by Sara Ney
Bottle pressed to my mouth, my eyes find my other water bottle on the counter at my place setting, barely touched and most likely lukewarm.
Molly’s eyes look sad, feeling a bit sorry for me as I helplessly flail around, searching for the words to tell my brother my latest news.
“This isn’t…I don’t know how…” to tell you what I’m about to tell you. I don’t want you to judge me or think less of me or be mad. At me. “I know I’ve always been your little sister, but I’m not a little girl anymore and I’m pregnant and there’s a chance I’m going to have a little girl seven months from now, too.” The words come out in one breath, one run-on sentence, one rushed confession. Hands clutch the water bottle, almost crushing it between my fingers.
“Or a boy.”
My brother barely moves, rigid and ramrod straight on the barstool in his kitchen; in my mind, if he was holding chopsticks, they would be suspended in midair, sushi roll dropping to his plate on the counter with a plop.
No one moves.
No one dares, not even Tripp.
Not even Chewy, smart dog.
I said what I said and I’m afraid to say more. If there were a clock ticking in the house, we’d be able to hear it. If there were a mouse lurking about, we’d hear it, too.
Somewhere outside, a delivery truck drives by, the metal panel in the street making that familiar clanging sound it makes when a vehicle passes over it, breaking up the noiseless timbre in the air.
Chewy whines, pawing my leg.
Molly looks at me again, sympathy shining in her eyes.
I’ve not seen my brother at a loss for words since…well. Never. Not even when our grandmother died and he was asked to speak at her funeral, not when his most beloved family pet Ranger died. Not when he didn’t get an offer to play ball at his first choice of universities.
Tripp is simply unflappable.
Or so I thought.
“You’re…” His eyes do a quick scan of my body, finding no bump.
“Nine weeks.” My voice is raspy and filled with emotion.
“I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.”
Ha. If this is his polite way of asking who the father is, he’s doing a fantastic job hiding his emotions—only his flared nostrils are giving him away.
“I’m not.”
Tripp blinks, so hard I’m able to count and keep track. Once. Twice.
Three times.
“Did you…go to one of those…places?”
My right eyebrow arches. “Are you asking if I was artificially inseminated?”
He shrugs, noncommittal.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something snarky, my sense of humor returning after being dormant for two months. What would he say if I retorted with a sassy, ‘I was inseminated, that’s really all you need to know.’
I cut him some slack though, the debris from the bomb I just set off falling to the ground in tiers. Shock. Awe. Silence. Acceptance.
I can see that he is not going to lose his mind, or his temper.
“I wasn’t.”
He shifts in his chair. “Do Mom and Dad know?”
“Do you think I would be here if they did? Mom would never let me out of her sight if she knew.” I set the water bottle on the counter and brace both my hands on the cold stone for support. “I needed to think this through. It still feels very new.”
Gradually, his eyes slide from me to Molly. Narrow in on the neighbor girl who’s been quiet this whole time.
“She knew.” A slight accusation.
I nod. “Yes, Molly knew.”
His long pause is followed by a slow nod. “Kid, you never cease to amaze me.”
Molly takes this as a compliment and sits up straighter. “I’ve had my eye on her for you, sir, making sure she’s safe and all that.”
Sir?
Oh lord.
Talking like she’s my Secret Service detail and I’m the president.
“Does Buzz know?”
“No.”
“When do we tell him?”
We.
“Uh—we don’t.”
“Why not?”
His questions are coming rapid fire and stressing me out. I do not want to talk about Buzz or why I refuse to tell him or who the baby’s father is.
“Wait—you said you’re nine weeks?”
My brother is clearly doing the math in his head, a virtual calendar in the back of his brain, ticking back, back, back nine weeks to solve whatever piece of the equation he thinks he’s missing. Because I will not give him details, he intends to discover the truth on his own.
“The wedding.”
Yes, the wedding.
My lack of a response is all the response he needs—despite his lack of actually asking a question.
Who is the father, True?
Who is it?
“Just how long do you think we’re going to be able to lie to Buzz? He’s over here, up my ass, a few times a week.”
“Isn’t he leaving for spring training?”
“Yes, but not for another few weeks, and that doesn’t mean he won’t be sniffing around until they leave. And you know how he is—if he thinks for one second something is off with you, he’ll be relentless.”
Tripp goes on. “And what about Mom and Dad? If Mom finds out you’ve been hiding this, she will be devastated, True. Devastated. This is going to kill her. Why are you waiting?” He hesitates. “Are you afraid of the father? Is that it?”
“No!” I shout, frustrated. “No, I’m not afraid of him. He’s a great guy.” I think. “He would never, ever do anything to hurt me.” I assume.
“Does he know?”
I’m silent.
“Goddamn it, True, what the hell is wrong with you?!” He’s up and out of his chair in a flash, pacing around the kitchen, arms behind his head, fingers laced. “Seriously, I don’t believe this.”
He sounds disgusted. Disappointed.
“Don’t get mad. I have my reasons.”
He spins. “Oh yeah, what are those reasons? Because it sounds to me like you’re being selfish.”
Selfish.
Selfish…
“I hadn’t…I-I…I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I stutter. For the first time since I found out myself, it hits me: I am pregnant and keeping it a secret from my family and the father and this is not who I am! Family means everything to me—every. Thing.
What am I doing?
I feel so ashamed, or maybe it’s just the hormones, or maybe I’m the biggest asshole on planet Earth.
I hang my head and begin to cry.
“Shit. Don’t cry,” my brother pleads, rushing to my side in an instant, patting my back like he’s trying to burp me. “Hey, sis, don’t cry, it’s going to be fine.”
“No!” I cry harder, shrugging him off me. “It’s not going to be fine—I’m a monster! A selfish monster!” Boohoo! Woe is me. “I’m a horrible human being. What kind of a mother doesn’t tell the father or her parents and hides the baby like it’s a terrible secret?”
Loud sobbing.
I feel Tripp and Molly glancing at one another above my lowered head, which only makes my racking sobs louder.
“I’m already a bad mom, living a lie!”
“You’re not living a lie.” Molly tries reasoning with me. “You’re just not ready to tell anyone yet.”
The thing is, I am living a lie, because I most definitely am keeping secrets. “I never want to tell the father—that is living a lie. I’m so embarrassed I blocked him and refuse to speak to him. Who does that?”
“You’re scared.” An actual teenager is mollycoddling me, and for that I should be mortified, but alas, I take comfort in her words.
“He is going to hate me!”
“No he won’t,” my brother lies. “Once you explain—”
“Stop trying to make me feel better, Tripp. He is going to hate me. He’s never going to understand!” I swat at my brother, so dramatic I could win an Emmy.
>
Okay, Mateo probably will understand. Eventually. He seems to be all that is good and kind and understanding. What guy wouldn’t be, raised with six sisters?
“Are you at least going to tell me who the dad is?”
My head gives a tiny shake. “I don’t know.”
“Will you at least give me a hint?”
Should I give him a hint? I want to.
Keeping this secret has become a burden I don’t think I can bear much longer. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Just one,” he cajoles, pushing.
“Are you going to say anything?”
“Not a word,” he promises with his pinky out. “To anyone.” Except Chandler, the unspoken words form a thought bubble above his head. There are no secrets when you love someone.
“We can’t tell Buzz because…” God, I can’t even say it. Can’t finish the sentence, but it seems I don’t have to, because Tripp Wallace is no moron.
He’s able to finish it for me.
“You can’t tell Buzz because he’s friends with the guy.” It’s not a question, but a statement—one he’s not done finishing. “Dare I say they’re…teammates?”
I’m too uncomfortable to nod.
“And you hooked up at the wedding.”
“Would you stop? Just stop, okay? Yes. But I don’t want to hear it!”
Tripp isn’t letting me off that easy. “You’re being really fucking immature about this, True. First you lie, now you don’t want me to say the truth out loud? Deal with it. You’re a big girl—it’s time to put on your big girl pants.”
“Is snot coming out of my nose?” I sniffle into the air theatrically, needing a tissue.
“Um, no,” my brother intones. “That would be fucking disgusting.”
He goes to the sink, bringing plates along with him, stacking them neatly to the side to be loaded into the dishwasher later. His profile is hard and unyielding, jaw clenched.
“You know Buzz is going to flip his shit, don’t you?”
“Duh,” I smart back. “Why do you think I’m hiding out here?”
“Aha! So that’s the reason you chose this place over his—you’re being a pussy!”
Molly gasps. “I don’t think you can call a pregnant woman a pussy, Mr. Wallace. It seems super tacky.”
“Shit. You’re right. I’m so sorry—please don’t tell Mom.”
Don’t tell Mom. If I had a dollar for every time that phrase was uttered by one of the Wallace three, I’d have enough money to build my own house from the ground up. Even as adults, we care what our mother thinks about our behavior, just as we cared about her opinion as children.
You’re never too old to be parented.
And now I’m going to be a mother, too.
“The only reason I didn’t want to stay with Buzz is because he’s a pain in the ass, and when I have morning sickness, I want to be left in peace. He isn’t working right now, and God, I can’t imagine how he would hover. He would drive me insane.”
“Sure, sure.” Tripp isn’t buying it.
“And…there’s the matter of Little Peanut’s dad.” I rub my palm around my belly affectionately, realizing—
Dad.
I just called Mateo Dad, which makes me feel terrible all over again, tears welling up in my eyes.
Shoot.
I swipe them away with a finger.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
“Yeah, sis, I don’t think you’re going to last long. So, who are you going to tell first? Buzz or the baby daddy?”
“Don’t call him that!” I shoot back defensively. “It’s not his fault.”
“I mean…technically it is his fault.”
Ew.
Gross.
“Could you not?”
Tripp laughs, tipping his head back. “I guess we know you know where babies come from but not how to prevent them from happening.”
“Oh my god, shut up!”
I can hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head: True Hazel Wallace, we do not tell our brothers to shut up.
“La la la, I don’t need to hear this.” Molly has her hands up covering her ears like muffs, blocking out the sound of our banter, clearly horrified by the subject matter. “Maybe I should get home—I have homework.”
“Oh you do not.” Tripp scowls. “But get home anyway. True and I should talk in private.”
Ugh! I don’t want to talk in private!
But Molly is already sliding her shoes on, heading toward the door, giving us both a pitiful little wave, that look you make when you’re asked to leave the party early.
The door closes behind her and I’m alone with my oldest brother, dread seeping throughout my entire body.
“Who is it?”
“You said I only had to give you a hint.” My attempt at humor is lost on Tripp.
“Who is it, True?” He isn’t playing around, dark eyes black with anger. “I won’t tell Buzz—that’s your job—but I want to know who in the hell got my sister pregnant or I swear to god, I will call every son of a bitch on that Steam roster until I find him myself.”
He wouldn’t actually do that, would he?
“You don’t have time for that,” I joke.
“We are not leaving this kitchen until you give me a name.”
We are at a standstill, a veritable battle of wills, the kind we had when we were kids, only those usually took the form of a staring contest. Or thumb war. Or some other ridiculous contest to see who would back down first.
I can remain unblinking for forty-five seconds. Unlucky for me, that isn’t the kind of battle we’re waging.
Internally, I debate. Tell him, don’t tell him.
Just say the name!
Don’t say it.
He’s going to find out. Plus, he said he wouldn’t tell Buzz.
But what if he gets ahold of Mateo before I do?
Then what?
Then what do I do?
Everything is a disaster…
“True.” He tries again, softly. “It’s my job to protect you.”
Ha! “It’s too late for that.”
My words wound him; I can see it in his eyes.
“Why won’t you let me help you?”
“You are helping me! I am so glad to be here, you have no idea.”
“That’s not what I meant. I want to help you, like—go to the doctor with you and shit. Or Chandler can go with you, I don’t know. Buy diapers and stuff.”
Now he sounds like Molly, using like and stuff, stumbling on his thoughts.
“Molly came with me to the doctor. I went today.” I go to my purse on the desk near the laundry room and fumble around for the ultrasound pictures the technician took, holding them out for my brother to see.
Gingerly he takes them as if the papers are glass, as if he might break them, blinking down at the black and white images, my name WALLACE, TRUE in small print, up in the left-hand corner.
He blinks again, lashes fluttering.
Wet.
“Tripp, are you crying?”
He’s not—he can’t be.
“No.” He denies it like most men would.
But he is.
My brother is crying over my ultrasound photos, and it’s breaking my heart.
And if I wait much longer to tell Mateo, it’s going to be his heart breaking, too. Then mine all over again.
“I love you, True,” he croaks. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
I’m not happy, not really—but I want to be, someday.
I know what I have to do.
I just have to figure out a way to do it.
Six
Mateo
“So this girl…”
Ugh, here we go again.
Gloria has not let this subject go; she knows I’m interested in someone and she’s latched onto it like a barnacle on the bottom of a boat. Like she’s a matchmaker and it’s her job to see me happy and settled down with lots of Espinoza babie
s to add to la familia.
“Please don’t start, Glory. I have a headache.” My head flops to the headrest on my big, worn couch.
She snorts. “You always say that when you’re trying to get the attention off you and onto something else.”
“I do?”
“Sí, you do.” Her laughter is light and easy, good-natured because that’s how my youngest sister is. “Also, don’t be mad, but…”
I sit up straighter on my couch, head coming off the back, eyes focusing on Gloria. She’s up to something; I can feel it.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing?”
Little sisters are the worst.
And big sisters, and middle sisters.
“The girls are coming over.”
“What girls?”
“What girls, he says.” Gloria giggles. “Cami, Mari, Ana…”
The rest of our sisters? WHY?
“Ugh, why would you invite them over? Dammit, I was enjoying my peace and quiet.”
“I think you need cheering up.”
That makes me laugh. The last thing that’s going to cheer me up is my freaking sisters coming to my condo and getting deeper into my business than they already are. Camila will probably rearrange my kitchen drawers, Mariana will clean, Ana will sit on her phone and make snide comments.
“Sophia, too?”
“No, one of the kids has guitar lessons and the other one has basketball. It’s her night to be home with Dalia.”
Dalia is the actual baby of the family, just three years old.
“Well I don’t want to be harassed about my personal life tonight. I want to relax.”
“Ha! When does that ever happen?”
My shoulders sag. “Never.”
Glory busies herself in my kitchen opening the cartons of takeout she ordered and had delivered to my place, readying the food for our older sisters.
“If anyone asks about that Lillian from Aunt Zoila’s party, I’m going to lose it.”
“No one is going to ask—trust me, we all realized she wasn’t your type the second she walked in. Even Mami admitted it was a terrible match.”
Our mother had her say? “Mom didn’t like a schoolteacher? Why?”
Glory is folding napkins and stacking them neatly next to the chicken wings in a large cardboard container. “Thought she seemed boring. Not enough spunk.”
That’s true. That chick did seem boring.