He smiles at me, closing the gap to kiss me on the nose and brush a strand of hair from my perspiring forehead. “We have plenty of time to make up for it.”

“Ha.” I laugh. “What, a few weeks? When do you leave town?”

It seems as if the blood drains from his face—expression falling, mouth downturned into a sour countenance as reality sets in.

He will not be here in a few weeks.

“Shit. Fuck. I’m leaving for Arizona!” He abruptly rolls in the opposite direction to climb off the bed and start pacing the floor for a second time tonight. “I can’t just leave you here—what am I going to do?”

His arms flop, and I try not to stare at his dick.

“Leave me where? Your condo?” I’m confused, and he’s frantic, and I’m not sure I’m following his rant. “Here?”

“Here,” he repeats, frustration lacing his tone. “In Chicago, while I’m gone. What if something happens to you or the baby?”

Me or the baby.

That’s the first time I’ve heard those words strung together in a sentence, and I don’t hate hearing them.

He stares at me. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

My head shakes. “Now you’re talking crazy.”

Not go to spring training? Not go to work?

Baseball is his job, not his damn hobby. What the heck is he rambling on about?

He’d be fired if he didn’t show up.

Or heavily fined.

Or traded.

Or become a laughingstock in the industry—I can see the headline now:

JOSÉ ESPINOZA OF THE CHICAGO STEAM STAYS BEHIND TO BE FIRED BECAUSE OF THE UNPLANNED PREGNANCY OF TRUE WALLACE, OF THE WALLACE SPORTS DYNASTY.

Sports dynasty? That thought makes me snort.

Mateo is not staying behind in Illinois, not because of me.

I watch him from my spot on the bed as he dramatically paces, covers pulled up past my breasts, hair falling over my bare shoulders.

Luckily, I grew up with two overdramatic siblings, both of whom used to throw temper tantrums on the regular. For example, when Buzz was a senior in high school, he got fourteen full-ride scholarship offers to play baseball at various colleges and universities around the United States.

The decision—which school’s offer to accept—was insurmountable. He simply could not choose.

So he threatened that he wasn’t going to accept any of the offers—not a one. He flipped his shit, told my parents he was never going to college, was going to find a job and work and coach little league, end of story.

Mateo pacing the carpeted bedroom floor is no big shocker, and I know just how to handle it.

I find my most soothing voice. “Mateo, it’s fine—you won’t even be gone that long.” I speak with authority. “You’ll be back soon enough. It’s not the end of the world.”

What is it, one month?

Two?

I can never remember how long my brother Buzz is gone, only that he leaves and I’ve occasionally gone to visit him to mooch on his backyard. Free pool time, free food, fun and sun and cute boys.

Mateo isn’t listening. He gets to the end of the room and spins around, pivoting on his heels. “Come with me.”

“Go with you? To Arizona?”

“Yes.”

I nibble at my bottom lip. He wants me to go to Arizona with him? I mean, technically I could; I am homeless, after all, and squatting with my brother. And yes, I can travel and take my computer for work—that’s not an issue.

But…go with him? I hardly know him.

“I don’t know, Mateo…”

It’s too soon, isn’t it? Too soon to hop on a plane and follow a man to a different city?

The bump in my stomach rolls its eyes, a not-so-subtle reminder that I wasn’t worried about knowing him when I let him have sex with me a few months ago, and I definitely wasn’t worried about not knowing him well enough when I let him go down on me just now.

Sorry, little baby, Mommy is a hypocrite.

“It’s only for a month. Please just think about it. I spent all this time not knowing you were pregnant, and I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you and watch the bump get bigger—is that weird? I don’t want to FaceTime you and see you in a month and lose more time. Please think about it.” He’s rambling and repeating himself. “You must think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.”

It actually does sound like the perfect plan, and I really don’t have anything going on in my life that would prevent me from leaving Chicago. But I’ve never been impulsive—if you don’t count the one-night stand we had. Which I do not. Does sex even count as impulsive?

Pfft.

The poor man gives me a pathetic smile, which has me patting the bed to make room for him beside me—like a mother might do for a child.

“Come here.”

He comes to me, crawling back onto the mattress and settling in, head automatically going to my lap so I can stroke his hair.