Right about now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me and saying, “You and your stupid jokes.” But I know you secretly love my stupid jokes. You know what else I know? You’re smiling right now.
Love you.
—Ben
He’s right. I’m smiling. Not a little smile, but a full-blown grin. Despite my smile, I feel tears creep into my eyes.
“Oh, Ben,” I whisper. “What has become of us. When did our love story become a tragedy?”
I take a deep, shaky breath and refold the bird. I climb out from under my desk and let out a scream when I find my dad standing in the doorway.
“Any particular reason why you’re under your desk?” He raises a brow, holding his hands behind his back.
“I dropped my pen and then I found this.” I hold up the paper crane for him to see.
“Ah.” He nods.
“What are you hiding?” I ask, nodding at his still hidden hands.
He smiles sheepishly and holds out a plate. “I made you lunch—I figured you’d use lunch as an excuse to stop working.” My dad knew me way too well. “So here.” He sets the plate on my desk. I eye the sandwich. It’s a mess—seriously, it looks like a bear mauled it. Before I can say anything, he says, “I know it looks bad, but I tried. Give your old man some credit.”
“It’s great. Thanks, Dad.”
He stands by my desk. “Aren’t you going to take a bite?”
I stare at the ham and mustard sandwich and
my stomach rolls. “Um…”
“Come on, Kid, one bite?” he pleads.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I promise it has nothing to do with your sandwich making skills.” He frowns. “Fine,” I groan. “I’ll take one bite.”
He brightens immediately. “I made one for myself too,” he says. “It was good, I promise.”
I lift the sandwich and nearly gag from the smell, but I swallow back the bile and take a bite. I chew slowly and the texture of the meat and bread is too much.
“I’m gonna be sick,” I cry, and launch out of my desk chair. I run into the hall bathroom and fall to the floor, throwing up all the contents in my stomach—which isn’t much.
My dad appears in the bathroom and grabs my hair, holding it back while I’m sick.
“Jeez, I’m sorry, Kid.” He rubs my back, trying to soothe me. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed you—was it really that bad?”
I finish retching and he lets go of my hair. I stand and rinse out my mouth.
“No, Dad, I think I’m getting sick.” I lean against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. I bend down and grab a cloth from the cabinet and dampen it with cool water. I press it to my forehead and take deep breaths through my mouth.
“Blaire …” He hesitates in the doorway, seeming unsure if he wants to continue what he has to say.
“What?” I prompt.
“Nothing.” He waves a hand dismissively.
“Dad?” I raise a brow. “Spit it out.”
He sways slightly—something he only does when he’s super nervous. “Do you think maybe you’re pregnant?”
Shutters come down over my eyes, and I give him the most withering glare I can muster. “We both know that’s not possible.”