“Trapped?” His disbelieving laugh fills the room. “Not to be arrogant, but I’m the one who has to worry about being trapped by a woman with a baby.”
“Not this woman, you don’t,” I fire back. “I’m not asking you to marry me. If you would listen, I’m telling you I’m not ready for that.”
“And our baby?” His tight lips barely let the words out. “I suppose you’re not ready for that either?”
At his question, Lotus’s concerns echo in my ears.
“How, um . . .” I swallow my reluctance and force myself to go on. “How did this happen? We were always so careful.”
I risk a glance at Caleb’s handsome face. “Weren’t we?” I ask softly.
Something flickers through his eyes so quickly there’s no time for me to read it. Guilt? Anger?
“I’m pretty sure you were there, too, Iris. Wouldn’t you know just as well as me if we were always careful?”
I don’t wear the condoms.
It screams through my head, but I can’t make myself say it. Anything close to an accusation would only worsen this already tense situation. Honestly, I can’t ever remember a time when we didn’t use protection. Does it really matter whose “fault” it is? Condoms aren’t fail-proof. Even though Caleb has been pressuring me to discard my plans and get in line with his, I can’t imagine him going to these lengths.
Besides, it’s like he said: men in his position are the ones worried about being trapped by a grasping female securing a bright future via uterus. Even though I’m being dragged into this situation kicking and screaming, people will assume that’s what I’ve done. That I’ve “trapped” Caleb. They’ll have no idea that I can barely breathe with this baby growing inside of me. That my palms practically drip sweat when I think of Caleb’s ring on my finger. That it’s not satisfaction I feel knowing I’m pregnant by an NBA draft shoo-in.
It’s claustrophobic.
6
August
I’ve been under bright lights a lot the last few years. I should be used to them by now, but squinting into blinding bulbs on the set of Twofer, the sports show hosting the Draft Class Special, I’m not so sure.
“Nervous?” Avery Hughes, one of the hosts of Twofer, asks.
Uh . . .” I glance around the set, taking in the huge cameras, the sleek furniture, and the crew scurrying around and preparing for the show. “Nah. What’s there to be nervous about?”
“Nothing at all.” Avery’s dark eyes and the smirk tilting her mouth convey amusement. “Thanks for coming on.”
“No problem.” I fill a Styrofoam cup with the dark roast coffee on the table. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Lloyd, the agent I just signed with, would have had a conniption if I’d refused to appear on Twofer, one of the most popular sports shows around. He thinks the higher my profile as we approach draft night, the better. I’m just ready to get it over with.