Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(19)

But now, I’m worried about letting him down all over again. That he’ll view this as a mistake, a failure—his failure as a dad.

“Hold the cell-phone, everyone,” Judith says. “Don’t you think you’re jumping the panic gun a little bit here? I mean, it’s not like you have to stay pregnant. They make a pill for that now, you know.”

Brooke makes the sign of the cross. She teaches CCD at their local church. Like I said—couldn’t be more different if we tried.

But Judith does have point. I’m a free-thinking, independent woman—and now really is not a good time for me to have another child. It’s pretty much the worst time ever.

But then . . .

I hear a laugh from outside. And it’s the best laugh—the best sound in the whole world. I move to the window and look out, watching him—my son, my heart, my little bird, my sweet boy. It wasn’t easy when I had him—but it was still the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never regretted it—him—not for a second. And however difficult it will be now at thirty-four—it’ll have to be easier than it was at nineteen.

How can I . . . how can I know that and not have this baby too?

It’s just that simple, and just that hard.

I don’t have to analyze it—in those few, quick seconds my mind is made up.

I’m having this baby.

I feel my sisters’ eyes on me. And I know they see it on my face—the decision is already made.

Linda blows out a big breath. “Who’s gonna tell Dad?”

Brooke holds up her hand. “I told him last time. Judith—you’re up.”

“Great.” Judith moves to the adult vodka and lemonade and takes a big gulp—straight from the pitcher.

“Easy, cowgirl,” Linda says.

Judith wipes her sleeve across her mouth.

“I’m drinking for two—for me and Lainey.”

Yeah. She’s got a point there.



~



The next morning, I push back the work I’d planned to do on the house and make an emergency appointment with Dr. Werner, my OBGYN in Bayonne. After an exam and a pee-in-a-cup test, she confirms that I am, indeed, preggers—about eight weeks along. Then she has me lay back on the table for an abdominal ultrasound.

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.