“Will you at least give me a hint?”

Should I give him a hint? I want to.

Keeping this secret has become a burden I don’t think I can bear much longer. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Just one,” he cajoles, pushing.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“Not a word,” he promises with his pinky out. “To anyone.” Except Chandler, the unspoken words form a thought bubble above his head. There are no secrets when you love someone.

“We can’t tell Buzz because…” God, I can’t even say it. Can’t finish the sentence, but it seems I don’t have to, because Tripp Wallace is no moron.

He’s able to finish it for me.

“You can’t tell Buzz because he’s friends with the guy.” It’s not a question, but a statement—one he’s not done finishing. “Dare I say they’re…teammates?”

I’m too uncomfortable to nod.

“And you hooked up at the wedding.”

“Would you stop? Just stop, okay? Yes. But I don’t want to hear it!”

Tripp isn’t letting me off that easy. “You’re being really fucking immature about this, True. First you lie, now you don’t want me to say the truth out loud? Deal with it. You’re a big girl—it’s time to put on your big girl pants.”

“Is snot coming out of my nose?” I sniffle into the air theatrically, needing a tissue.

“Um, no,” my brother intones. “That would be fucking disgusting.”

He goes to the sink, bringing plates along with him, stacking them neatly to the side to be loaded into the dishwasher later. His profile is hard and unyielding, jaw clenched.

“You know Buzz is going to flip his shit, don’t you?”

“Duh,” I smart back. “Why do you think I’m hiding out here?”

“Aha! So that’s the reason you chose this place over his—you’re being a pussy!”

Molly gasps. “I don’t think you can call a pregnant woman a pussy, Mr. Wallace. It seems super tacky.”

“Shit. You’re right. I’m so sorry—please don’t tell Mom.”

Don’t tell Mom. If I had a dollar for every time that phrase was uttered by one of the Wallace three, I’d have enough money to build my own house from the ground up. Even as adults, we care what our mother thinks about our behavior, just as we cared about her opinion as children.

You’re never too old to be parented.

And now I’m going to be a mother, too.

“The only reason I didn’t want to stay with Buzz is because he’s a pain in the ass, and when I have morning sickness, I want to be left in peace. He isn’t working right now, and God, I can’t imagine how he would hover. He would drive me insane.”

“Sure, sure.” Tripp isn’t buying it.

“And…there’s the matter of Little Peanut’s dad.” I rub my palm around my belly affectionately, realizing—

Dad.

I just called Mateo Dad, which makes me feel terrible all over again, tears welling up in my eyes.

Shoot.

I swipe them away with a finger.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

“Yeah, sis, I don’t think you’re going to last long. So, who are you going to tell first? Buzz or the baby daddy?”

“Don’t call him that!” I shoot back defensively. “It’s not his fault.”

“I mean…technically it is his fault.”

Ew.

Gross.

“Could you not?”

Tripp laughs, tipping his head back. “I guess we know you know where babies come from but not how to prevent them from happening.”

“Oh my god, shut up!”

I can hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head: True Hazel Wallace, we do not tell our brothers to shut up.

“La la la, I don’t need to hear this.” Molly has her hands up covering her ears like muffs, blocking out the sound of our banter, clearly horrified by the subject matter. “Maybe I should get home—I have homework.”

“Oh you do not.” Tripp scowls. “But get home anyway. True and I should talk in private.”

Ugh! I don’t want to talk in private!

But Molly is already sliding her shoes on, heading toward the door, giving us both a pitiful little wave, that look you make when you’re asked to leave the party early.

The door closes behind her and I’m alone with my oldest brother, dread seeping throughout my entire body.

“Who is it?”

“You said I only had to give you a hint.” My attempt at humor is lost on Tripp.

“Who is it, True?” He isn’t playing around, dark eyes black with anger. “I won’t tell Buzz—that’s your job—but I want to know who in the hell got my sister pregnant or I swear to god, I will call every son of a bitch on that Steam roster until I find him myself.”

He wouldn’t actually do that, would he?

“You don’t have time for that,” I joke.

“We are not leaving this kitchen until you give me a name.”

We are at a standstill, a veritable battle of wills, the kind we had when we were kids, only those usually took the form of a staring contest. Or thumb war. Or some other ridiculous contest to see who would back down first.