Page 66 of The Fake Play

Suddenly, someone tackles me from behind, my body slamming into the wall with a loud thud.

“What the hell?” I gasp, spinning around to find Michael, Keke’s brother, fury etched deep across his face. “Dude, what’s your problem?”

“How could you do that to my sister?” he shouts, fists clenched and ready for a fight.

Oh, shit. I take a deep breath, trying to diffuse the situation. “I love her, man. I would never hurt her. You have to believe me.”

His expression falters slightly at my words, but the anger is still palpable. “You think that makes it okay? You got her pregnant!”

“And I’ll take full responsibility for that if she’ll let me. If I get the chance, I’m going to marry that girl. And you’re going to help me.”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “You think it’s that easy?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, frustration mingling with newfound determination. “But I’m willing to fight for her. I’ll prove to both of you that I’m serious about this. I won’t let her down. And you’re about to be an uncle. Do you want to fight me, or do you want to celebrate that?”

He takes a step back, the fire in his eyes dimming. “You better mean it, Luke. If you hurt her, they won’t find enough of you to identify with dental records.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I reply. “But I’m not going to hurt her. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her the happiest woman in the world.”

His expression calms, but his voice is still tense and authoritative. “Alright. How can I help?”

Chapter 28

Keke

“Damn, girl, you really did it this time,” I mutter under my breath, my voice hoarse from crying. The events of the previous night play on a reverse-order loop in my mind—the sex, Luke’s laughter, the way he held me—the sheer horror of my outburst that had thrown our world into pure chaos.

My brother will never talk to me again. Whitney and Michael will both hate me. They should. I deserve it.

Luke was so sweet last night, and he seemed so sincere yet I can’t shake the thought that he’ll ditch me once I have this baby. What else do I have to go on besides his history? If that happens, what else can I do besides public relations?

I’ll end up one of those people I’ve always pitied, the people who never get to use their degree. But I’ll do whatever it takes to provide for my kid.

I replay my childhood dreams of becoming a mother in my head. I swore I’d do things different from my parents. My child would grow up in a warm home filled with laughter. The kind of home I never had as a kid.

This is not how I pictured things. This is too soon, too messy, and way too complicated. How can I drag a child into this? I’veonly just begun to build something for myself, and now I may have potentially thrown it all away.

As crazy as it sounds, I feel like fate, in some bizarre, cosmic way, has brought me to this point.

I’ve taken three more pregnancy tests since that first one, all positive. I scheduled an appointment with my gynecologist to confirm, but every time I saw that meaningful line, the weight of reality crashed over me again. I know it deep down. I can feel it.

My life, as I knew it, is over. A new one is just beginning to take form inside of me. A part of me wants to embrace this unexpected twist of fate; impending motherhood fills me with both dread and hope.

Maybe this is an opportunity to start over. Again.

I run the practicality of it all in my head repeatedly. I have an aunt in Portland who has always said I was welcome to come stay with her if I ever needed to. I’d visited with Aunt Tessa a few times as a kid, and I always got along with her. We were two peas in an odd pod, and she gave me a strange sense of community whenever I was around her.

Moving away seems perfectly logical. I like Oregon. It’s lush and cool, and the people there are easy-going. The food scene is excellent, so Michael would have an excuse to come see us. Maybe he could introduce his business to the area. Hell, if he didn’t rip me a new one, maybe I could open the first branch of a chain out there.

I could go to Portland, establish myself, find a job, and move on. Plenty of single mothers do it all the time. I can, too.

The attempt to ignore the war in my heart is failing. I keep waiting for the text that will fire me, the message from my brother confirming I had ruined my last chance at a normal relationship with him, and the inevitable text from Luke, telling me he can’t do this. The text that will ultimately shatter my heart into a million pieces.

But emotions aren’t for people like me, so I squash that down.

I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling as if the weight of the world is pressing down on me. It’s hard to breathe, and I fear I may have a panic attack. My phone buzzes. I snatch it up, wondering which terrible text it’s going to be, but it’s nothing more than a notification from a news app about the upcoming hockey season. I toss the phone aside, the tension in my chest tightening.

I can’t just sit around and wait for those messages. I have to take control, and to do that, I need to have a plan in place. With trembling hands, I dial my aunt’s number, pacing my room. When Aunt Tessa picks up, tears spring to my eyes.

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