Page 49 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
I rub the sleep from my eyes with the back of my hand, assessing the kitchen for last night’s damage. A few empty cans here, a couple paper plates crusted with cake there. We’ve done worse. Definitely not the kind of mess that warrants an argument this early in the morning.
“If it’s about the kitchen, I’m planning to clean up.” I grab a can off the counter, give it a quick shake to verify that it’s empty, then lob it into the recycling bin with a crash. “Sorry. Was too tired last night.”
“It’s not about the kitchen,” he grumbles through clenched teeth. “It’s about the whole apartment.”
I scoff. “You’re as capable of cleaning as I am, birthday boy.”
The coffee maker beeps like a ref calling a penalty on this petty argument, and I grab each of us a mug from the cabinet. This motherfucker must need caffeine in a bad way. But an IV drip of espresso injected straight into my veins wouldn’t wake me up nearly as fast as the next words out of Connor’s mouth.
“I’m moving out, Wolfie. I’m having a kid.”
The next few seconds are sort of a blur. Both mugs slip from my hands, and I watch them fall to the floor in what feels like slow motion, shattering on the tile and sending jagged shards and hot coffee bleeding across the floor. “Fucking shit.”
I grab a fistful of dish rags and throw them on the mess., but they’re nothing more than a temporary bandage to slap on the situation. There’s a bigger crisis that needs my attention right now—the shitstorm my best friend just rained down on me in two fucking sentences.
“What the hell are you talking about, Connor?”
He sighs, one hand steadily working a knot out of the back of his neck. “Do you remember Beth?”
Who? A quick flip through my mental Rolodex of girls he’s brought home yields zero results.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Shit. No one seems to remember her,” he says, using the side of his shoe to kick a piece of broken coffee mug toward the epicenter of the mess. “Hell, I might’ve forgotten about her myself. You know, if not for a little thing called a pregnancy test. She’s six months along. It’s a girl.”
Slowly, the pieces start to fall into place. Selling his motorcycle, and the fact that he’s been acting like the walking dead for the last few days. The dude has practically handed me a bouquet of red flags. Still, I couldn’t have guessed that this is what’s had him so off-kilter.
“So you’re gonna be involved then?” I pause, then tack on, “As her dad?” I guess I’ll need to get used to using that word to describe him. Connor Blake. A dad.
“Yup. We’re talking about sharing custody.”
The more Connor talks about it, the more his features start to loosen up. I swear I even spot the threat of a smile pulling at his lips. He doesn’t seem nearly as bent out of shape about being a dad as he was about keeping this thing a secret.
“You should come scope out this house with me.” He digs his phone from his pocket and pulls up a real estate listing, turning his screen toward me. “Three bedrooms. It’s out in Oak Park.”
I whistle through my teeth, taking in the pale gray brick facade and black shutters. It’s like a snapshot out of Better Homes and Gardens. “Damn, you come up on thirty years old and suddenly you’re moving to the suburbs?”
He rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone before backhanding my shoulder. I probably deserve that.
“Shut up, dude. It’s like thirty minutes away. It’s barely out of the city limits.”
We spend the next half hour cleaning up the spilled coffee and broken mugs, all the while chatting about Connor’s plans for decorating a nursery. I never thought I’d hear my best friend get so stoked about cribs and car seats and all their safety features, but he’s clearly been doing his research. By the time we have the kitchen in pre-party condition, he’s yammering on like his normal self, the zombie I’ve been dealing with a distant memory.
“So, yeah, that’s the plan,” he says, bagging up the last of the party trash. “New place, a baby daughter, the works. Things are changing.”
“Sounds like you’ll be a damn good dad.”
Connor’s smile is wide and genuine. “Thanks. I’d like to think so. I mean, hell, I’m a good-as-fuck older brother to Penelope, right? Hopefully there’s some carryover.”
Just the mention of Penelope makes a knot form in the pit in my stomach.
Fuck. That’s right.
In the midst of this little heart-to-heart, I almost forgot who I’m talking to. Connor. Penelope’s older brother. And he is a good older brother, like he said. Except that most good older brothers would never let their sisters get mixed up with a guy like me.
