first but lingers.
Leif straightens slightly, his arms still crossed but his attention sharper now. “What?”
I swallow, setting down the half-eaten cucumber stick, suddenly feeling way too aware of what I just admitted.
“I mean, I might have,” I hedge, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I’m not one hundred percent sure yet. The best way to confirm anything would be with the hotel, right? But when I called to ask for his information, they told me they respect the privacy of all their guests. They didn’t even care about the emergency.”
Leif doesn’t say anything, just waits—because he knows me well enough to know I’m going to keep talking whether I want to or not.
I exhale. “I’ve been . . . looking. Using my research skills. Documentary-style sleuthing. Nothing weird.”
“So stalking every guy whose name is Michael, Marcus, or Mark?” His expression says he’s not convinced of the ‘nothing weird’ part, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I roll my eyes because yes, I wasn’t sure about the name. Though now I think I am almost positive that he is indeed Marcus. So I push forward. “Anyway, I started digging through some old networks, cross-referencing locations, checking social media in a non-stalker way?—”
Leif’s brows lift slightly, and I scowl. “We will go with not-stalker way, Leif.”
He gestures vaguely for me to continue, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s barely suppressing a smile.
I roll my eyes but keep going. “And . . . there’s a good chance he’s in New York. However, he’s originally from Boston. See, it matches with the New England thing.”
Leif absorbs this, his gaze holding mine, unreadable. “And you think it’s him?”
I hesitate. “The pictures on his social media make him look like it’s a yes. Unless he’s a friend or . . . it was dark, and I had a lot of tequila. So yeah, I think it could be or not.”
His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s chewing over what to say next.
“I can’t believe you barely exchanged any information with the guy who . . .” He trails off, but he doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
We both know what Marcus, or whatever his name is, did.
“Because you know all the girls you’ve slept with, Crawford,” I say with a little judgy tone. “Can they find you if they were in my situation?”
“Let’s begin with it’s been a couple of years since I’ve had a one-night stand,” he clarifies, and he sounds almost appalled. “End with I’m easy to find. So yes.”
“But can you name them all?” I narrow my gaze.
“Not the point, Hailey. I haven’t slept around for a couple of years,” he says, actually annoyed.
I narrow my gaze. “So you’ve been dating then?” My stomach twists. I don’t like that. He doesn’t do serious relationships. If he did, he would tell me, right? I mean, I’m his person.
My throat tightens. God, I want to cry. Damn these pregnancy hormones.
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve decided I’m old enough to stop sleeping around.”
My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “Like me?”
He shrugs his shoulder. “I mean, you’re two years younger than me. The fact that they homeschooled you and had you ready for high school way before you were supposed to start is a different story—hence I’ve been babysitting your sorry ass since then.”
“Not the point,” I say, already regretting this entire conversation. “And just a reminder—this was the first time I . . .” My mouth twists as I scramble for a decent defense. “It had been a year, and I drank way too much tequila.”
Leif watches me, unreadable, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.
I shift, heat creeping up my neck. “Sure, I skipped my three-date rule, but if I hadn’t—” I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “Do you know what it’s like to rely only on my toy collection for that long?”
His jaw moves, just the slightest flicker of something.
I tilt my head, studying him. Wait . . . is he uncomfortable? He blinks, too slow, like he’s debating something. Or maybe trying not to picture my nightstand drawer. Is he? If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d offer to show him. Let him help me pick a favorite. We could play with them.
Wait. What?
Fuck. I need sleep, or a . . . I don’t know what I need, but where did that thought come from?
“Fair enough,” he finally says, voice a touch lower than before. “Let’s focus on Marcus, you said?” The name rolls off his tongue like it’s irrelevant. Which, to him, it probably is. “So what’s the plan when you find him?”
Right. Marcus. My actual problem. Not the fact that my brain just tried to detour into having sex with my toys and my best friend because I’m delirious—no other reason.
I lick my lips, pressing my hands flat against the counter. “I don’t know what I’d do if it is him,” I admit. “I mean, I don’t even know if I want to do anything. It’s just . . . I needed to know.”
Leif nods slowly, then asks, “And now that you might?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I don’t . . . I need to think about that part,” I murmur, staring down at the bento box like it holds the answers.
Leif exhales through his nose, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter before he finally speaks again. “You don’t have to figure that out tonight.”
There’s something about the way he says it—firm, but not pushy. Like he’s reminding me that there’s no rush. That I can let this sit. That nothing needs to be decided in my barefoot, post-vomit state.
I release a breath, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”
Leif pushes the container of mango toward me. “Eat. We don’t make decisions on an empty stomach.”
I huff out a reluctant laugh but pick up a piece of fruit anyway, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue.
For now, I’ll focus on getting through tonight.
Tomorrow . . . well.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out the rest.