Page 57 of Unexpecting

″Hey,” I said coolly.

″Sorry,” J.B. began briskly. “About that comment—whether it’s mine or not—I’m sorry about that. I had no call to question something like that.”

″No, you didn’t,” I agreed, my tone still cool. “And it was pretty shitty of you. Maybe since that’s how you live your life, you assume others dothe same. I’ll have you know, I am fully aware of the name, location, and date of every man I’ve slept with. Except for one, but that was on a train somewhere in Europe, so it doesn’t really count and it doesn’t matter.” I took a deep breath. “But what does matter is that unfortunately for both of us, you are the father of this baby.”

″So you said.”

″I did not get pregnant on purpose,” I shouted. “I wanted to get pregnant, but it wasn’t supposed to be with you. I didn’t want you to be the father. It was supposed to be David. David and I were supposed to have a baby together, not us, not you and me.”

″Sorry to mess up your perfect little plan,” J.B. said angrily.

″Well, you did!” I was not about to tell him the truth. The less he knew right now, the better. Let him feel guilty about something. Let him feel guilty about knocking me up!

″When we,” I used my hand to gesture at us, “got together that night—the night I was upset from the wedding—I had no idea; I had no plan; I never expected this to happen. Really. Truly. I know how you are with the idea of kids—I would never do that to you. I decided I wanted to have a baby after. Not before or during, but after we had sex. I didn’t do it on purpose. I’m not your wife.”

″No, you’re not,” he muttered so softly that I barely heard him. I, of course, took it that he meant he was happy I’m not his wife, or that never in a million years would he ever want to refer to me as his wife. Not that I was thinking I want to be his wife or anything—last thing on my mind today—but I didn’t want it shoved in my face that he loathed the very idea of it.

″Thank God for that!” I retorted. “How can you be such an asshole about this?” I wanted to scream, but I managed with difficulty to keep my voice lowered to an acceptable level.

″You’re angry with me about this? I had nothing to do with it—I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And at least I can count,” he retorted hotly. It took a second to catch on that he must have been referring to my menstrual cycle.

″Fine. Be like that. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry—no, I’m not sorry!” My voice rose again, and to my dismay, it now had a catch to it that usually precluded crying. I would not cry in front of J.B. “I’m not sorry I’m pregnant, but I am sorry it’s yours. I gave up on dating so that my baby wouldn’t have an asshole for a father, and now look what happens. So I’ll just tell you that you don’t have to have anything, anything at all to dowith this baby. I’ll never even introduce you as her father if that’s what you want. I’ll let her think that her father is some anonymous plastic specimen jar, if that’s what makes you happy. Okay?”

Thinking that would make a fitting exit, I stomped past J.B. toward my door. At the last second, I remembered I hadn’t locked my car and hit the button on my key chain, and it made the littledwerp dwerpsound. Then I had trouble unlocking my door because by then I had tears starting to well up. Of course, this was when he stopped me.

″Look, Case,” he began, looming up behind me like a shadow. “I’m sorry.”

″So am I,” I told him automatically, trying desperately to sniff away my tears.

″It’s just—I didn’t want kids. I don’t want kids,” he corrected himself.

″Well, you don’t have to have this one, either,” I said stoutly, despite the wetness on my face. “I’ll do all the work for you, and you’ll get none of the credit. How do you like that?”

″I’ll make a horrible father,” J.B. surprised me by saying.

I turned around to look at him, my keys forgotten in my hand. “Since you don’t want to be a father, what does that matter? You can just go piss off and have sex with whomever you want and forget you ever knew me.”

″Unfortunately, I can’t, because that’s not the way it’s going to be.”

″And just how is it going to be?” I tried for as much snarky attitude as I could muster.

″We’ll get married. It’s the right thing to do.”

Now that was about the last thing I expected to ever hear from J.B. Bergen.

″It’ll have to be quick and small, and my mother will hate that, and she’s never even met you, but—”

″What did you say?” I asked coldly.

″I’ll marry you. It’s what you want, isn’t it? And it’s the right thing to do. You can—”

″No.”

″—move upstairs as long as it’s cool with Cooper, and we can look for a—”

″No.”

″What?”

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