Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,66
them. I feel only a tiny bit guilty that I was accusing them of it in my mind.
I’m trying to think of the best way to word the situation, wondering if it’s possible to let Ozzie know that Lucky is bothering me without also revealing that I’m pregnant, but I’m immediately uncomfortable with that idea. It feels dishonest to me, so I drop the thought two seconds after it pops into my head.
I stare at the deck and open my mouth to speak, hoping the right words will fall out since no grand plan is making its presence known to my brain. “Well, there’s kind of a lot of shit going on right now, and I get why Lucky’s upset with me, but I’m not okay with it at the same time.” I pause, looking up at Ozzie with an apologetic expression. “I’m not being very clear, am I?”
Ozzie shakes his head. “Nope.”
He’s not going to give me any rope. I suppose that’s fair. We’re both adults here; I should be able to communicate like one. I take a deep breath in and out so I can start over, making sure I keep eye contact as I speak this time.
“Something happened between Lucky and me a really long time ago, and a few weeks ago, we all met at the pub on a Friday night. Do you remember?”
Ozzie merely nods.
“So, we kind of repeated the mistake we made when we were fifteen, only this time we went a lot further with it and we were supposed to act like adults about it, but we didn’t.”
“Are you dancing around the subject because you think I can’t handle it or because you’re embarrassed?”
I know it’s his personal hallmark to go right for the jugular, but it’s really inconvenient for me right now.
“All right, fine. I’ll just be straight with you.”
He gives me a slight smile. “That would be nice.”
I can’t look at him when I speak. I fear his judgment too much. I stare at the wood deck we’re standing on. “Back when we were fifteen years old, we went to a dance together with Thibault, and Lucky and I kind of hooked up. We didn’t go all the way, but whatever . . . it’s not important. Anyway, that night at the pub on Friday, we hooked up again, and he followed me home. I was really drunk, as you know, and we were both acting really stupid, and one thing led to another, and . . .”
“You slept together.”
I jerk my eyes up at him. “You know?”
He chuckles. “No, I don’t know. But isn’t it obvious?” He shrugs, as if he’s apologizing for reading me so easily.
I shake my head, hissing out a sigh of frustration. “I know. I’m sorry. This has really messed me up.”
“I don’t really see what the problem is. So you slept together? Big deal. Move on.”
I give him a smile that holds no humor. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” My sad smile starts to melt away, and I feel stupid tears rising up in my eyes. “Unfortunately, we were both drunk and we’re both terrible communicators, so we ended up having sex without using protection.”
Ozzie’s face goes completely blank. His hands fall out of his pockets and his arms hang at his sides, making him look like a giant gorilla.
My insides shrivel up and start to spasm. The judgment coming off him in waves is literally making me queasy.
“What exactly are you telling me?” he asks, his voice devoid of emotion.
I open my mouth to answer him, but then I realize that there’s something more urgent than words that wants to leave my mouth. I run over to the edge of the deck and lean over a planter, vomiting on the flowers it contains.
I can’t see Ozzie but I can hear him. He turns, his boots sliding on the deck under him.
“I guess that answers my question,” he says. He sounds tired.
I spit the sour taste from my mouth and toss my hair over my shoulder, wiping my lips and chin with the back of my hand. Luckily, I haven’t eaten anything all day, so there really isn’t much to worry about with the clean-up. Sorry, plants.
Holy crap, how embarrassing. I answer questions by vomiting? What’s wrong with me? I turn around to face him. “Yeah. So . . . I’m pregnant.”
His face is morphing through so many different expressions it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking.