Page 31 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

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.”