Of course I have.

But not like this.

Jesus Christ, we haven’t been out once where she could get dressed up and put on a nice outfit and makeup and do her hair.

I’m a bastard. This is my fault.

Shit.

“Mateo, please sit down.”

Breathe, dude, in and out, out and in. Paper bag—someone get me a paper bag, I think I’m having a panic attack.

“¿Cómo pasó esto? Somos más inteligentes que esto,” I blurt out. How did this happen? We’re smarter than this.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m sorry.” True nervously peers up at me, face bright red from blushing.

It’s then that I remember who I am and plop myself back into my chair, the plate of food I was gorging on abandoned. It will probably never get eaten.

“Am I wrong?” I ask her.

Her head gives a tentative little shake. “No, you’re not wrong.”

And it might be the worst question in the fucking world to ask a woman, but I have to know. I have to say it.

“Is it…” Mine?

True’s eyes get wide before narrowing. “Yes.” Asshole.

Great, now she’s pissed. But in my damn defense, she just told me she’s pregnant and I’m the father and what the hell kind of reaction was she hoping for?

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…

“I realize this was an awful way to tell you, but honestly, I’ve been trying to decide what to say for weeks and realized there was no good way to go about it. And for a while, I wasn’t going to tell you at all—I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to…” She hesitates. “Ruin your life.”

Ruin my life? Is she for real right now? “How would a baby ruin my life?”

“I’m not saying that’s how I feel right now, but when I found out, I wasn’t in my right mind. I felt very alone and didn’t know what to do, and you don’t even know me! How could I have done this to you?”

Done this to me? “We were both in that room having sex at the same time,” I point out, attempting to be humorous and failing kind of miserably.

She doesn’t crack a smile.

“Hey.” Now I’m the one comforting her, finger hooking beneath her chin so I can look her in the eye. “Hey. You have me now.”

Her chin begins to wobble a little, lip quivering.

She squeezes her eyes shut as tears well out the sides.

“I’m sorry, Mateo.”

My arms go around her as she leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest, hair tickling my nose.

“Don’t be sorry.”

I mean—it may be a shock and it may suck that this was sprung on me, but I’m certainly in no position to let her take any blame.

“Los bebés son una bendición,” I whisper. “Babies are a blessing.”

Yes, my mother is going to spaz out, probably lose her mind. But once the shock wears off and the dust settles, she’ll be planning the baby shower and buying clothes and knitting shit, like blankets and christening gowns and booties and whatever else she knits.

Baby Espinoza.

Wallace-Espinoza?

Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

“Can I see?” I ask softly, one part terrified, the other part insatiably curious—she’s got to be hiding a bump under that pretty pink shirt, and I would like to see it.

True lifts her head, wiping her nose on my shirt. “See what?”

“The bump.”

“Oh.” She sniffs. “Sure.”

I expect her to pull the shirt up so I can see her stomach, but instead she stands and walks the twenty feet to the living room, standing in front of the couch.

I follow.

Sit on the couch in front of her and wait.

“This feels so weird.”

“Tell me about it,” I deadpan.

She quiets me with a death glare. “Do you want to see it or not?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll behave.”

Sheesh, hormonal much? She went from crying to blushing to snapping at me in three seconds. Damn, girl.

True’s hands wander to the hem of her shirt, undoing the bottom few buttons, and I watch, transfixed as she pushes each pearly button through its hole.

One.

Two.

Three.

She’s wearing regular jeans—not the maternity kind—her bump already straining the stretch of the denim, smooth and cute and mine.

Mine.

My baby.

Wow.

“Say something,” she demands self-consciously, so I pull my eyes away, glancing up to look at her.

“Can I touch it?”

I heard somewhere you’re never supposed to put your hands on a pregnant woman’s stomach or they might cut you—or maybe one of my sisters said that because they’re mean.

“Yes.”

Both my palms reach forward, splayed out and flat on her tummy, thumbs roaming over her belly button. Her skin is pale compared to mine, smooth.

True has a birthmark off to the right side, a quarter-size spot staining her skin that I trace with my forefinger. I didn’t notice it when we got naked in the hotel room, but I’m noticing everything about her now.

She’s still as beautiful as I remember, even more so.