“His shoulder!” Ali complained.
Kappy’s face faltered. “Ope, sorry. I just got excited.”
I sighed as I used my good hand to usher Ali into the house. “Excited about what?”
“You’re a meme for icks,” Kappy announced.
“Meme? Icks? What is he saying?” I asked Ali as I shrugged offmy coat. I couldn’t fully wear any of my jackets because of my stupid ass sling, and I refused to cut up any clothing for just a few weeks of use.
“They’re here!” Kappy yelled into the house before turning back to me. “I’m saying that the picture of Ali barfing on you is being used for girls to write their icks. Wait, here’s an example.” He shoved his phone at my face to show a picture of Ali barfing into the popcorn bucket on my lap. The text overtop read:When a guy wears skinny jeans. I swiped through the posts:When a guy is in love with his mommy. When a guy wears sandals. When a guy hasn’t washed his sheets in months.They went on and on and on.
“Great.” I tossed his phone back at his chest. “We’re a meme for icks,” I told Ali.
Ali walked straight into my chest and laughed against me. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I guess,” I said with an exaggerated sigh. But in secret, she could barf on me every day for the rest of my life if it meant I’d get to keep holding her.
She pulled back to tell me something, but her phone rang, distracting her. As soon as she pulled it out of her pocket, her face sobered. She stared at her phone as it kept ringing.
“Shouldn't you answer?”
She hesitated. “I guess I should.” She moved away from me, like she needed to put space between us for the call. “Hi mom,” she answered, giving me a sheepish look.
I gave her a small smile and moved further into the house, giving her the space she needed.
“I know, mom,” I heard Ali say gently.
In the kitchen, Mer was chatting away, but I couldn’t quite follow the conversation because I was worried about Ali. After a few minutes, I peeked in the hallway to check on her and hated what I saw. She was leaned up against the wall, her hand on her forehead, looking distressed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I heard her say before hanging up.
When she joined us in the kitchen, she immediately went to my side and stayed quiet, seemingly lost in thought as everyone talked around us.
I gave her a look, silently asking if everything was okay.
“That little jumbotron video really is making the rounds.” She bit her lip. “Even my mom saw it.”
“Okay,” I trailed off, trying to piece together why that would be a bad thing.
“She thought I was still on tour,” Ali explained. “She’s upset I didn’t tell anyone I was back. She wants me to come home for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh.” My eyebrows pulled together. I rubbed her back. If her mom thought she was still on tour, that meant… “You haven’t told your family you’re pregnant yet.” I didn’t have to ask, I knew from the worry on her face. For some reason, I thought she’d told them over the last couple weeks.
Her face crumpled before she covered it with her hands.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I hugged her into my chest. “Tell her we’ll go. I’d love to stop by Michigan. I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving in years because of hockey.”
She hesitantly looked up at me. “You’ll come?”
“Of course.” I brushed her hair behind her ear.
She nodded, but worry was still written all over her face. “Are you sure? We can just stay here. We don’t have to tell anyone.” She looked down at herself. “Or maybe I could hide it. You think I could?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. In the last week or so, it became pretty obvious. She was only four months pregnant, but she had two babies in there.
“You’re supposed to say yes.” She practically stomped her foot, making it hard not to laugh. She shot me a dark look to shut me up.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing her arms. “They’re going to find out, whether it’s next week or when the babies are here. I think they’ll be more upset if they don't find out until April.”
