Chapter 12
1111 Words
Tom gritted his teeth and bit his lower lip, fists clenched on top of his knees. His eyes were screwed shut, like he was one second away from snapping.
I snorted just a little, but tried to cover it with a weak snicker.
“Are you messing with me?!” His voice was sharp, practically vibrating with frustration.
I quickly shook my head, eyes wide in denial. “I just want cake, Tom.”
He shot me a glare that could melt steel. “You said you were starving. I get you food. And now... boom!... you suddenly want more! What kind of tapeworm do you have in there?!”
I let out a sarcastic worm. "Excuse me? This worm is your child, in case you're forgetting."
He paused, sighed heavily, and dragged a hand down his face. Standing, he scratched his cheek like he was fighting the urge to throw me out the window. “Anything else?” he asked dryly.
My excitement shot back instantly. “Could you pick up some tacos too? And ooooh—pineapple sauce would be so nice.”
“Pineapple sauce?” He blinked at me, eyebrows furrowing like I’d just spoken in an alien language.
“Or pineapple juice,” I said with my best innocent grin. “Either or. Surprise me.”
He let out a growl, stomped toward the door, and slammed it behind him. Seconds later, the motorbike roared to life and disappeared down the street.
By the time he returned, my appetite had already decided it wanted everything.
The table looked like a buffet explosion: shawarma, steak, a slice of pineapple cake (where he even found that, I’ll never know), tacos, a glass of pineapple juice, chocolates, and—because the universe apparently wanted to mess with me—half a slice of pineapple pizza with only pineapples on top.
Meanwhile, Tom, drenched in sweat, sat slumped on the couch, remote in hand, flipping channels like he wanted to stab the TV with his eyes. His face was blank, but the vein in his forehead said I hate you. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tom’s flat expression, irritated, holding the remote like it might break. He kept flipping through channels, eyes glued to the screen, not even sparing me a glance. Honestly, that was probably for the best.
I decided silence was safest. I chewed the shawarma as quietly as I could, hoping not to annoy him further. The poor guy had gone through a food marathon just to satisfy my cravings.
We sat there in mutual silence, both trying not to spark another round of bickering. I picked up the shawarma, dipped it gently into the pineapple juice, and took a quiet bite.
“Really?” he snapped, breaking the silence.
“What?” I asked with a mouthful, chewing carefully.
He pointed at me, horrified. “Did you just dip that shawarma in pineapple juice?”
I swallowed, scowling. “Don’t judge me! This is what cravings are, honey.”
The word slipped out before I could catch it. My stomach twisted immediately.
His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing, face grimacing. The smile that had been tugging at his lips vanished. “Call me honey again, and I’ll kill you.”
I gulped and focused on my food.
Still, his little smirk gave him away, and that only made my face burn hotter.
Minutes later, we both pretended the TV marathon of McGyver was interesting. But honestly, it was mostly just us trading comments, half-insults, and the occasional sarcastic remark. It wasn’t peaceful, but it wasn’t exactly awful either. In fact, every time we bickered, it felt… weirdly comfortable.
By the time he got up to leave again, I already knew my cravings weren’t the only thing driving him insane—I was. And the worst part? A tiny part of me liked that.
When the marathon ended, Tom got up and headed toward the front door. The clock on the TV flashed 7:15 p.m.
“Where are you going?” I asked as he twisted the knob.
He pulled something out of his pocket and held it up: a rusty-gold lighter with a wolf etched into it. Cool-looking, but my stomach dropped. I hated that he smoked. Cameron never smoked. He would’ve been a great dad… if only he hadn’t cheated on me with Jennifer.
Stop it. Don’t think about him.
But that kiss from the party flickered back in my mind. My head ached; I closed my eyes until it faded, but the ache drifted down to my heart instead.
The door banged shut behind Tom. I was left in the living room alone. This time, I dialed home again.
“Hello, dear.”
Finally, I got an answer.
“Hi, Mama.”
We talked about normal stuff—or, as normal as life could be for a pregnant teenager with a fake baby daddy who threatens to kill her at least twice a day. (Of course, I left out that last part.)
Tom peeked back in, the smell of cigarette smoke trailing behind him like a bad aura. It hit my nose instantly.
“Could you take a bath? That cigarette smell is killing me,” I complained.
His brow arched. “It’s killing you?” His voice lit up with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yes.” I coughed slightly for effect.
“Good.”
I frowned. “It could kill the baby too, you know. Secondhand smoke is worse. Didn't you learn that in Mr. Edmund's class?”
"Who's Mr. Edmund?" he asked. At first, I thought he was teasing, but the look on his face obviously said he was serious.
"Seriously? A science teacher at our school?"
"I don't know him," he shrugged.
Great. A troublemaker who loves skipping classes. Cameron never skips class. As a matter of fact, although not very obvious if you focus solely on his appearance, gets straight As in his classes. Apparently, Jennifer does so too... even though she's a b***h.
He froze, staring at me. Then, with a grumble, he stomped toward the stairs. “Fine,” he croaked.
I couldn’t help smiling in triumph as he disappeared upstairs. I watched him disappear, the sound of his footsteps fading upward. A little smile tugged at my lips, slow but victorious.
The living room fell silent again, just me and the soft buzz of the TV in the background. I leaned back against the sofa, still grinning.
Who knew? King Tom actually listens when you push hard enough.
Maybe he cares more than he let on.
- Writer
