Page 60 of The Bartender's Baby

I huffed a laugh. “If you’re going ninety.”

Mom shrugged. “You know I have a lead foot.”

When she started on a tangent about onesies and burp cloths, Evie and I exchanged a look, both of us giving our excuses.

“I gotta get to work,” I said at the same time she said, “I’ve got to get new tires on my car.”

New tires on your car?I mouthed.

My sister was a terrible liar.

She shrugged, waving at our mother. “We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll call you.”

“Promise?”

Evie sighed. “I promise. I will call you after I’ve talked to Dylan about everything, all right? Don’t get any ideas about driving here or sending me anything.”

Mom squirmed like that was exactly what she planned on doing.

“Same goes for me,” I said. “I’ll send you some ultrasound pictures, though.”

That’s when she started crying, and I ended the call before we got stuck with her while she sobbed. “Okay, Mom. We love you. Bye!”

Evie threw herself against the back of the couch, and I snapped my laptop shut. “I need a drink.”

My sister blew out a breath. “Me too. Damn it. The one time I need one, and I can’t have one.”

I tossed my arm around her neck, towing her roughly into me, proceeding to wrestle for a few seconds. When she settled against me, free of my hold, she tipped her head back, smiling up at me. “Don’t worry too much. Tabby’s too tough to be scared away from the likes of Mom, but you handled her nicely.”

I accepted her compliment with a whack on her knee. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Of course.”

I tugged at the ends of my hair. “So, we’re really doing this, huh? The blind leading the blind into the world of parenting.”

“Dylan’s already done it before, so I’m good.”

I crossed my arms, wagging my head side to side. “GuessIgotta eat shit and ask them for advice after all these years of givingthemshit.”

She grinned. “Guess so.”

SEVENTEEN

NATE

In the weeks since I’d delivered the news to my mother, she’d remained chill. Mostly. She still called weekly to check in and added links to stores with baby items, including notes about what she thought we would need or what would be better. I was actually quite impressed with her level of restraint. Though I feared it would be like Mount Vesuvius one day, and she’d explode, randomly showing up at our door with bags of baby wipes, throwing bottles at me, demanding I let her move in so she could babysit.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I texted my dad to let him know I needed to talk to him. When he finally responded the next day, he said I could call him around noon, and when I did explain the situation, he reacted exactly how I expected. “That’s good. I hope you’re taking care of yourself and her.”

And that was about it. No follow-up questions. Mostly some muttered nonsense about being happy for me and to let him know if I needed anything.

Sure, my mom was all drama, but goddamn, would it kill him to act like he had any love for me? More than some acquaintance?

That’s what it felt like.

I would rather have my mother be over the top than have my father give me less than the bare minimum.

Sometimes a person just needed to hear “I love you.”

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