“Don’t ever use sex as a way to control me,” he says quietly. Then his arm wraps around me again. This time, it’s me who pulls back. He scowls and follows me when I go to sit in an empty seat. He slides in beside me so I shove myself up against the window. He’s big, though, and he takes up all the seat on his side and some of mine. “Don’t run from me, either,” he says. “I’ll always chase. Until you tell me you don’t want me to.”
I start to tick items off on my fingers. “So, I can’t f**king play with you. I can’t run from you. And I can’t use sex to control you.” I throw my hands up. “Why don’t you just give me the whole list now?” I ask. “What else can I not do?”
He leans close and pushes my hair back from my nape with gentle fingers. His hand cups the back of my neck, and he talks quietly in my ear. “You can’t use sexy tricks to get away from my questions. I asked you what was wrong when we left the doctor’s office because you looked like something was bothering you. I wanted to know what it was, and you evaded my question with sexy innuendos and grabby little fingers. Don’t get me wrong. I want you to f**king grab every part of me, particularly my dick grabbed by your pu**y with you on top.” He smiles when the hair on my arms stands up. “But if you can’t answer a simple question like ‘What’s wrong?’ then we have bigger problems than I thought. So, let’s try again. What’s wrong, Friday?”
“What makes you think something is wrong?” I ask, my voice quaky.
“Because I know you. I f**king know you, and I know when something is wrong.”
“What’s my tell?” I ask. Because now I’m curious.
“Stop it,” he growls. “I’m not going to let you change the subject.”
I want to say the words out loud. I want to say them so badly. But they get stuck in my throat. “Nothing is wrong,” I say. I shove his hand from where it’s still clasping the back of my neck.
“Don’t lie to me.” He doesn’t look angry. He looks…hurt? What the f**k is that about?
“I don’t know what you want me to say!” I cry. People turn and look at us, and I bring my voice down to a level that won’t call dogs from all areas. “I don’t know what you want,” I hiss.
“Are you happy that you’re pregnant?” he asks, sitting back and crossing his arms so he can stare me down.
“Of course, I’m happy,” I scoff.
“Not happy for Garrett and Cody. Are you happy to be pregnant? You, Friday. Just you.”
Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them furiously, trying to prevent the warm puddles from falling down my cheeks. If they fall, I’ve failed. I’ve shown weakness. I can’t allow that.
“Fucking hormones,” I say.
He chuckles. “You’ve been pregnant for all of a week,” he says. “You had better get used to it.”
“I don’t cry,” I say quietly. “I never, ever cry. Ever.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t let people get close enough to make me weak. “Because I don’t want to.”
“You don’t do anything you don’t want to do, right?” he asks. His eyes narrow.
“Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you did?”
I suck in a breath. My stomach is roiling.
“Friday,” he sings.
“Why the interrogation, Paul?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs. “Fuck you.”
A grin tugs at my lips. I turn and stare out the window at the graffiti going by. The last time I cried was over him. It was over the baby I gave away. And I swore I would never let anyone else make me that vulnerable ever again. But I can’t tell Paul that.
“I like being pregnant,” I say. I smile at him and force out a giggle.
“Great, now you’re going to pretend to be f**king Pollyanna.” He throws up his hands.
“Stop prying,” I warn. I frown at him. “Stop f**king trying to dig into my psyche. It doesn’t like visitors. It likes its solitude. It likes the cobwebs in the f**king attic, so stop trying to clean them up.”
“Tell me something true,” he urges. “One thing.” He holds up a single finger. “Just one.”
“That was the truth.” I lay a hand on my stomach, and Paul looks down at it. “I f**king love being pregnant. I love that a life is growing inside me. I love that Cody and Garrett are going to be parents and that I get to cook their baby for nine months. It makes me so happy I could spin around and make rainbows from Skittles and shit. Shake the f**king Skittle tree and a rainbow will fall out, that’s how happy I am.”
“Thank you.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just crosses his feet in front of him and stares down at them.
“Fuck you, Paul.”
“Fuck you, Friday.”
“I’m not lying about that,” I whisper-shout at him. “I do love being pregnant. I love it this time, and I loved it the last time. I loved it all the way up until I f**king gave him away. Is that what you wanted to f**king hear? Is that what you want to hear, Paul?” I stand up as the subway car slows down. “I love being pregnant,” I hiss in his ear. He flinches. “I get to give birth to another baby that isn’t mine. Only this time, I can check up on him to be sure he’s all right.”