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Makes it easier for me to pretend my first thought wasn’they, you should ask her out for real. An imaginary sitcom laugh track quickly drowned that out.
“What about August? He’ll get attached and then what, we fake-break up? I dodge some Internet bullies but I get a crushed kid. That’s not fair.”
“Think you’re forgetting something, sunshine.” I nod at her stomach, and God, I can’t wait until there’s something visible to nod at. “That’s my kid. No matter what our relationship is, I’m in your life. I’m in August’s life. We’re always gonna be family. None of you will ever have to miss me.”
Her eyes squeeze shut, her breathing hitches, a million thoughts visibly filter through her brain in the space of a single second, and then she’s back, frowning at me. “You know you couldn’t date other people? Fake-dating is weird. Fake-being-cheated-on is mortifying.”
The way she saysdate? Sounds a lot like she meansfuck. “I know. Do you?”
Sunday laughs, a tired, self-deprecating noise. “If I find someone interested in a pregnant mom-of-one, I’m not dating them. I’m marrying them.”
Some tiny, delusional part of my brain raises its metaphorical hand before I slap it down.
“What about…” Sunday chews on her lip as she searches for the right words. “The others.”
“The others?”
“Y’know.” She shifts awkwardly, turning redder by the second. “After me. Right before me.”
Ah. “Not a problem.”
She frowns. “They sign NDAs or something?”
“There hasn’t been anyone.” Not since… The fact I can’t remember probably says a lot, right?
So many emotions flash across Sunday’s face, it’s impossible to decipher any of them. “Dry spell, huh?”
Oh, she has no idea.
* * *
It’s dark by the time I pull into my driveway.
I left Sunday’s place a while ago but my hands didn’t steer my car in the direction of home. Instead, they took me to the batting cages I used to frequent in college, and there I stayed, doing something that would get me in trouble for… God knows how long. Long enough for the sun to set, and for all the lights in my house to be off. Long enough that my shoulder aches something fierce, and I know I’m gonna pay for illicit baseball-related activities tomorrow.
For as long as I can remember, when something hasn’t gone my way, I’ve taken my frustrations out on a small, round ball. When I was sixteen and my best friend died in a car wreck, I went to the batting cages. When Amelia skipped town without a word, I went to the batting cages. Fuck, when I found out my sister and my best friend were sneaking around behind my back, I practically moved into the batting cages.
When shit goes south, I turn to baseball. It’s how I process, how I think, how I deal. And today, I needed it more than ever.
It felt like the only way to get some peace and quiet, since everyone and their mother—specifically my mother—want a piece of me. My agent, my publicist, my family, even my teammates and my coach, all of them have been blowing up my phone for hours.
I know they mean well, or at least most of them do. Ryan probably just wants to chastise me some more, the same with my publicist, but everyone else has good intentions, I’m sure. But I just can’t handle them right now.
I never got a second for this news to just be mine. I didn’t get to process alone without thinking about something else, considering someone else. And I think I deserve that.
I knew it would come to an end, though, and that end comes barreling my way, practically skidding along the hardwood floors in her haste, the second I unlock my front door. “So?” The woman who gave me life threatens to take it away as she collides with me, knocking the breath from my lungs. “How’d it go?”
Gently swatting my mother away, I wonder how I can possibly properly articulate the last few hours. “Good.”
“Good?” Mom screeches. When I start towards the kitchen, she’s hot on my heels, unrelenting in her questioning. “Is it true? Is she pregnant?”
“Yeah.” I avert my gaze, watching my hands as they grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water, wondering if my voice is thick only to my own ears. “It’s true.”
The evidence is carefully folded and tucked in my back pocket. I think I’m gonna hang it on the fridge, somewhere amidst the mess of photos of me holding freshly born nieces and nephews. I’m so busy half-marveling, half-panicking over the fact there’s gonna be one of me and my kid gracing the shiny, cluttered steel soon, I don’t realize how quiet it is.
Glancing over my shoulder, I sigh at the sight of glossy brown eyes, dark hands clasped beneath a trembling chin, a wobbling full bottom lip. I turn around carefully, not making any sudden movements until I'm sure if those areyay, I have another grandchildoroh no, my son knocked up a strangertears.
I get my answer when, in a quiet voice, Mom oh-so-delicately asks, “Is she keeping it?” and in response to my nod, she lets out an ungodly, slightly terrifying squeal.
