I sigh heavily. “But no one can know, Abby. I’m serious. This is bad for me.”
She winces and I feel like an asshole.
“I just…” I curse under my breath and pace the space in front of her. “I’m with Angela. If she knew about what happened…about the baby…”
“She’d leave you in a heartbeat.” She laughs bitterly. “We must protect sweet Angela.”
“It’s not that simple and you know it.” I shake my head and point to the door. “I’m going to make us something to eat.”
I leave before we can get into an argument. As I start pulling out stuff to make grilled cheese sandwiches, my phone buzzes.
Angela: Where are you?
Me: Riko’s. Why?
Angela: Want to go to lunch?
I wait to respond and get the bread buttered. Once I have it cooking in the pan, I reply back.
Me: I’m busy. I can stop by later.
Angela: You’re busy a lot lately. Everything okay?
Nope. Nothing is okay. I’m making my secret baby momma a grilled cheese sandwich in the place I’m renting for her.
Me: It’s fine. Promise.
Liar.
“That actually smells really good,” Abby says from behind me. “Angela’s blowing up your phone?”
I shove my phone in my pocket, irritated that she knows that without having to see the texts. “Reid is the landlord. I put his card on the kitchen table. If you need him to fix something, call him.”
Abby doesn’t say anything as she peeks into cabinets. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I’m not an asshole, Abs.”
She laughs. “You have your moments. But this isn’t one of them.”
While I plate up the sandwiches, she opens the fridge. When I hear the tab of a beer being popped off, I whirl around in shock.
“What? Are these not for me?” Her eyes dance wickedly in the taunting way that got me in epic trouble once before.
“You’re hilarious,” I grumble. “I figured I should have some shit for me too since I’ll be checking in on you a lot.”
She nods and then grabs a bottle of water for herself. Once we’re seated at the kitchen table, I’m suddenly aware of how domestic the whole scene is.
“You’re going to go to my doctor’s appointments with me?” she asks, eyebrows furling together. “You don’t have to.”
“Someone has to pay for them.”
It’s a mean thing to say, but it comes out before I can stop it.
“You can just write the check, asshole,” she snaps. “You don’t have to put on all these special touches like you’re trying to impress me.”
A grilled cheese sandwich impresses her? The girl needs to get out more.
As soon as the thought of her going out with friends or guys plays through my head, I immediately retract it. Party time is over. She’s a mother now. Or so she says.
