My mother smirks. “I don’t think so. I know so.”
I’ve heard the story a thousand times, but it’s as entertaining this time as it ever was. More so, actually, because this time Sabrina’s the audience and she doesn’t believe in love. But Mom’s devotion to my father is unmistakable.
“John Senior, Tucker’s dad, admitted to it when I got pregnant with Tucker. He said he pulled the spark plug out of the car and that he got the idea from watching The Sound of Music with his mama. I even asked Bill—he’s the local mechanic—who confirmed that the only thing wrong with John’s car was a missing plug.”
“That’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”
I don’t miss the way Sabrina is pushing the salad around on her plate. For the most part, she’s done a good job of hiding her ongoing nervousness, but her lack of appetite is a dead giveaway. I make a mental note to fix up a plate for her after I take care of the dishes.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sabrina adds, her tone soft with sympathy.
“Thank you, sweetie.”
I smile to myself. Mom’s definitely thawed.
Sabrina turns to me. “How old were you when your father passed? Was it three or four?”
“Three,” I confirm, popping a potato chunk in my mouth.
“That’s so young.” She makes an absent pass of her hand along her stomach.
“You didn’t know?” Mom interjects, the chill back in her voice.
“No, I knew,” Sabrina fumbles. “I just forgot the exact age.”
“Have the two of you talked about anything important, or is it simply a physical thing? Because you certainly can’t raise a child on lust alone.”
“Mom,” I say sharply. “We’ve talked about important things.”
“Will you be living together? How will you share finances? Who will take care of your child when you’re in class?”
Sabrina gets a hunted look in her eyes. “I—I… My nana is helping out.”
“John says she’s reluctant. I’m not sure a reluctant caregiver is a good one.”
Sabrina aims a glare of betrayal in my direction.
“I said we didn’t know what kind of help she’d offer.” I lay down my fork. “It’ll all work out.” This is directed to both of them, but neither take it well.
“You can’t raise a child flying by the seat of your pants, John. I know you want to do the right thing. You always do, but in this case, if the two of you can’t take care of it, you should think about other options. Have you considered adoption?”
Sabrina’s face goes ashen at the implied insult that she’s not up to being a mother.
I reach for her. “Sabrina, it’s going to work out—”
But she’s already darting out of the kitchen, a sob catching in her throat as she mutters something that sounds like bathroom and sorry. Her feet slap against the wood floors as she moves faster than an eight-month pregnant woman should.
I jump out of my chair. “Sabrina—”
“Give her some time,” Mom says behind me.
A door slams, and I flinch at the sharp sound. I start for the doorway and then stop in the middle of the kitchen and spin around.
“Sabrina’s a good person,” I say gruffly. “And she’s going to make a good mother. And even if she was the worst, you’d still have to accept her because that kid in her stomach is half of me.”
This time it’s my mother’s face that blanches. “Is that a threat?” Her voice quivers.
I drag an agitated hand through my hair. “No. But there’s no need for us to be on opposite sides of the ice here. We’re all on the same team.”
Mom tilts her chin up defiantly. “That remains to be seen.”
I shake my head in disappointment before heading down the hallway to see if Sabrina is still talking to me.
Her eyes are red when she opens the bathroom door. “I’m sorry about running out like that.”
“It’s fine, darlin’.” I push her inside and shut the door behind me. She lets me gather her close—or as close as we can get with a bowling ball between us. “You’re going to be a great mom. I believe in you.”
Her body feels slight despite the weight she’s gained. “Don’t be mad at your mother,” she whispers against my chest. “She’s looking out for you. She wants what’s best for you. I know that.”
“She’ll come around.” But I sound a hell of a lot more confident than I feel.
31
Tucker
August
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Brody! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Right there, baby! Oh my Godddddddddd!”
Not even the full-blast TV volume can drown out the sex noises wafting out of Brody’s bedroom. If I had a pair of pliers on me, I’d rip my ears off so I wouldn’t have to listen to this anymore. Unfortunately, Brody doesn’t even own a toolbox—I found that out when I first moved in and looked around for tools to fix the leaky kitchen faucet with. Brody had shrugged and said, “Shit leaks, man. Life doesn’t always give you tools.”