The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(31)

“You look tired, Keelster,” Mark says. He opens the chair for me and I sink into it. The redistribution of my weight will soon make rising from this thing impossible.

“I think I’m about to get fired.”

He’s the one person I can admit this to. The one person who won’t say, “Keeley, you’re grossly irresponsible and anyone could have seen this coming. You probably deserve it.”

“There are worse things,” he replies.

Mark used to be a stockbroker. He’s vague on the details, but I know he made a mistake, and a lot of people lost money. I’m still not sure how he got from there to here.

“Your friend with the dumb name seems to be looking out for you,” he adds. “I think you’ll be fine.”

I laugh bitterly. “He’s not looking out for me. He’s looking out for the baby. We’re currently in a hostage situation, and he’s the police negotiator, acting like we’re friends because he has no choice. Once this kid is out, he’ll have a SWAT team descend upon me.”

“It’s interesting,” he says, “that you see yourself as the bad guy in this situation.”

I swallow. I guess that’s the problem. I am the bad guy. I’m always the bad guy. It’s just been a long time since my actions hurt anyone but myself.

The realization leaves me deeply sad. I’ve been telling myself this is all a fun little jaunt outside my normal circle of comfort, like the week I spent sleeping on the ground at Burning Man. That’s how I get through my life, by insisting things are an adventure and all adventures are good, even when they absolutely suck. What’s different is that this time, the outcome matters. If I get stranded in Tijuana or lose my friends at Coachella, it is what it is. But with this adventure, there isn’t an endpoint. Every decision I make now impacts this kid’s life forever, and if I think about it too much, I feel nothing but panic, because no one is less well-equipped to parent than I am.

“He’s worried about you, too, Keeley.” Mark folds the paper over his head to shield his eyes as he looks at me. “Just give him a chance to figure it out.”

I push myself to stand and whisper a goodbye, panicked I’m about to completely fall apart.

I just want someone to swoop in and save me from my own stupidity. I want Khloe Kardashian to take me under her wing and give me life advice. I was joking about the Saudi prince, but right now that sounds kind of good. I want my problems fixed, and Mark’s as well, and I know neither of those things is likely to happen.

When I get home, I head straight to the Twinkies I hid in an empty container of Greek yogurt at the back of the refrigerator. Graham walks out of his room just as I’m tearing into one, naturally, and I swear to God the look on his face is enough to make me burst into tears if I wasn’t already about to burst into tears.

“Don’t start,” I tell him, holding onto the Twinkie as if it’s a sword I may need to yield.

His arms fold across his chest. He looks like Superman when he does that, except he’s way hotter than Henry Cavill. It might distract me on a better day.

“Let me guess,” he says. “It’s the first thing you’ve eaten all day.”

I’m done. I’m completely over this entire situation. I’ve been trying to be polite to him, to establish some kind of civil relationship between us, and he is fucking impossible. I’m done. “Is this why you’re here? So you can sit around in my apartment all day, then criticize me for doing my best when I walk in the door?”

He smirks. “Are we seriously claiming this is your best?”

“Fuck you. There was nothing else here to eat anyway unless you’ve got more fish on the grill, God forbid.”

He raises a brow. “I figured I’d better run the menu by you first so you don’t just drop it all off with Mark.”

He knows I gave Mark my shitty lunch, and I feel like a kid again, walking home to find my stepmother waiting with the eggs she made me that morning sitting beside her, the ones I buried deep in the trash.

“I don’t like fish, Graham, and I don’t like breakfast. That doesn’t make me a villain.”

He digs his hands into his hair. “Do you think I enjoy this, Keeley? This situation is a fucking nightmare for me and it’s never going away! It’s a responsibility I’ll take to the grave. So stop acting like you’re the victim.”

I step backward, stung by the vehemence in his voice, the sheer disgust, and wondering fleetingly, irrationally, if the baby heard this. If the baby is somehow taking in my complaints or hearing her father call this situation a “fucking nightmare”. Will he or she come into the world already feeling like a mistake, already feeling unloved? My hand goes to my belly. His gaze follows the motion.

This poor fucking kid. Of all the Keeley messes I’ve made, this is by far the worst.

I turn, walk straight to my room, and slam the door behind me, climbing into bed and curling up on my side.

My chest aches. Being the center of my parents’ fighting was miserable. And being the offspring of me and Graham might be worse. We never cared about each other in the first place.

“I’m sorry, little Bean,” I whisper, stroking my palm over my small, rounded belly as tears drip down my face. “I want you. I just don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m really scared I’m going to mess things up.”