Page 156 of Puck Prince

She hands me the picture back. “What about Owen? Does he want to be a dad?”

“I don’t know what he wants.”

I thought I did… maybe. Over the last couple weeks, I thought I was getting hints of what he wanted. I thought it might be me.

Now, I have no idea.

“I mean, you didn’t get pregnant alone, obviously. This is his burden to bear, too.”

I don’t love her calling my child a burden, but I get what she’s saying.

“Exactly!”

“But…” She winces apologetically. “You did keep it from him, and that’s, unfortunately, a big fucking deal.”

Again, I don’t love it, but I get what she’s saying.

I yank another tissue out of the box and blow my nose. “I know.”

Kennedy tosses the Kleenex box off the couch. “No more crying. It’s unnecessary. Because Owen is going to come around. He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t know, Kenny. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“The man just found out he’s going to be a dad. He needs to process. With men, it’s like dial-up internet. Things have to reboot and rattle around. Their brains have to make that turkey-in-a-blender noise before the connection is made. But he loves you. It’s obvious.”

I snap my attention to her and stare because I don’t know how else to respond.

Obvious to whom? Not to me.

Kennedy still doesn’t know Owen and I aren’t actually dating. I could tell her, but I need at least one person in my life not to hate my guts right now, so I’m going to keep it to myself.

Not that it matters. After the way we left things, Owen and I aren’t even fake dating anymore. He definitely doesn’t love me. Whatever unnamable, undefinable thing we had, it’s all over now.

I’m about to start crying again when Kennedy jumps up. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out. You’re going to get all stressy and depressy in this apartment. You need to put on something without an elastic waistband, and then I’ll take you to this cute place downtown that offers brunch all day long.”

She hauls my unwilling body off the couch by my arms, almost dislocating both shoulders. “Is brunch your answer to everything?”

“Maybe not everything, but a multitude of things. Now, go dress for the mental state you want and meet me back here in ten.”

As much as I’m not in the mood, she’s right. I think I need this.

Fact: brunch does cover a multitude of sins. Or, at the very least, it lets you drown them in hollandaise sauce.

Kennedy and I are at a table on the back patio eating Cali Benedicts and sipping on orange juice—hers spiked withchampagne, obviously—and I might feel slightly less like a pile of human garbage. So, that’s an improvement.

“Flower names? Really?”

I stick my tongue out at her. “They’re feminine and lovely. Better than Callie. Callie is a dog’s name.”

“It was one dog’s name.” She lets out a long-suffering groan because she’s heard this story too many times.

Doesn’t stop me from telling it again.

“One annoying, yappy Yorkie, who I shared a firstandmiddle name with. Every time she escaped out her doggy door, the whole neighborhood yelled ‘Callie May’ for hours. It was traumatic.”

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