by Sara Ney
“No, I get it. You don’t even know me.”
Molly nods and crosses her arms. “Just so you know, I’m kind of Mr. Wallace’s right hand around here, so like, don’t ask me to lie for you about other stuff. I don’t want to lose my job—he pays me good money and I don’t want to get a job in, like, retail if I can avoid it. The mall sucks this time of year.”
I turn my head to gaze up at her. “Does my brother realize how loyal you are?”
Where the heck can I find a sidekick who doesn’t mince words and who’s willing to peck a person’s eyes out in the name of loyalty? Jeez, kid, I’m not stealing from him—I’m hiding the fact that I’m having a baby!
I just need a little more time.
Just a few days to work up the courage…
“I think he does.” Molly grins. “Your brother Buzz tried to give me fifty bucks once to put a bag of dog doo on the front porch, light it on fire then ring the doorbell.”
Flaming dog shit? I imagine when Tripp answered the door and saw a paper bag on fire on his front porch, he would have stomped on it to put the flames out and gotten dog shit on his feet.
That happens to be the oldest running gag on the planet, and the vilest.
What a bunch of idiots.
“I’m assuming you didn’t do it?”
“Um, no. Gross. But I did tell Mr. Wallace about it. He paid my friends Kyle and Steven twenty bucks each to go toilet paper all the trees in the other Mr. Wallace’s yard.”
“Don’t those two have anything better to do? They act like teenagers.”
Molly giggles. “Yeah.”
I get serious for a second. “Look, Molly, I like you, and I don’t want you to lie for me.” That’s a lie. I actually do. “There’s nothing to hide.”
Lies, lies, lies.
I’m hiding my baby.
“I just need a few days to come up with a plan. Kind of like a reveal—one that won’t put him over the edge.”
She nods, approving of this plan. “Alright.”
“And for the record, I’m more worried about our other brother Buzz finding out than I am about Tripp finding out. It will be fine.” Everything will be fine.
Yup, just fine.
I groan again as my tummy churns. I’m not that far along and don’t want to jinx myself by telling anyone I’m pregnant, but I also don’t want to keep lying about it every time I get morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And anytime-I-eat-food sickness.
Chewy nudges me with his snout, and I muster up the energy to pat the little fella on the head.
Molly takes pity on me, seemingly considering my words. I can see in her eyes that she isn’t buying the food poisoning story for a second, but she has her lips pressed together in silence.
She hmphs as only an indignant teenager can.
“Come here, Chewy, let’s get you a treat to gnaw on.” She bends, pulling him toward the door by the collar with a gentle tug. “Let’s leave the poor lady alone.”
The poor lady.
Suddenly I feel like one as Molly gives a few clicks of her tongue so the dog follows her out of the room, trotting obediently and merrily at the sound of the word treat, oblivious to the tension I feel from the mess I just created.
My head rolls back to the toilet seat, the cold porcelain a godsend after the drive over from my parents’ house. Two hours in the car, alone with nothing but my thoughts and the echo of my mother’s voice in my ears.
“True, dear, you don’t look well. When is the last time you were at the doctor?” and “True, sweetie, do you have the flu? Your cheeks are gaunt.” and “I thought you liked apple pie—why is your face turning green?”
I had to get out of there fast, before my mother’s deductive reasoning and bullshit meter kicked into overdrive.
I’m not ready to tell my parents, either.
I am emotionally drained.
Coming to Tripp’s house was not part of my original plan. Initially, I thought I could crash at my parents’ place, knowing they’d be ecstatic to have me there, sleeping in their guest room while I look for a new apartment. I legitimately thought I could stay there because I’m so busy with work and finding somewhere new to live.
My mother loves to mother us. Hover. Smother. Feed and take care of us and meddle in our lives, as moms often do.
Nothing gets past our Genevieve Wallace. Nothing escapes her notice.
With this bean in my belly and me barfing nonstop, staying at my parents’ just isn’t in the cards.
I had to bring myself here.
Tripp will be willing to lie once I tell him, and he’ll damn sure be on board for lying to Buzz.
They love having one up on each other, always competing, always a competition, loving to spar.
I can thank my former roommate for whatever disaster is going to follow once my news leaks.
See, I had a place. A sophisticated, renovated townhouse apartment near the shore of Lake Michigan. I’ve lived there the past two years, though it wasn’t entirely my place. I did not live alone; it was an apartment I shared with two other women—women I thought I could trust.
Winnie, Monica, and me made three.
We split the utilities, the responsibilities, assigning the tasks between us—and hey, dividing everything with two people for the cutest place in Chicago you ever did see? Knowing I could travel for work and not worry about my shit being stolen or used without permission? It always gave me peace of mind.
They weren’t using me because my brothers were famous athletes. They weren’t in my stuff when I wasn’t there.
We rarely had to fight over the one parking space we shared, doing paper-rock-scissors to battle it out fairly.
It was a no-brainer living situation.
It was great.
A few months ago, our roommate Winnie went and found herself a boyfriend. They caught feelings—the kind where they wanted to spend all their time together, not experience any waking moments apart. So, Winnie? She went MIA.
With Winnie mostly gone and me traveling for work more often than not (which is easy because I’m single and unattached), that left Monica in our quaint little apartment all by her lonesome for the vast majority of the time.
Ergo, we trusted her with the day-to-day responsibilities, and let me tell you, Monica had. It. Made.
Gorgeous place. Lack of interference.
One job—to pay the rent on time.
To make his life easy, our landlord requested one check or deposit for the month, and we all agreed that considering Monica was the one most primarily there, it only made sense to put her in charge.
Winnie and I would shoot her the cash through an app.
Monica would pay the rent.
Easy enough, right? Simple.
Wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, oh how wrong we were.
The thing with Monica? I hate to call her flighty, but…
…she’s flighty. AF.
Also: incredibly loving and supportive and smart.
But forgetful? Unorganized? Hell to the yes, and how did we not see this coming?
Lost us our apartment because she started a pattern where she was consistently late. On a few occasions, didn’t pay two months in a row, and wouldn’t you know it—our landlord has a niece looking for an apartment, and considering we were becoming such unreliable tenants…
Evicted us just like that with thirty days’ notice.
Obviously, Monica was afraid to tell us, waiting and waiting and waiting until Winnie and I had two days to get our shit and get out, with nowhere to go.
What a shitty thing to do, especially considering we’d been friends since meeting in college, the three of us playing softball together for the university. Winnie and I haven’t spoken to Monica since the day we had to move our belongings out of the apartment, but I know someday we will. Things will get smoothed over and we’ll be able to exist in the same room together without fighting about how irresponsible she is despite being a grown-ass woman.
I stay in the bathroom for who knows how long, resting against the toilet, in no hurry to rise. It’s not that I’m going to barf again; it’s that so many things are going through my head I don’t want to stand and walk through the door to reality.
“True?”
My brother’s voice startles me, and I realize suddenly that the house is deafeningly quiet.
Molly must have gone.
“Hey, bro.” I croak it out, trying to sound as normal as possible. Casual enough to not raise suspicion, despite my location on the floor? Er. I hope.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
Shit.
I wasn’t planning on being down here when he got home, assumed I’d be unpacking my bag in his guest room or riffling through his fridge—not that I can keep anything down. Ginger ale, maybe?
At least he’s alone, and not with his girlfriend, Chandler.
“I…uh.” Exactly nothing pops into my brain, so I go to stand, bracing both my hands on the toilet seat. “I dropped my contact lens before and was trying to find it.”
Tripp tilts his head. “You wear contacts? Since when?”
Since never and we both know it.
I don’t even wear glasses.
Once though, when I was younger, a girl in my class got glasses. The dark, tortoiseshell frames were all the rage, and I wanted them, too. So I would squint and tell Mom my left eye was weepy, and eventually she was concerned enough to make an eye exam appointment.
Well, you can fake out your own mother sometimes, but not the optometrist, and wouldn’t you know it, my parents’ vision insurance didn’t cover that appointment and I got in deep shit.
“They’re the colored contacts. I wanted to see what I look like with blue eyes.” I flick the light off in the bathroom and exit, my brother trailing along in my wake, Chewy hot on his heels.
Standing at the kitchen sink to wash my hands, I pour a single glass of water to rinse my mouth out.
Rinse out the taste of vomit.
Yuck.
If Tripp thinks the colored contacts story is weird, he lets it slide, busying himself with Chewy, commanding the dog to ‘sit pretty’ for a tiny training treat, then he sends him scampering off to fetch a ball.
“So.” He rests his elbows on the counter. Leans in, eyes watchful. “What’s going on?”
He looks tired, as if he just worked out in a gym for hours and has physically and mentally exhausted himself.
Probably because he has.
Which probably means he won’t have the willpower to spend much time debating me. Still, I am his little sister, and he is protective. He and my other brother, Trace (aka: Buzz), have always done a bang-up job sheltering me. Looking out for me. Championing me.
When they’re not riding my ass or hazing me, that is. The assholes love nothing more than giving me a hard time, especially in front of our parents.
I’m not just their only sister; I’m the baby of the family.
“I was hoping I could crash here for a while,” I start. “My roommate Monica forgot to pay our rent for a few months.”
“A few months?” His brows are so far up in his hairline it’s almost comical.
“Yes?”
“Not paying for a few months in a row is called defaulting,” he snaps, already riled up on my behalf. “Did she steal the rent money or just not pay?”
I give my head a little shake. “She paid, but not until it was too late.”
“What the hell was she thinking? And why was she put in charge of the money?”
Good question. Likely because Winnie and I were lazy about it too, and Monica seemed like the obvious, easy choice.
I sigh, having already gone over this same story with my parents. “We put her in charge of the bills because she’s the one who’s always there. Winnie hardly sleeps there because she has a new boyfriend, and I travel so much for work, so we thought…”
My brother scowls the famous Wallace glare. “The last person you should trust blindly with your money is someone with full access to your space and personal business.”
I roll my eyes. “She didn’t have access to my bank account—I sent her the money every month.”
My brother scowls again. “Why weren’t you able to send your landlord the money separately? That makes no fucking sense.”
“He’s old school I guess—wanted it all in one lump sum.”
“This isn’t college. Your landlord should get with the program and figure this shit out so things like this don’t happen. If you and that Winnie girl paid but Monica didn’t, you could have kicked her ass out and found a new roommate. Instead, you’re all out on the street.”
“Out on the street? That’s being dramatic.” My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, defeated. “Look, all I know is I don’t have a place to stay. I can start looking at apartments in the morning—I have a few days where I’m remote.” Work isn’t expecting me to be anywhere.
Tripp shakes his head. “Call Buzz. He’s working on a few rental properties, and I bet one of them is open.”
My lips purse in objection. “I’m not going to squat in one of his income properties. He could rent to someone who needs a place to live. It wouldn’t be fair of me.”
Plus, he would be all up my ass.
So annoying with that middle child syndrome.
Tripp laughs. “But you’re willing to squat in my guest bedroom? Explain the difference, because I’m confused.”
I pluck an apple out of a bowl indignantly. “You have free food.”
“What if you bought a condo instead of renting? Or a small house? Interest rates are awesome right now—you could lock in a great rate.”
I have considered the idea of buying something. But… “Eh. I think I want something with a pool and zero maintenance. I’m hardly around.”
Hardly around.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, my stomach lurches, serving as a reminder of the life growing inside me, the other life I have to consider before making major decisions—like where I’m going to live.
The fact is, once this baby is born, I’ll need to provide a home and maybe even a yard. Pools aren’t safe. Do I want to raise a city kid?
More importantly…
Privacy.
Especially considering who the father is.
I bite my bottom lip, guilt and reality weighing heavily on me.
Shoot.
Perhaps renting an apartment isn’t such a great idea. Maybe I should find a cute little house nearby—not that I could possibly afford one in my brother’s neighborhood, but something close enough that I could lean on them in a pinch. Plus, I would own it and have my own assets, rather than keeping my meager savings sitting in the bank, doing nothing to grow.
“Well,” Tripp says finally. “If you want to look at houses, let me know. Buzz and I can take you.”
That makes me laugh. “You think for one second I would let the two of you take me house hunting? Are you out of your damn mind?”
He looks affronted. “What’s wrong with us taking you house hunting?”
Is he for real right now? “You cannot conduct yourselves at all in public—not with each other. You act like children!” Correction: the three of us act like children. Bickering, arguing, one-upping each other.
It’s beyond ridiculous.
How? Well, let me tell you about the last time the pair of them were together. During Christmas—we stopped picking names a few years ago because Buzz and Tripp both like lots of presents—the three of us siblings (and now their partners) buy gifts for all, not just for one.
Buzz gifted Tripp with a meticulously wrapped and expensively packaged…
Box.
There was nothing inside.
“What the hell is this?” Tripp asks, staring into the empty cube.
“It’s the gift of limitless potential,” Buzz solemnly tells him with an all-knowing nod.
“Fuck you—I spent four hundred dollars on your present and it�
�s not even available in stores yet!” Tripp bought Buzz a stopwatch that was a prototype—still in beta—from a friend who’s an investor in the company that invented it. “I hate you.”
Buzz holds up his wrist, the shiny steel gray encircling it. “Thanks, I love it.” He pokes at the side button, showing it off.
His wife hangs her head, hiding a laugh.
Tripp glares at them both. “Give it back.” His attempt to lunge for our brother fails, Buzz just as quick and light on his feet as Tripp—perhaps even more so?
I tilt my head, studying my sister-in-law. If Hollis is laughing, certainly the empty box is a joke? This wouldn’t be the first time someone in this family pulled a stunt like that on Christmas morning.
Tripp stands in a sea of crumpled wrapping paper, his dog sniffing through the rubble in search of the chew toy he lost. “Mom, would you say something?”
“What do you want me to say, sweetie?”
“Make him give me the watch back.”
Buzz laughs, sticking his hands inside the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “It’s mine.”
“Mom!”
Tripp’s girlfriend Chandler gives him a light nudge, tugging at the bottom of his holiday-themed sleep shirt. “Babe, you need to relax.”
“I want my present.” My brother isn’t physically stomping his foot, but he’s pretty damn close to it. “This isn’t fair.”
Buzz snorts, which does not help the situation, or Tripp’s tantrum.
“This is the season for giving, sweetheart.” Mom smiles. “Don’t be selfish. There are so many people out there who—”
“Oh my god, Mom, now is not the time! I give plenty and I want my present!” This time, he does stomp his foot, crunching down on a pile of empty, discarded boxes.
The room is a chorus of low snickers.
“This isn’t funny, assholes.”
“Don’t call us assholes during the holidays,” Dad scolds, finally chiming in, fiddling with the wireless digital weather station I gave him and barely looking up.
“Thank you, Roger.” Mom beams at Dad flirtatiously. He almost never speaks up when we’re acting like dicks, so when he does, Mom gets all hot and bothered. No doubt they’re going to have sex later today.
Tripp stares at everyone, displeasure brimming across his face at every angle.