Page 53 of Hooked On Them

Scratch that. I did not need to start calling him Daddy.

“Per week? That can’t be right.” His fingers twitched like he was counting it out. “That’s like... ten a day on average.”

“Someone’s been practicing their division.” I picked up another brownie, letting the chocolate melt on my tongue while watching the way his expression cycled through denial, bargaining, and finally acceptance. It was better than any premium streaming content.

“Fuck off.” He playfully shoved my shoulder, but his hand lingered there a second longer than necessary, warm through the fabric of my sweatshirt.

I reached for my glass of water to hide whatever my face was doing. “What’s your stroller philosophy? Designer or practical?”

“Is this a test?” His eyebrows drew together. “Because I didn’t study.”

“Just curious about your parental instincts.”

“I...” He paused, looking genuinely thoughtful. “Practical, I guess? But safe. Really safe. Like, whatever the tank of strollers is.”

“The tank of strollers,” I repeated, fighting a smile.

“You know what I mean. The one that could survive if someone accidentally drove over it. Our child would be fine, but the car would be totaled.”

I watched his eyes widen slightly, my stomach twisting at him saying our child. I reached for the Oreos, needing something to do with my hands. Dominic passed me the package, our fingers brushing. The small contact shouldn’t have sent electricity through my arm, but my body was apparently a traitor to common sense lately.

“What about you? Designer or practical?”

“Practical, but it needs a cup holder.” I twisted an Oreo apart, focusing on scraping off the cream with my teeth. “For my coffee.”

“Can you have coffee while pregnant?”

I froze mid-scrape. “First off, I wouldn’t use the stroller while pregnant, and secondly, if you take away my one allowed cup of coffee per day, I will end you, Wilson.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I know nothing about pregnancy. Less than nothing. I have negative knowledge.”

“Join the club.” I slumped back against the cushions. “I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to avoid getting pregnant, and now...” I gestured at my stomach.

Dominic’s eyes followed the movement, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, wild how that works.”

We fell into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, which was somehow more unsettling than if it had been. We shouldn’t be comfortable together. At least not yet. Just when I was about to turn on my TV, he turned toward me.

“What sort of parent do you think you’ll be?” He asked the question casually, like he was asking about the weather, not cracking open my chest to expose all my insecurities.

My automatic response bubbled up, some witty deflection about how I’d either be amazing or they’d need extensive therapy when they were older. Instead of saying that, though, I fidgeted with the hem of my sweatshirt, suddenly very interested in the rough texture.

“I honestly don’t know, but I hope I’m half the mom my mom was.” The raw honesty in my voice surprised even me.

“Tell me about her.” His voice held genuine curiosity rather than pity, which was the only reason I didn’t immediately change the subject.

“My mom was...” I fumbled for words that would adequately describe her. “She was everything you’d want in a mom, you know? She’d show up to every competition with these ridiculous, over-the-top signs that she and my sister would make. It was so mortifying when I was thirteen, but secretly the best thing ever.

“And she was so supportive of my dad but also kept his head on straight.” I smiled, memories of their playful bickering washing over me. “She’d call him out whenever he got too intense about the season, but then she’d be right there next to him at nearly every home game. She balanced out his seriousness.” I absently traced the pattern on my pajamas, remembering how she’d dance with him in the kitchen while making breakfast, pancake batter forgotten on the counter.

“She sounds amazing.” He put his hand over mine, and I didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

I nodded, emotion clogging my throat. Everyone knew about my mom’s tragic death. We had been coming back from a regional competition, and a semi-truck had veered into our lane. I don’t remember anything else because I woke up in the hospital with my dad at my side, looking like a man who had his soul ripped from his body.

“What about your mom?” I was genuinely curious about the woman who’d had three children with his father.

He sighed heavily. “Well, as you can imagine, life with my father was tough… she divorced him as soon as my sister went to college. She lives in Spain now and is on what she calls her healing journey, which involves sending a single email on Christmas every year with a photo of a sunrise and signs it ‘With love and light.’” His voice cracked slightly on the last word. “She left, and it was like… we stopped existing.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. There wasn’t a pep talk or apology in the world that could fill the space a parent had the ability to stay in but didn’t. So, instead, I turned my hand over and threaded our fingers together. Not in a romantic kind of way, but in a comforting way.

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