Page 17 of Trusting You
“What? I stress eat.”
She taps her fingers against the laminate covered table. Unmanicured. Short, square nails. I’m used to seeing the sharpened, neon talons that have been leaving their marks on my back for months.
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” she asks.
I lose my grin. “I am, I promise. I have a bad habit of making light of tough situations.”
“That’s a terrible coping mechanism.”
I think of my father, then hold my hands up in a shrugging gesture. “Can’t help it. It’s inherited.”
She plays with the straw in her water. “Fine. Let’s pretend for a minute. I’ll cater to your inappropriate banter. Why did you want to meet me?”
“So soon after we met the first time, you mean?”
“It wasn’t the first time,” she says flatly.
Fuck. She’s right. There was at least one previous evening, in college, the night I apparently impregnated her best friend who has since died. She’s dead. I have to tread carefully because the sadness that emanates from Carter practically has a taste. It makes me uncomfortable and…sad for her. Like I want to do something about it and make her smile. And hell, I bet she has a smile that melts if she knows how to use it.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know how lame it sounds.
“You really don’t remember?”
Her eyes lift from the table, so big and round and vulnerable. They’re golden up close, and they catch me like a scope. I clear my throat. Look away.
“Sure, I remember.”
“Liar.”
“I do,” I say in defense. “All day, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out when I could’ve been so careless as to not wear protection with a girl. See, I don’t do that kind of shit.”
We both lean away so the waiter can place our drinks down, then I lean back in.
“I make sure, every time, that I suit up,” I say.
“Figures,” she scoffs, rolls her eyes.
I find the hairs on the back of my neck are skittering like I’m annoyed. “Okay, yeah, I sleep around, Carter. So, what? Point is, I don’t do it recklessly.”
“How many girls have you slept with?” She catches her bottom lip and picks up her cocktail. “Sorry. Not my business.”
“Maybe it is.”
She pauses with the straw between her teeth. “Excuse me?”
“Maybe it is your business,” I repeat. “You’re trying to figure out if the best place for a baby is with me.”
She has nothing to say to that. Probably because I agreed with her. I cover my twitch of a smile with a long pull from my bottle. I like getting to her.
“Answer is, a lot,” I say after I swallow. “I don’t know how many. And I don’t know how I got your girl pregnant. So we’ll wait on the paternity results for that.”
She opens her mouth to argue—
“Don’t hate me for being smart about this,” I say before she gains momentum. “I’m waiting for the confirmation.”
She closes her mouth. Thinks. “I understand. I wouldn’t go by my word alone, either. But does that mean…?”
I take this moment to finish half my beer and avoid thinking about being under her study. Like I have to pass her test to be considered a good guy.