The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(92)

“You can’t raise a child flying by the seat of your pants, John. I know you want to do the right thing. You always do, but in this case, if the two of you can’t take care of it, you should think about other options. Have you considered adoption?”

Sabrina’s face goes ashen at the implied insult that she’s not up to being a mother.

I reach for her. “Sabrina, it’s going to work out—”

But she’s already darting out of the kitchen, a sob catching in her throat as she mutters something that sounds like bathroom and sorry. Her feet slap against the wood floors as she moves faster than an eight-month pregnant woman should.

I jump out of my chair. “Sabrina—”

“Give her some time,” Mom says behind me.

A door slams, and I flinch at the sharp sound. I start for the doorway and then stop in the middle of the kitchen and spin around.

“Sabrina’s a good person,” I say gruffly. “And she’s going to make a good mother. And even if she was the worst, you’d still have to accept her because that kid in her stomach is half of me.”

This time it’s my mother’s face that blanches. “Is that a threat?” Her voice quivers.

I drag an agitated hand through my hair. “No. But there’s no need for us to be on opposite sides of the ice here. We’re all on the same team.”

Mom tilts her chin up defiantly. “That remains to be seen.”

I shake my head in disappointment before heading down the hallway to see if Sabrina is still talking to me.

Her eyes are red when she opens the bathroom door. “I’m sorry about running out like that.”

“It’s fine, darlin’.” I push her inside and shut the door behind me. She lets me gather her close—or as close as we can get with a bowling ball between us. “You’re going to be a great mom. I believe in you.”

Her body feels slight despite the weight she’s gained. “Don’t be mad at your mother,” she whispers against my chest. “She’s looking out for you. She wants what’s best for you. I know that.”

“She’ll come around.” But I sound a hell of a lot more confident than I feel.





31




Tucker


August

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Brody! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Right there, baby! Oh my Godddddddddd!”

Not even the full-blast TV volume can drown out the sex noises wafting out of Brody’s bedroom. If I had a pair of pliers on me, I’d rip my ears off so I wouldn’t have to listen to this anymore. Unfortunately, Brody doesn’t even own a toolbox—I found that out when I first moved in and looked around for tools to fix the leaky kitchen faucet with. Brody had shrugged and said, “Shit leaks, man. Life doesn’t always give you tools.”

I’d wanted to point out that yes, life does give you tools—that’s why we have fucking Home Depot. But arguing with Brody’s logic is an exercise in futility.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Hollis’ brother is impossible to live with. He has a different chick over every night, and they’re either porn stars or just very good at articulating what they like, love, and really love in bed. He leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor. His idea of cooking is throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, announcing it didn’t fill him up, and then ordering an actual pizza.

“Oh gosh, yes! Harder, baby!”

“This hard?”

“Harder!”

“Oh yeah, you dirty girl!”

Jesus H. Christ. I hate this apartment with the fire of a thousand suns.

I heave myself off the couch and head for the door, texting Sabrina as I slip into a pair of flip-flops.

Me: Hey bb, want me to come over and rub ur back?

She must have her phone handy, because she texts back right away.

Her: Not 2nite. Ray has his poker buds over and they’re all kinda drunk.

I frown at the screen. Damn it, I can’t stand that she’s still living in that house with that creep. But every time I bring up the idea of finding a place together, Sabrina brushes it aside. And she’s been kind of distant ever since Mom flew back to Texas.

I love my mother to death, but I’m pissed at her, if I’m being honest. I get that she’s worried about me and thinks that having a baby at my age is a terrible idea, but I didn’t like the way she interrogated Sabrina. Not just on that first day, either. The whole visit was riddled with passive aggressive remarks and veiled criticism. I think Sabrina felt defeated by the time Mom left, and I’m not sure I blame her.

I send another text.

Me: Honestly? Don’t like the idea of u being around drunk dudes. Ur due date is in 4 days. U need 2 B around responsible adults.

Her: Don’t worry. Nana’s sober as a judge. She doesn’t drink, remember?

At least that’s something. Still, I hate not being there with her.

“Oooooooh! I’m coooommming!”

Okay. Enough. I can’t stay here for one more second listening to Brody Hollis get his nut off.

Shoving my phone and wallet in my pocket, I stomp out of the apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. It’s past nine, so the August sun has already set and a nice breeze tickles my face when I step outside.

I walk down the sidewalk with no destination in mind, other than not my apartment. With the part-time construction jobs, the visit from Mom, and driving back and forth from Sabrina’s, I haven’t had a chance to fully explore my new neighborhood yet. Now I take the time to do it, and discover that it’s not as sketchy as I originally thought.