Page 23 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“There was never a Freddy,” I correct, words tumbling faster now that they’re loose. “It was—a panic answer. Yesterday. You asked if the baby wasn’t yours and I heard—and Iremembered—you saying you don’t do complicated, and this is… every kind of complicated. And I didn’t want to be the person who dropped a grenade into your life in a fluorescent baby store with a donut in my hand.”
His face doesn’t change much, but something tight in the set of his mouth eases a millimeter. He doesn’t speak, and the silent patience is worse than any reaction I rehearsed in my head. I keep going, because if I stop I won’t start again.
“I should’ve told you months ago,” I say, hating how raw my voice sounds. “You called. I saw it. I just… froze. I told myself I could do this alone—Icando this alone—but that wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth is I was scared to need you. I was scared to be wrong about you. I was scared to berightabout you and then have to miss you when you left again.”
Tears press hot behind my eyes. I blink them back because I want to see him clearly when this lands.
“The baby is yours,” I say simply. “You’re the father.”
For a long second, he doesn’t move. No sound but the soft hum of my fridge and the whisper of traffic five floors down. His thumb shifts, barely, over the back of my hand. The smallest stroke. The baby kicks again, firm and insistent, like they want in on the conversation. On instinct, I lift our linked hands and press them against the round of my belly.
“Hi,” I whisper, to both of them, to the universe, to the terrifying relief of truth. “This is Daddy.”
Lucas’s jaw works once. Twice. His eyes are steady on mine, stormy and unreadable and suddenly sofullI can’t breathe around it.
He’s silent.
And every possible future crowds the room, waiting for the next word.
9
Lucas
I’ve always been good under pressure. Door breaches. Mid-air reroutes. The moment the plan meets the punch. My brain loves a crisis—everything sharp, quiet, aligned.
But the bomb Melanie just dropped in my lap doesn’t behave like any I’ve trained for.
The baby is yours. You’re the father.
I suspected. The math kept scratching at the inside of my skull. But hearing it out loud—hearing her sayDaddyand guiding our linked hands to the warm weight of her belly—hits like a concussive wave. My chest goes tight. My vision tunnels for a beat around her face.
I don’t know if I should laugh or swear or break something that isn’t mine. I don’t know if I should be furious she didn’t tell me sooner, or grateful she told me at all. Part of me wants to stand up and pace the perimeter until the floorboards learn my name. An equal part wants to lean in and kiss her until the world stops making noise.
She’s watching me. Waiting. Reading my silence like it’s a verdict.
I’m still trying to assemble a sentence when her shoulders inch up and her mouth firms with the kind of resolve you use to walk into a storm.
“I’m tired,” she says, and the softness in it hurts more than sharp would. “You should go.”
“Mel—” My voice rakes raw. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her jaw ticks. The hand not holding mine goes protectively to her belly. “You should. It’s late.”
“I want to be part of this,” I say, words finding a path because nothing else matters. “Part ofthem.Part of your life. I don’t want?—”
“Lucas.” She cuts me off without raising her voice. “Just because the baby is yours doesn’t meanweare anything.”
It’s a clean shot. I take it to the ribs. And it fucking hurts.
She keeps going, eyes bright, chin steady. “I can do this on my own. I’ve been planning to. You can know the child—obviously. I won’t keep you from your kid. But that’s it.”
“That’s not—” My hands flex against hers and she slips free, rising to her feet. The sudden emptiness in my palm stings.
“You can be involved,” she says, and now she does sound tired. Not the sleep kind. The decision kind. “Weekend father. Holidays. School plays. Whatever works with your job.”
Weekend father.The phrase hits like gravel in my mouth. I feel the fight flare up inside me. My temper has a long leash, and yet, it still yanks hard.
“I’m not a visitor,” I say, standing too. It comes out rougher than I intend. “I don’t clock in for photo ops.”
