“I do.”
He lets out a heavy breath. “You should tell him.”
“No.” I swallow. “And you’re not going to tell him either.”
“He needs to know—”
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I mean it, Dean. Don’t say anything to him. You owe me.”
Humor flickers in his eyes. “How do you figure?”
I jut out my chin. “You didn’t deserve that A in Statistics sophomore year.”
“Ah. So keeping my mouth shut is my punishment for the undeserved grade?”
“So you admit it was undeserved!”
“Of course it was.” His tone becomes pained. “Trust me, I did everything I could to try to get the professor to fail me.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. After I aced that project we teamed up on and you only got a B, I realized the TA was fucking around with my grades. I asked the prof to go over all my tests and papers, and turns out I was supposed to be failing.”
“Oh my God. I knew it.” Though I don’t feel as smug about it as I thought I would. My beef with Dean suddenly feels incredibly unimportant. And, like he said, as if it happened a million years ago.
“Well, I didn’t,” he says frankly. “I know you think I was boning the TA for the grades—” He flashes a grin, “—but I was boning her because she had a great rack and the sweetest ass.”
I pretend to gag before going serious. “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”
He snickers. “Because we’re not friends.”
I snicker back. “True.” I mull something over. “But maybe we should call a ceasefire.”
“Jesus. Has hell frozen over?”
Embarrassment tickles my belly. “You’re one of Tucker’s best friends. I’m about to have his kid. It makes sense for us to try to co-exist.”
“Makes sense,” he agrees.
Dean hops off the floor and holds out a hand.
I hesitate for only a second before allowing him to help me to my feet. “Thanks.”
An awkward silence stretches between us, which I don’t try to fill by talking. I’m still not convinced that Dean isn’t a superficial playboy, and I’m sure a part of him still thinks I’m a bitch. But the hostility is gone, and even though we’re never going to be best buds, I know Tucker will appreciate it if I make an effort to get along with Dean.
It’s the least I can do, considering how much Tucker has already sacrificed for me.
29
Sabrina
June
“Holy crap, babies need a lot of shit.” Carin staggers into my bedroom loaded with three bags. “I think your incoming babelette has more gear than Hope.”
“Not possible,” says Hope’s boyfriend, who we corralled into picking up a crib I found at a garage sale over in Dunham.
He and Tucker muscle the pieces inside and look around at the small space.
“You going to fit everything in here?” D’Andre asks dubiously.
I rub a hand over my belly. Nothing seems to fit anymore. Not my clothes. Not my shoes. And now, not the crib. My bedroom is big enough for a desk and a bed but not a desk and a bed and a crib.
I sigh. “I guess the desk is going to have to go.”
Tucker keeps his mouth shut, but I see frustration flare briefly in his eyes. We’ve been over this before. He wants me to move out, but I refuse to.
We’ve settled into a nice routine this past month, in which I’ve been doing exactly what I told Dean I would do—trying to make life as easy as possible for Tuck.
I don’t ask him for anything. I won’t let him pay for or even split the cost of all the baby stuff I’m buying. I don’t call him in the middle of the night when the baby kicks me awake and my back is throbbing. And I’m definitely not going to commit to an apartment with him. I’d never be able to afford anything decent and I need to pay my way or this is never going to work.
Still, asking John Tucker not to help out is like asking the sun not to rise. He comes to my doctor’s appointments, rubs my back and feet every time we’re on the couch together, has read as many baby books as we can get our hands on, and is always picking me up little snacks—a pint of cookie dough ice cream, a bag of double-stuff Oreos, a jar of olives. I’ve started to keep my random cravings to myself, because if I even hint that something sounds enticing, Tucker’s in his truck on his way to the grocery store.
“Where are you going to study?” Carin asks in alarm.
D’Andre grunts and tries to re-adjust his grip on the crib.
“Out in the kitchen,” I answer. Pointing to the closet door, I ask the guys to set the pieces down. “Over there, and then I guess we’ll put this desk out on the curb and hope someone picks it up.”
As the two men maneuver the crib parts into the room, I start cleaning out the desk drawers, dumping papers on the bed. Carin hops over to help.