Fantastical (Fantasyland #3)(82)

“Okay,” I whispered.

Seriously, what else could I do?

“Promise?” she pushed.

“Promise,” I gave in.

Mom smiled.

Boy, I was screwed.

Mom let me go and turned back to the sink, wiping her face and saying, “Okay, let’s get this done and get back in there. It’s good they’re bonding but they’re doing it with whisky. Whisky makes your father talkative. Talkative means he might get out photo albums. And you went through that unfortunate punk phase when you were fifteen. We don’t want Tor seeing that.”

Oh crap.

No. Agreed. We absolutely, definitely did not want Tor seeing photos of me with ratted out hair, too much black eyeliner and torn clothes held together with safety pins.

I snatched a plate out of the drainer and dried it, urging, “Hurry, Mom. Dad had three before we even cleared the table.”

“Right,” Mom muttered and started wiping silverware.

And I finished the dishes with my Mom and while I did it I memorized every freaking second.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Something to Celebrate

I was silent on the ride home mostly because I was thinking of all my mother had said, all that had happened between Tor and me and about the words to “Crash into Me”.

It wasn’t until Tor unlocked the door to my apartment that it hit me Tor had been silent all the ride home too.

He opened the door for me, I preceded him, he closed it, locked it and stalked, yes, stalked to the kitchen.

Hmm. It seemed I’d missed something.

I saw the light go on there, I switched on a few lamps in the living room then I followed him and stopped in the doorway to see he was opening and closing cupboards.

“Can I get you something?” I asked quietly and his eyes sliced to me.

They were broody and intense.

Oh boy.

“Do you have spirits?” he asked back.

Oh boy!

“Um… you had whisky with my Dad,” I pointed out.

“Yes, and I knew I would be operating that vehicle, undoubtedly in the rain, which it does all the bloody time here, so I did not have as much as I would have liked for operating that vehicle inebriated would not be wise,” he returned.

He was right about that.

“In the cupboard by the wall,” I belatedly answered his question.

He went to the cupboard, sorted through my myriad of bottles, pulled out some bourbon, opened it, sniffed it and went to the cupboard that held my glasses.

I watched him pour himself a rather healthy dose as I grew uncomfortable.

Tor was being broody, something he could be but he was usually kind of… openly broody. As in, it was rare he didn’t tell me what was on his mind.

And he’d just had an emotional dinner with my parents and he wasn’t telling me what was on his mind.

“Is something on your mind?” I asked after he swallowed a large swig.

He looked at me and declared weirdly, “Things here, in your world, are more advanced.”

“Well… yeah,” I replied.

“Is this true with medicine?”

My head tipped to the side. “Medicine?”

“Do you not call it medicine?” he asked, didn’t wait for me to answer and he went on to explain using the word, “Healing.”

“Yes, we call it medicine and yes, it’s more advanced.”

He scowled at me a second then drained his glass. Then he poured another healthy measure.

“Tor,” I started hesitantly, not sure what to do with him in this mood, “has something upset you?”

He answered immediately, “While you were with your mother in the kitchen, your father was verbose.”

Uh-oh.

Dad could have told him anything. About my punk phase, or worse, my militant vegetarian phase, or worse, the excruciatingly uncomfortable time he found Tad Millstrom getting to second base with me in our basement.

“And?” I whispered.

“And, he told me about Rosa, your Rosa, the sister you did not have.”

“Seriously?” I asked softly, surprised by this. Dad could get chatty while smashed but that was an overshare, even for Dad. I knew this because I’d been around Dad while he was hammered a bunch of times and he’d (obviously) never mentioned Rosa.

“Seriously,” Tor replied then sucked back another large swallow.

“Tor, I don’t –”

His eyes sliced to mine and the look in them made me snap my mouth shut.

Then he announced, “You’re carrying my child.”

My body went statue-still except my eyes. They blinked.

God, I forgot about the pregnancy test. How could I forget something like that?

“I –” I started, that one syllable trembling.

“You’ve been in my bed every night for six weeks and I’ve been in you every night for six weeks and we’ve been together day in, day out for even longer. You have not once had your cycle.”

Oh God.

“Tor –”

“Your mother nearly died having your sister who did die.”

My stomach dropped. “She did?” he glared at me. “My mother almost died, I mean.”

“Indeed,” he clipped and threw back more bourbon.

Although this news upset me, greatly, I felt the need to stay focused on whatever was bothering Tor.