Page 9 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

She shakes her head rapidly enough that her earrings make some sort of tinkling sound. “No, no. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. Yes, I’m pregnant,” she whispers, looking around to see if anyone overheard, but there aren’t many students by the dorms at this hour, and the ones that are mostly have their earbuds in and are minding their own business. “I know we were figuring things out, but this throws a wrench into things, and you don’t need to feel obligated.”

“Obligated?” I repeat, blinking at her. She’s really throwing me for a loop here. I rub at my stubbled jaw. “We’re dating, right, Bertie?”

Her cheeks pinken and she takes another long sip of her Sprite. “I mean, technically speaking, yes, but label free so this is me giving you an out.” She makes a shooing gesture.

I grab her flailing hand and lace my fingers through hers. “I don’t want an out, Bertie. I don’t know how to make that plainer to you. I’m here, right fucking here, with you as whatever you need. If you want to take a step back from us, I’m okay with that.” It’ll fucking kill me, because I think we were so close to the point of her being my girlfriend, but I want to do things at her speed. “If you want to put a label on us”—yes, please God let her label me in every way— “then we’ll do that. I think I’ve made it pretty obvious I want you to be my girlfriend.”

My last statement shocks even me because I’m not normally so bold. I’ve always been shy, finding it hard to voice the things that I want. But I want Bertie and I want her to know that too. She’s said enough about her relationship with her ex that I know she often felt insecure about how he really felt about her. I won’t do that to her. She has me wrapped around her finger. Collared like a fucking dog. She has since we hooked up freshman year. She moved on and sure, I was no saint either, but in the back of my mind I always wondered.

She smooths her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know what I want.” She gives me a sad look. “I’m not trying to drag you around, but I … I’m very confused right now. This” —she gestured vaguely at her stomach— “has really thrown me for a loop.” She exhales a shaky breath. “My mind is really jumbled right now.”

“Understandable,” I concede.

She unwraps the sandwich and hesitates. After a quick sniff, she shrugs and gives it a tentative bite. “Oh my God,” she moans. “That’s fu—freaking delicious. Sorry, baby.” She gives her flat stomach a pat. “I’m trying to work on not cursing around the baby,” she explains. After another bite of the breakfast sandwich she says, “I fear I’m going to want one of every morning. I haven’t been able to keep down more than dry cereal in the mornings, but my stomach seems okay with this. For now,” she adds.

“I can make that happen.”

“Where did you get it?” she asks around a mouthful.

“I made it.”

She freezes, blue eyes widening. “You made me breakfast?”

“Um…” I hesitate, because it almost seems like she wants me to say no. “Yes.”

She lets out a groan. “Could you not be so perfect for like five seconds?”

I laugh softly. “I’m not perfect. Far from it.”

“Maybe you don’t see yourself that way, but from my perspective you’re pretty dang close.” She polishes off the rest of the sandwich and scrunches the foil in her fist. I take it from her and toss it in the trashcan beside me. “Are you busy this weekend? I heard from my mom and they’re at their Rhode Island home this weekend so I thought I would fly out and tell them about the baby. I think they’re planning to go to Greece right after, so it might be my last chance to tell them about this news in person.”

“Yeah, I can go.” I think about the measly contents of my bank account, wondering how I can scrounge up enough for a ticket, but I’ll make it work.

“Send me your details and I’ll purchase our tickets.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I can handle mine.”

Bertie rolls her eyes at me and dammit if it doesn’t have me grinning. “No, Luke. We’re going to see my parents; therefore I’m paying for your ticket.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” I say, wiggling uncomfortably.

She narrows her eyes on me. “Is this your one fatal flaw?”

“Huh?”

She sighs and downs the rest of her Sprite until the straw slurps against the bottom. “Refusal to accept help from a woman? I mean, you know who my family is, but let me make this clear in case you need reminding.” She points a finger at her chest. “Bertie Carthwright. Yes, of those Carthwrights. The world-famous chocolate Carthwright bar. My family is loaded. I have money, lots of it, and if that’s a problem for you, then you better say so now. I already spent way too long in a relationship with a man who was made insecure by that fact.”

I shake my head. “That wasn’t what I was implying. I just…” I feel my cheeks warm. “I don’t know,” I mutter, finding it hard to put my thoughts into words. “I guess I don’t want you think I’m using you.”

A laugh bubbles out of her. “Oh, trust me, I know you’re not because otherwise you wouldn’t have been such a gentleman not wanting to have sex with me after we hooked up over break because” –she lowers her voice and brings her fingers up in air quotes— “’I want to do things right with you and take our time and not base our relationship on the physical.’” With a shake of her head, “Any guy who wanted me for my family’s money would have no problem using me for sex.”

I stare, mouth slightly agape at this woman. The things that come out of her mouth sometimes astound me.

“Anyway.” She stands and tosses the empty cup in the trash. “I’ve got to get to class. I’ll get our tickets tonight.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“We’ll talk later, okay?” She gives me a small smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”