She laughed, soft and low, rubbing the back of her neck like she was trying not to look too pleased with herself. There was nohiding the pride in her eyes . . . or the glint of something else—concern, maybe—once she took in the nearly empty bowl in my lap and the way I was clinging to my spoon like it might help me fend off reality.
“Did I interrupt a . . . party?” she asked gently, nodding toward my briny ice cream soup.
“More like a . . . meltdown,” I muttered.
Nessa arched her brow and leaned against the counter, close enough that I could smell her signature vanilla lotion beneath the remnants of sleep and sex. “Everything okay?”
And just like that, the mood shifted. The casual banter between us dissipated, leaving behind an aftertaste that was neither sweet nor pickle-y. This was it, the moment I had been dreading all day. But there was no point denying the obvious any longer. It was time to put on my big-girl panties—preferably the purple cotton ones with skulls—and get this over with.
The test was still in the pocket of myScooby-Doopajama pants, tucked beside a crumpled tissue and antacid. I pulled out the offensive piece of plastic and tossed it onto the counter, watching it slide across the white quartz until it skidded to a stop next to the still-open pickle jar.
Ness looked down at it, then up at me, then back down, as if the word blinking up at us like a small, digital billboard might change any second. Maybe if we stared at it long enough, it would.
“That’s a pregnancy test.”
Wordlessly, I reached into my other pocket and pulled out the others—all three of them.
Her jaw dropped a little. “That’s a wholelotof pregnancy tests.”
“Well, I’m a whole lot pregnant.”
She let out a weird little puff of laughter that was one part disbelief and two parts trying not to ask too many questions at once.
At least now we were on the same page.
“When did you— How did you— Who did you?”
I choked back a laugh. “You’re lucky we speak the same language.”
That language beingDa Fuck?!?
“And to answer your questions,” I said calmly, finally accepting my fate. “I just found out today. As for how, assuming my guesstimation is correct, that would be up against the wall outside your brother’s bar. Is that specific enough for you?”
The furrowing of her brows told me she was too busy doing the mental math to register my snarky response. “Andwho?”
That was the million-dollar, hormone-fueled question—a curious case for Velma, Shaggy, and the rest of the Mystery Gang. The case of abumpin the road.
Only, this mystery wasn’t so mysterious after all. There had only been one man in my bed for months now, and judging by the sudden widening of Nessa’s grayish green eyes, she knew as well as I did who was to blame for my . . . situation.
“Who, Dani?”
I swirled my spoon through the sweet sludge in the bottom of my bowl, avoiding her glare.
“Don’t you dare hide behind Ben and Jerry.” She reached over, snatched the dish out of my hands, and plopped it on the counter with a dramatic thunk. “Talk.”
I sighed, long and slow. “It’s Brooks.”
Nessa blinked. “Brooks Bailey-Ward?”
“The one and only.”
But that wasn’t true. Brooks Bailey-Ward—myBrooks Bailey-Ward, though I had never, and would never, refer to him as suchin public—was in fact, thethirdin a line of professional-baseball stars-turned-coaches.
And I might be carrying the fourth.
Fuck, that was a sobering thought.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.”
