He takes my elbow and I follow him toward a row of benches along the quad. “You seeing anyone?” I ask in the most casual voice I can muster.
He stops so abruptly that I nearly take a header on the cobblestones. He hauls me upright, planting both hands on my shoulders to orient me so I’m facing him.
“Are you kidding me with that?”
“You stopped texting me.” I hate the uncertainty in my voice.
His expression softens. “I’ve been giving you space.”
I force a shrug. “It’d be okay if you were.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, and the grip around my shoulders grows uncomfortably tight. Okay. I pegged that one wrong.
Finally, he sighs and pulls his sunglasses on. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.” Under his breath, I hear him mutter, “Apparently not even you.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “It wasn’t meant to be an insult. I just wanted you to know that this—” I wave my fingers in a circle around my belly “—shouldn’t be holding you back.”
His features tense again. “I need some food before we continue this conversation. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere private.” He doesn’t break stride even as he redirects us from the lecture hall toward the parking lot behind the building.
A number of people wave to him as we pass, but he doesn’t stop for any of them, nor does he talk to me. When we reach his pickup, he nudges me into the passenger side and then stares expectantly at me.
“What?” I mutter.
“Seatbelt.”
“I’ll do it when you get in the truck.”
“Now.”
“Is this because I asked if you were seeing anyone?”
The jaw muscle moves again. “No. It’s because you’re pregnant.” An eyebrow creeps above the rim of his sunglasses. “You still are, right?”
I flush. But I guess I deserved that. “Yes. I wouldn’t do anything without telling you first.”
“Good. Buckle your seatbelt.”
I do as he orders because it’s obvious we’re not moving an inch until he hears the click. Then I hold my hands out and say, “Okay?”
He nods and shuts the door.
We don’t say a word as he starts the truck and leaves the lot. He drives us about three miles away, where we pull to a stop in front of a small outdoor rink. The ice is melted, and instead of skaters, the rink is filled with picnic tables. Only a few people, none of them students, occupy the tables.
“Why don’t you grab a seat?” Tucker says as he helps me get out of the car. “Want anything to eat? Drink?”
“I’ll take a water.”
He heads off to the concession stand while I claim a table in the far corner, situating myself so I can watch Tucker stride across the pavement.
If I had to choose the father of my child, I couldn’t have done better than John Tucker. He’s gorgeous, tall, athletically gifted and smart. But most of all, he’s decent. No matter what happens in the future, he’ll never turn away from his kid. He’ll never make him or her feel unwanted. He’ll never threaten his or her life in any way. No matter what happens—even if I screw up, and I know I will—Tucker will be there to clean up my mess.
It’s because he’s so good and decent that this decision to keep the baby was so fucking difficult. If I’d gotten the abortion, I think he would have grieved, but now that I’m keeping it, his life will be forever changed. And it’ll be because of me.
I keep having to remind myself of that. I can’t rely on him too heavily or ask too much from him, because he’d give me everything without complaint. But I’m not a taker and I’m not a user. It would be so easy to fall in love with Tucker and allow him to take care of everything.
It would be easy. But not fair.
A minute later, he settles into his seat and pushes a water bottle across the table. He bought himself a hot dog and a coffee, and neither of us speak as he quickly inhales his food. Once he’s done, he balls up his napkin and shoves it in the empty hot dog container. He tucks his sunglasses into his neckline, curves his large, capable hands around his coffee cup, and then waits. It’s my show.
I lick my lips once, twice, and then just go for it. “I’m keeping the baby.”
His eyes flutter shut, hiding whatever emotion that washes over him. Relief? Fear? Unhappiness? When he flicks his lids up, his gaze is clear and expressionless. “How can I help?”
A reluctant smile surfaces. Such a Tucker thing to say. Which reinforces my resolve to make sure that he suffers almost no burden and that he’s free to find whomever or whatever he wants in the future. The minute that he wants out, I won’t fight it.
“I’m good for now. I actually have insurance through my postal job. I’ve been working there since I graduated from high school. I used to grumble about my health premium since I never used it, but now it’s coming in handy.”