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I watch the screen, the familiar gray blobby shadows—but then I see it—right before the doctor points it out. That steady, rapid, rhythmic fluttering, like visual Morse Code that says, Hi—how are you? Here I am.
It’s the baby’s heartbeat. Seeing it blows my mind.
Makes it real.
And the first bud of excitement—of joy—blooms inside me.
It’s crazy how quickly twenty-four hours can change your perspective. It’s a miracle I don’t have whiplash. Of course I’m still excited about the show, the house—but this is different. More. Bigger. Huge. A life-changing kind of surprise.
And not just for me.
After leaving the doctor’s I stop at a Starbucks in town, plant myself at a table and whip open my laptop. Then I search for Dean—in every way I can think of. I don’t have a last name or an address. He told me about high school but not where he went or the year he graduated. So I start with what I know—the band.
Amber Sound doesn’t have a website or contact information. In an image search, just a few nondescript, grainy pictures appear. I zoom in close on one in particular. I can’t see Dean’s face . . . but I’d know those hands anywhere. Next I try the number for the Beachside Bar, but it goes straight to voicemail, saying they’re closed for the season.
I stare at the screen, nibbling on the tip of my fingernail, wracking my brain for another way to reach Dean, and coming up with zilch, nothing, nada.
Shit.
“Hey sexy—how’s it going?”
Chet Deluca grew up in the house next door to my parents’. He’s a body builder, kind of the neighborhood Casanova, and a total ass. He’s always had a thing for me. Which he showed in multiple gross ways through the years—from peeping into my bedroom window with his telescope, to telling the whole school I had a threesome with him and his brother, Vic, when I turned him down for senior prom.
I close my laptop as I answer with a brisk nod.
“Chet.”
He tugs at the wide brim of my brown fedora. “This is cute. I saw your show online, Lains—you’re looking good enough to eat out. We should hang.”
Chet also doesn’t know how to take a hint—or a straight-up “fuck no,” for that matter.
I stand, smoothing down the hips of my indigo peasant skirt and adjusting my hat back into place. “No, thanks. I’m not interested.”
“Another time then—you must be real busy.” His eyes drag up and down over me, and my stomach flops like a fish on a dock.
I wonder if I barf all over him, if he’ll get the message then.
Instead, I pick the path that requires less clean-up, and grab my bag, heading for the door. “I have to go.”
Chet’s voice follows me. “You change your mind, Lains—you know where I live.”
That I do—and another perk to living in Lakeside is I can totally avoid him.
~ ~ ~
I walk in the door, toss my bag on the kitchen counter, and rest my hat on Myrtle—the mannequin head I got free from Chevy’s department store when they were redesigning their woman’s section. Her featureless face is a little freaky, but as long as you have her turned to look out the window, she makes a great hat-rest.
After Judith breaks the initial baby news to my parents, I’ll put on my big girl panties and follow-up with them this weekend—over a hot cup of herbal tea that will go down nicely with all the uncomfortable awkwardness.
But for now, I have bigger fish to fry and more of a doozy of a conversation to have.
I head up to Jason’s room and tap on the half-open door.
“Come in.”
He’s on his mattress on the floor, his back against the wall and his laptop in front of him.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey.”
I plop down next to him on the mattress, watching on the screen as Jason plays online Soduko.
“School starts on Monday.”
His lightning-fast fingers tap at the keyboard, filling in the rows and columns of little boxes with numbers.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay with clothes? We could hit the mall later if you need anything.”
“I’m okay with clothes. Last year’s backpack is still in good condition, so I’m all set.”
My recycling quirks have rubbed off on Jay.
And maybe it’s because I had him young or I’m a single mom, but Jason and I have always had a good, open dialogue. We talk about things my parents never discussed with me. Drugs, sex, alcohol, vaping, porn—I want him to know he can come to me if he has problems or questions, and I believe the most dangerous threat to a teenager is curiosity. If we don’t talk to them about the things that could hurt them, they’re going to investigate for themselves.
That being said, telling your fourteen-year-old you got knocked up by a one-night stand—by a guy’s whose last name you don’t even know—is not going to be fun.
