by Sara Ney
Buzz: You’re my sister.
As if that explains it all.
Me: So?
Buzz: So. It’s my job to look out for you.
Er, not really, and not like this, but okay. Cock-blocking or clam-jamming or whatever the term is, is most certainly not his job. It’s his job to approve or disapprove once I finally find a man I want to bring home and introduce them to—not scare away every single man who expresses an interest in me.
Still. His reluctance to give Mateo Espinoza my contact information buys me a little more of the time I need.
I’m going to have to tell him at some point…and how giant of an asshole am I going to look like once the whole world finds out what a douchebag I am for keeping this a secret from him and my family?
It’s going to be on the news, in the press, in the papers. They’re going to gossip about it in the clubhouse at the stadium and up in the executive offices.
The world is going to know I’m a foolish girl.
Can you blame me for hiding as long as I can?
Tripp has Sprite in the fridge, along with ginger ale and a few other clear drinks with carbonation—he hasn’t said it, but they’re for me. Which means he knows I’ve been throwing up but hasn’t confronted me about it.
He also knows I’ve been working during the day.
Molly told me he’s been asking; considering she’s been dropping in on me during the day, I wonder if he’s paying her to babysit me along with the dog.
I pop the earbuds out of my ears, cutting loose the phone call I’ve just been on while I was texting my brother. It was a family who is trying to get their son onto a Division 1 lacrosse team, needing a recruiter to visit his high school, and wanting to know their options.
They’re a split family, mom and dad having divorced, so I’ve been having to go between both parents, listening to their fights, squabbling, and disagreements to varying degrees.
See, I work for a college recruiter—more of a middleman, actually, between the colleges and universities—getting teenage athletes the eyes they need on them to potentially procure scholarships, or places on a team.
It’s rewarding and horrible all at the same time.
Days like this—hearing the mother of a student athlete crying that her ex-husband never paid for lacrosse lessons, and it all came out of her pocket, and he’s a piece of shit, and on and on and on—instead of discussing what’s best for the son?
Tiring.
More tiring than being awake all night listening to the sound of my own heart beating and my own unhappy thoughts.
The morning sickness has gotten better, but Tripp’s hovering has not. It’s almost as if he suspects something, sticking his head into the guest bedroom each night and every morning before he goes to bed or leaves for the stadium.
It has me up late, thinking.
Strategizing.
What are you going to do, True Wallace?
What on earth.
Are.
You.
Going.
To.
Do.
Someone, anyone, please write a book on What To Expect When You’re Secretly Expecting.
I put all my work stuff aside and exit Tripp’s office—the space I’ve been using, which is actually quite perfect—organizing my date book, headset and earbuds, and folders onto one of his many shelves.
I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon across town, so I trudge back upstairs to the guest bedroom and riffle through the shirts I hung in the closet, the week half over without a new rental apartment in sight.
Who was I trying to kid, thinking I was going to find a place and move within seven days? My bravado was all smoke and mirrors. Between work deadlines, feeling like shit, and not liking a single place I found on the internet, the likelihood that I’m going to move this month…slim to none.
Heck, I’ll be lucky if I find something in the next thirty days.
And if I’m not mistaken, Tripp is doing everything he can to make me feel comfortable and at home in an attempt to keep me here longer.
Texts to check in on me.
Sending over the neighbor girl.
Having food delivered throughout the day.
Bringing home dinner.
It’s been kind of freaking awesome, if I’m being honest. Like living in a hotel, but one with a slobbering dog and nosey neighbors.
Speaking of which…
“True, are you here?”
Molly’s voice rings out, echoing a little from the foyer, her sneakers squeaking on the clean tile floor.
I pull a shirt out of the closet, swapping out the team football sweatshirt I’m wearing (which I stole from my brother’s closet) and stepping into a fresh pair of black leggings before I hear the pitter-patter of teenage feet bounding up the stairs.
I hear Molly before I see Molly.
“There you are,” she says breathlessly, popping her head into the room.
I’ve discovered Molly is always popping in at her leisure, never asking for permission, never waiting to be invited. It makes sense that she’s inserted herself into my brother’s—and Chandler’s—life. She’s an odd little thing, funny and bossy and probably doesn’t fit in well with her peers.
Too mature.
Too wise.
Too much of everything.
Which explains why she fits in so well here.
“Here I am.” I pull the shirt down in time to cover the invisible bump in my tummy, the one Molly’s eyes are trying to find. My brother may be buying my story, but this teenager certainly isn’t, and I know at some point we’re going to have to tell Tripp.
We.
Since when am I in cahoots with this kid?
“What’s going on?” I ask, grabbing a puffer vest to layer over my top. It’s still cold out—freezing cold, even. I’m too warm for a down jacket but too cold not to wear anything, so vest it is.
“Nothin’. Just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing.”
I pause, glancing at the clock sitting on the bedside table. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I get done early because I have two study halls back to back at the end of the day.”
How convenient.
She gives me a once-over, checking out my outfit. “Going somewhere?”
“I am indeed.” The doctor’s office, obstetrician to be exact. Baby doctor for an eight-week appointment.
“Are you stopping at Starbucks?” Why on earth is she asking?
She doesn’t think she’s coming along, does she?
“I wasn’t planning on stopping for coffee, no.” I used to be a latte girl, but since getting pregnant…no can do.
“Want company? We can drink yummy freshers instead of coffee.”
I tilt my head to study her face. “Is my brother paying you to spy on me?”
Molly’s brows go up. “Do you want the truth?”
I roll my eyes, grabbing my purse off the bed. “I don’t want you to lie, that’s for damn sure.”
Molly mulls this over, speaking slowly. “He’s not paying me to spy on you.”
I know there’s more. “But…?”
“But…he does want me to make sure you’re okay. He doesn’t believe you’re only here because you need a place to stay. He thinks there’s more to it than that.”
My eyes almost bug out of my skull. “Tripp said that?” I could not be more surprised—I know he can be insightful, but for him to suspect any more than what I’ve told him is a shock.
The neighbor girl follows me out the door. “Well, not in those exact words.” Her hand grips the railing as we make our way back to the ground level.
“Well—what words did he use?”
She lowers her voice, feigning a masculine drawl. “Molly, my sister is full of shit. Keep an eye on her for me, would ya?”
Okay, that sounds one hundred percent like something Tripp would say, in those exact words.
I laugh. “Sounds about right. But rest assured, y
ou don’t have to follow me around—I’m fine. I’m not dying.”
My stomach lurches at the sight of the bagels that are now on the counter, the ones that were not there when I went upstairs. “Did you bring those?”
“Your brother had them delivered. He doesn’t think you’re eating enough.”
That’s because I barf it all up.
In fact, I think I’ve lost weight in the past week, which is the opposite of what I want. It’s not good for the baby.
Mateo’s baby.
Ugh!
“Hey, where’s the dog?” He hasn’t bombarded me yet like he usually does anytime I come down the stairs.
“Eating, probably. I just fed him and put water in his bowl.” Molly picks up a plain bagel and aims it in my direction. “Maybe since this is bread, you’ll be able to keep it down?”
I shoot her a look. “Um.” Maybe.
I take it, biting off a chunk, chewing and chewing and swallowing.
So far, so good.
I take another bite.
“Don’t you want any, like, cream cheese?” She’s staring at me downing the bagel as if I’m a monster for eating it plain. Untoasted. No creamy spread.
“God no.”
She’s texting on her phone as I take another bite.
“If you’re texting my brother right now…” My voice trails off with a warning, though let’s be honest—what can I actually do about it?
“I’m just telling him you’re eating!” she says guiltily. “He’s worried about you.”
Fine.
I’ll allow it.
I hesitate, then, “I’m going to the obstetrician.”
“I figured.” Molly waits a few beats before, “So can I come with you?”
I nearly spit out the carbs in my mouth, taken aback by her bold question. “You do not want to come with me to the baby doctor! Don’t you have anything better to do? A dog to walk? Homework?”
She’s picking up the bagels we aren’t eating and puts them in a brown paper bag before folding it closed. “Yes, to those things, but there are also some things I wanted to talk to you about. And I can see you’re in a rush, so I thought we could talk in the car. You can pretend I’m your assistant.”
Oh, I’ve always wanted an assistant! And it would piss my brother off so bad if his assistant became my assistant, and wait, what am I even saying? This is a teenage girl, for pity’s sake—she could never actually work for me!
Baby brain’s got me thinking crazy.
“You cannot come to the doctor with me, Molly. I’m sorry.”
She heaves a sigh. “I know your secret, so you might as well let me come along. So we can talk.”
I feel my eyes narrow. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“Me? Nooo.”
The little snake! What’s in it for her? What the heck does she have to discuss with me that makes her willing to hold me hostage in the car?
“Do you want me to tell my brother you’re an extortionist?”
Her head tilts. “That wouldn’t be accurate because I’m not trying to get anything from you.”
“Are you always this literal?”
“No.” Molly marches toward the garage door, only glancing back to see if I’m following suit. “Are you coming or what?”
The little shit.
I walk behind her, tapping the remote for my car so she can hop into the passenger side. We buckle in and pull out, and I give a quick glance at her house.
“Shouldn’t you get permission to leave with a stranger?”
“I texted them already. My parents both work late tonight.”
Of course they do. How convenient.
I look straight ahead until we’re on the main road then finally acknowledge that she had something she wanted to discuss.
“So? What’s the thing?”
The kid has her hands in her lap, fingers laced together, index fingers in a steeple. I’m surprised they’re not pressed to her chin, as deep in thought as she is.
“I think we should tell Tripp you’re pregnant.”
There’s that ‘we’ again. “And how do you think he’s going to react?”
Molly considers this. Opens her mouth, then shuts it. Opens it again. “It’s not about what he thinks—it’s about you. It’s not healthy for you to have this secret and no support.” She glances over at me. “I do not count—I’m only in tenth grade.”
That almost makes me laugh.
“Have you told any of your girlfriends?” the kid asks, prying deeper into my personal business.
No. “I will. Eventually.”
“Why not?”
Because, kid, once my friends know, they’re going to bombard me with questions, start planning baby showers and gender reveals, and want to shop and demand information on Mateo Espinoza and stalk him online and probably harass him.
They’re going to assume he’s a piece of shit when in reality, I’m the one who…
I’m the one…
“I’m taking it one day at a time.”
She’s quiet again, the only sound in my car from the radio. “Well. I think you should tell Mr. Wallace and Chandler. You’re going to get stressed out, and that’s not good for your body or the baby.”
Who is this kid?
What is this sorcery?
Is this why Tripp keeps her around?
I’m silent, assuming she isn’t finished having her say.
“What’s the harm in telling your brother? At least you won’t have to lie and sneak around his house anymore. Eventually he’s going to catch you when you’re sick, and you can’t keep losing contacts on the floor.”
True.
So very true.
“Mr. Wallace is way cooler than you give him credit for,” she tells me with authority.
“Oh? Is he now?”
Molly shrugs and admits, “No, not really.”
We both laugh at that.
“I didn’t think so.”
I remember this conversation so I can repeat it to him later, wondering if he’ll be as amused as I am right now.
“Chandler makes him cool.” The teenager is watching out the window as we pass the mall. “He’s lucky to have her. He almost blew it.”
I can’t imagine what it would be like to date one of my brothers—either of them. They’re such…assholes sometimes. Then again, maybe I just feel that way because I’m the baby sister who had to tolerate pranks and fighting and bickering and the competitiveness.
That’s one of the reasons I went into the sports industry, too. As much as I hate to admit it, I didn’t want to be left out of the excitement. I wanted to have something in common with them both. I wanted my parents to be as proud of me as they are of Trace and Tripp.
Of course, what could possibly compare to having two world-class athletes in the family?
Certainly not a daughter who “just” works for a sports agency and who hasn’t made it to the top of the corporate ladder. Plus, my brothers’ connections helped land me the job in the first place—I didn’t even secure the position on my own.
I know, I know, we’re all completely different people. But how could they not compare us? How can they not be more proud of one than the other? It’s not my fault I wasn’t born a man—not my fault I wasn’t blessed with much athletic talent.
I played soccer but was never good enough to play past high school, no matter how much heart I gave it.
So, I majored in sports management in college, following in my brothers’ footsteps by at least attending the same school. They’re older than me, but not by much; we were all there at the same time for at least one school year.
I was a freshman and Buzz was a sophomore while Tripp was a senior.
Both of them entered the draft as soon as they were eligible.
Neither of them would let me attend the same parties, though, and anyone who even thought about dating me was hunted down and scared off by the Wallace duo, because they always made everything about them.
I was just their little sister.
It sucked.
It was amazing.
It was both at the same time.
“Alright smarty-pants, how do you suppose I tell my brother I’m pregnant?”
Molly must have already given this some consideration, because it doesn’t take her long to respond. “I say you just tell him. Like, sit him down and just take a seat at the counter and say it. He’ll suspect something if you, like, wanna go for dinner or whatever.”
Yeah, he would suspect something if I tried to surprise him with the news.
“So just spring it on him?”
“Totally. Rip off the Band-Aid.” She pokes the window with a fingernail as we approach a coffee shop, poke, poke, poking until I’m slowing down my car and putting on the turn signal, already conned by this teenage girl.
She smiles, getting her way.
“He’s probably going to need some time to process the information, but I bet he’ll be fine.”
“He’ll be fine? Him? What about me?”
Molly scoffs. “Oh you know how men are—he’ll find a way to take this news and make it about him.”
How right she is; my brothers have been doing it to me for years, and they aren’t even aware of it.
“Plus,” she goes on, “guys are such babies. He’s going to be all butthurt, and you’re the one with a baby in your belly. Like, it has nothing to do with him, and I bet his one feeling is going to be all hurt.”
We both roll our eyes as I drive up to the order screen and tell the barista what we want, laughing when we reach the window.
“When am I giving him the news?”
More thinking. More head tilting. “No time like the present.”
“Now?” I practically shout, panicking.
“Tonight!” Her head shakes. “Whoa, calm down. Relax—obviously we’re not going to do it now. He’s at work.” Eye roll.
We. “Are you planning on being at the house when I spill the beans?”
“Duh. As if you’d have the guts to do it without me.”
She’s not wrong about that. I take a sip of my decaf iced latte, slurping the deliciousness through the straw and managing to keep it down. Hallelujah!
“You think you know me well enough that I need you to be there with me, otherwise I won’t tell him?”
Molly turns her head, straw in mouth, smiling around it. “Not to be disrespectful, Ms. Wallace, but no—you definitely don’t have the lady balls to do it without me.”