Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [65]
“I might as well have been invisible to those guys out there,” she said. “Do I really look pregnant?”
Johnny unwrapped his silverware and pressed his paper napkin neatly to his lap. “Don’t take it personally. They’re probably not into girls.”
Eliza studied the tablecloth. She aligned her fingers in the red and white squares, as though she were playing piano. “What about you, though?” she asked.
“What about me?”
She looked up. He was leaning on the edge of the table, his chin cupped in his hand, scoring her with his watery blue eyes. She was staring back so hard, hunting for a fragment of Teddy, that she had to drop her eyes again. “I mean, we know how I got here.” She patted her stomach.
“I don’t need to know the details.”
“Well, I do. Come on, Johnny. We’re friends?”
Johnny cleared his throat. “We are.”
She leaned across the table. Dean Martin was singing “That’s Amore.” A white-haired couple was seated two tables down, each poring over a paperback. “So are you really going to wait till you’re married,” she whispered, “or what?”
“Eliza—”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, I’m a walking advertisement for abstinence. I just mean—”
“What makes you think I haven’t . . . ?” Johnny showed his empty palms, then turned them over on the table. Through the ink on his bony hands grew the finest blades of gold hair.
“Oh.”
“Just because . . .”
“Oh. Wow, Mr. Clean. You’re full of surprises. I just figured, you know . . .”
“I mean, I’m not a freak,” Johnny said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m, you know, as red-blooded as the next guy.”
“Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I mean, Teddy—I can see why he liked you.” He managed a smile, and now it was Eliza who couldn’t look him in the eye. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, okay? You look great.”
They were walking back to the train station to catch the nine-forty-five to New York when he said, as though he’d just remembered to mention it, “So when your mom finds out you’re pregnant, I think we should tell her I’m the father.”
He was carrying her backpack over one shoulder, like a schoolboy walking her home. She stopped, and he turned to face her. She was about to spout something smart-ass, but she stopped herself.
“You do?”
Johnny shoved his hands in his pockets. “People are going to notice soon. They’ll want to know who the father is. There’s no way your mom is going to let you keep the baby if she knows the situation.” Eliza said nothing. She nodded. “So this is the best way. This way we’ll be twice as strong. We’ll tell her we both want to keep the baby.” His voice was soft, apologetic, but he was sure of himself.
“But will we?”
The old couple from the restaurant tottered slowly down the sidewalk, propping each other up. Eliza and Johnny stepped aside until they passed by.
“What we’ll do is we’ll say”—he put his hands on her shoulders—“we’ll say we’re together. A couple.”
“We’ll say we are?”
“Well, maybe we should be.” Johnny shrugged, glancing out at the traffic, as if suggesting maybe they should get dessert. “I want to help raise this kid. Why not do it together?”
Eliza stared into the blank screen of his white T-shirt. When she didn’t answer, he placed his finger under her chin and tilted her head slowly, slowly up until her eyes met his, the way a parent will prepare a child for a reprimand, or the way a man will prepare a woman for a kiss. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her so intently, and a hot little hummingbird quivered in her chest.
“Okay,” she whispered. But he didn’t kiss her.
By the