Wolfie
"We need to talk."
Never in my life did I think those words would be directed at me from another man. But when I emerge from my bedroom early Sunday morning, that's the first thing out of Connor's mouth. He's leaning against the kitchen counter with a stern frown on his face, already dressed for the day, despite the hour.
I reach inside my athletic shorts to scratch my balls and make my way toward him. I'd say the early-bird routine is out of character for him, but lately, acting strange seems to be my roommate's new normal.
"Are we breaking up?" I smirk at my own joke, stalking past him to flip on the coffee maker.
But Connor doesn't so much as crack a smile. "Knock it off, dude. I'm serious."
Damn. Normally he's the funny guy, not me. Whatever this role-reversal shit is, I don't like it.
I rub the sleep from my eyes with the back of my hand, assessing the kitchen for last night's damage. A few empty cans here, a couple paper plates crusted with cake there. We've done worse. Definitely not the kind of mess that warrants an argument this early in the morning.
"If it's about the kitchen, I'm planning to clean up." I grab a can off the counter, give it a quick shake to verify that it's empty, then lob it into the recycling bin with a crash. "Sorry. Was too tired last night."
"It's not about the kitchen," he grumbles through clenched teeth. "It's about the whole apartment."
I scoff. "You're as capable of cleaning as I am, birthday boy."
The coffee maker beeps like a ref calling a penalty on this petty argument, and I grab each of us a mug from the cabinet. This motherfucker must need caffeine in a bad way. But an IV drip of espresso injected straight into my veins wouldn't wake me up nearly as fast as the next words out of Connor's mouth.
"I'm moving out, Wolfie. I'm having a kid."
The next few seconds are sort of a blur. Both mugs slip from my hands, and I watch them fall to the floor in what feels like slow motion, shattering on the tile and sending jagged shards and hot coffee bleeding across the floor. "Fucking shit."
I grab a fistful of dish rags and throw them on the mess., but they're nothing more than a temporary bandage to slap on the situation. There's a bigger crisis that needs my attention right now-the shitstorm my best friend just rained down on me in two fucking sentences.
"What the hell are you talking about, Connor?"
He sighs, one hand steadily working a knot out of the back of his neck. "Do you remember Beth?"
Who? A quick flip through my mental Rolodex of girls he's brought home yields zero results.
"Sorry." I shake my head. "Doesn't ring a bell."
"Shit. No one seems to remember her," he says, using the side of his shoe to kick a piece of broken coffee mug toward the epicenter of the mess. "Hell, I might've forgotten about her myself. You know, if not for a little thing called a pregnancy test. She's six months along. It's a girl."
Slowly, the pieces start to fall into place. Selling his motorcycle, and the fact that he's been acting like the walking dead for the last few days. The dude has practically handed me a bouquet of red flags. Still, I couldn't have guessed that this is what's had him so off-kilter.
"So you're gonna be involved then?" I pause, then tack on, "As her dad?" I guess I'll need to get used to using that word to describe him. Connor Blake. A dad.
"Yup. We're talking about sharing custody."
The more Connor talks about it, the more his features start to loosen up. I swear I even spot the threat of a smile pulling at his lips. He doesn't seem nearly as bent out of shape about being a dad as he was about keeping this thing a secret.
"You should come scope out this house with me." He digs his phone from his pocket and pulls up a real estate listing, turning his screen toward me. "Three bedrooms. It's out in Oak Park."
I whistle through my teeth, taking in the pale gray brick facade and black shutters. It's like a snapshot out of Better Homes and Gardens. "Damn, you come up on thirty years old and suddenly you're moving to the suburbs?"
He rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone before backhanding my shoulder. I probably deserve that.
"Shut up, dude. It's like thirty minutes away. It's barely out of the city limits."
We spend the next half hour cleaning up the spilled coffee and broken mugs, all the while chatting about Connor's plans for decorating a nursery. I never thought I'd hear my best friend get so stoked about cribs and car seats and all their safety features, but he's clearly been doing his research. By the time we have the kitchen in pre-party condition, he's yammering on like his normal self, the zombie I've been dealing with a distant memory.
"So, yeah, that's the plan," he says, bagging up the last of the party trash. "New place, a baby daughter, the works. Things are changing."
"Sounds like you'll be a damn good dad."
Connor's smile is wide and genuine. "Thanks. I'd like to think so. I mean, hell, I'm a good-as-fuck older brother to Penelope, right? Hopefully there's some carryover."
Just the mention of Penelope makes a knot form in the pit in my stomach.
Fuck. That's right.
In the midst of this little heart-to-heart, I almost forgot who I'm talking to. Connor. Penelope's older brother. And he is a good older brother, like he said. Except that most good older brothers would never let their sisters get mixed up with a guy like me.
And while he's been spilling his guts like I'm his damn therapist, I've been anything but honest with him for weeks. I'm not sure what's worse, a hypocrite or a liar, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm both.
"Speaking of Penelope," Connor says, interrupting my shame spiral. "She's the only other person besides you who knows so far. And Beth, of course, and anyone she's told. But don't go spilling to the guys yet. I'm not ready to hear a whole bunch of opinions on it."
"All good," I say, choking out my response through the guilt rising in my throat. "Take your time."
"Thanks, dude." He smiles, clapping me on the shoulder. "You're the best."
Too bad I feel like the fucking worst.
With the kitchen cleaned up, Connor disappears to his room to hop on a call with his real estate agent, so I head for the shower to try to scrub some of this shame off me. Unfortunately, it's a bit more than skin deep. I keep the faucet turned cold, shuddering against the reality I've created for myself, the reality I desperately need to escape.
By the time I shut it off and step out, I know what I have to do. There's only one way I'm going to stop my stomach from churning, and it starts with calling Penelope.
"Hey there, hot stuff." Her voice is cheery and sweet on the other end of the line.
Usually, I'd think that hot stuff nickname is cute, but right now, it produces instant nausea. Better cut right to the chase.
"Can I come over?" I ask gruffly.
"Duh," she says with a laugh. "But only if you bring over my cake stand. I think I left it there last night."
Perfect. A decent excuse to go over there without having to lie to my roommate again.
"Sure," I grunt. "Be there in half an hour."
I throw on whatever clean clothes are at the top of my hamper, then grab the cake stand and head for my car. Traffic is light on Lake Shore Drive, which is a once-in-a-blue-moon miracle on a weekend. Nice of the universe to let me have one good thing today.
I'm at Penelope's apartment in record time, and she buzzes me in, greeting me at the door as I come up the stairs. A slouchy gray pajama shirt hangs off her petite frame, covering up most of the tiny sleep shorts she has on underneath them.
God, who gave her the right to look so cute first thing in the morning? Especially right now, of all times.
"Yay, you brought it!" She takes the round dish, then presses up on her tiptoes, leaning in for a kiss, which I barely dodge. It's a shrewd move that instantly makes her pretty blue eyes cloud over with worry. "What's wrong?"
"A lot is wrong," I grumble. "Your brother is gonna be a dad."
Her brows shoot up to her hairline, a hint of a smile ticking at the corner of her mouth. "So he told you? Here, come inside. Let's talk."
She steps back from her door frame, but I keep my feet firmly planted where I stand. I need to keep this short and sweet. Well, as sweet as something so bitter can be.
"Listen, Penelope. We need to talk." I feel like such a jackass parroting Connor's words from this morning, but they're the first that come to mind.
Her reaction isn't as lighthearted as mine was this morning. Her brows furrow into a tight V, her lips parting just enough to make me wish I could kiss the confusion right off her face. But I won't. I can't. I came here on a mission, and I'm not going to fail.
"Talk? About what? Please, just come inside," she says, reaching for my hand.
But I pull back, like she'd be hot to touch. And in some ways, she would be. I know how warm and sweet her hand feels in mine. I can't go there right now. Not with her. Not again.
"We have to stop this," I say curtly, dodging her gaze.
"Stop what?"
I gesture to what's left of the space between us. "This. All of this."
Penelope takes a tentative step toward me, chewing nervously on her lower lip. "If you don't want to keep secrets, we could always tell Con-"
I hold up a hand, stopping her where she is. I can't let her get any closer. Not physically, not emotionally, not at all. Her friendship is one thing, but this is headed down a trajectory I can't go down.
"But what about Friday?" she says, frowning. "When you showed me the neighborhood you grew up in, and we . . . we . . ."
She won't say it, but I don't need her to. I know what happened. We had sex. After I told her I don't sleep with people just for the sake of getting off. I told her that physical shit means more to me. And now I'm going back on my word.
Way to fucking go, Cox.
"Friday was a mistake." The words are directed more at the floor than Penelope. "We can't keep making mistakes on purpose."
When I pull my gaze up to meet hers, I instantly regret it. Her lip is quivering, her eyes barely blinking back the tears.
"I don't understand."
"What's not to get?" I rasp. "I can't fall in love with my best friend's sister."
With that, her tears break through, chasing one another down to her chin. "Y-you were . . . falling in love with me?"
My heart wrenches in my chest. Fuck, Cox. You're just making it harder on the girl. And on yourself.
"It doesn't matter," I lie. "It can't happen."
Penelope doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't have to. The damage is done. I hurt her, just like I always knew I would. I ruin everything I touch, and while I hoped it wouldn't come to this, I can't even say I'm surprised.
My throat feels tight and my heart is pounding unevenly. "I have to go."
Without another word, I turn around and take the stairs two at a time, racing down to the street and back into the cold.
I thought I knew pain, but this is different. Worse. The kind of hurt you can't just bury and leave to rot deep inside you. This is the kind of pain that's going to stare me dead in the eye for weeks, if not months, to come.
I can't help but think that maybe the guilt of lying to Connor wouldn't have been as bad as this, or the misery of admitting the truth to him, even if he pulverized me to a fine dust once he knew.
But hell, I guess I'll never know.