Page 63 of Books and Hookups

“Yes, we talked last week. Thank you for connecting us.” Thankfully, the server arrived with our meals, and I didn’t have to defend myself for a while as we started to eat.

But after we’d been eating for a few minutes, my mother set down her fork. “Lucie, how are you? Aside from work?” She’d taken only a few bites of her meal, and she eyed my almost-empty plate.

Reluctantly, I set down my fork. The blueberry pancakes I’d ordered were delicious, and my little tapeworm of a fetus wanted more. It was time to tell them about the pregnancy.

“I’m doing well, but—” I cleared my throat. “And I’m pregnant.”

Three seconds of silence ticked by. Then my father burst out laughing. “Good one, Lucie.”

My mother didn’t crack a smile. “Marvin, I don’t think she’s joking.”

“What?” He wiped his eyes.

“It’s true,” I said. My cheeks burned. “I’m due in November.”

“Who’s the father?” he demanded as my mother asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine,” I said. “The father is a…a friend of mine. It was unplanned.”

“And this is what you want?” My mother pressed her lips together. “Motherhood is a massive responsibility, especially with a demanding career and…alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” I said. “My friend, Danny, wants to co-parent. He works nights, so we plan to divide childcare.” That sounded so responsible, even to me.

“Tell me more about thisfriend,”my father said, his white eyebrows already arched in judgment.

“He’s just a friend,” I said. I’d been so good, sending him away the night of his birthday instead of inviting him in like I’d wanted to do. “He’s kind and caring and generous. He’ll be a good co-parent.”

“And what about his prospects?” Dad clenched his fork. “Can he support you financially? Where did he go to college?”

“He…he didn’t.” I stared at my plate. What was left of my pancakes was broken down into a slurry of bread and syrup.

“He didn’tgo to college?”he demanded in the same tone of voice he’d ask about a crime.

I glared at him. “He still has time. He’s young.” Fuck, why had I said that?

“How young, Lucie?” Mom asked. Dad’s face had gone purple as the smashed blueberries on my plate.

“Thirty.”

My father closed his eyes and shook his head. I was twelve years old, and he’d caught me toilet-papering the house of a girl who’d made fun of me after class. “I can’t believe you were so careless.”

“Marvin.” My mother sent him a stern look. “Lucie, you should bring him to dinner this week.”

I grimaced. “He’s not that kind of friend.” The kind who’d put up with an interrogation about his age and the balance in his savings account and his career aspirations. Who’d smile while my father put him down. No. Even sweet, kindhearted Danny would run away screaming.

“But he’s the kind of friend you had unprotected sex with?” my father said, loud enough that heads turned at the next table.

“Marvin.” Mom put her hand over his.

“You’ve made a lot of ridiculous decisions, Lucie,” he said, a little more quietly, “but this is the goddamn cherry on top of a steaming pile of cow manure. What about your book? I hope you have a clause that lets you out of it by only paying back the advance.”

I lifted my chin. “I don’t need out of it. I’m going to finish it.”

“Better ask for an extension,” he said.

“I don’t need a goddamn extension,” I growled, standing.

“Lucie, be reasonable,” my mother said. “Of course you’ll need more time. You’re growing a baby. You’ll be exhausted by the time November rolls around.”

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