Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(42)

Jay scrunches his face. “I’m with you, dude.”

“Good choice.”

And it all feels so effortless. Comfortable. Like we’re just sliding forward into this new, uncharted, crazy stage in life . . . sliding into a family.

No sooner does the front door close behind Dean and Jason than my stomach lurches like an anchorless boat—the apple juice I swallowed bubbling like battery acid.

It happens sometimes, the “morning” sickness comes out of nowhere, hits me hard and fast, and then after I get sick, I feel totally fine. Like my schizophrenic body’s saying—okay, we puked, now what’s for dinner?

Grams must see the look on my face, because she leans in and in her wispy granny voice asks, “Are you going to blow chunks, dear?”

I squint back at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Blow chunks, spew, hurl? They showed Wayne’s World at the center last week—now, that’s a movie. That Garth is an adorable boy.”

I would laugh, but my palms are moist and a cold sheen of sweat breaks out all over my body. Pregnancy sucks so much ass.

Grams gestures down the hall. “The bathroom is just over there.”

I stand on wobbly legs and make it to the bathroom just in time before the apple juice that was swirling in my stomach isn’t in my stomach anymore. I rinse my mouth at the bathroom sink and splash cold water on my pale cheeks.

When I step back into the living room, Grams is waiting with a chilled glass of water.

“Thank you. Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and tucks a pillow behind me on the couch.

“Don’t apologize. They used to tell us the sicker you were, the healthier the pregnancy was. But I think that was a load of crap—something they just say to make you feel better, like rain being good luck on a wedding day.”

Grams drags a photo album onto her lap—and I get a glimpse of Dean Walker: the younger years.

He was a gorgeous baby, and from the look of the pictures, a rambunctious boy, a handsome high schooler. There are photos of Dean playing the drums, scoring touchdowns, being admitted to the National Honors Society, graduating from college summa cum laude. And scattered through all those accomplishments, are photos of Dean with girls.

And then more girls.

Girls to the left of him, girls to the right—at prom, in a car, on a couch, at the lake, in front of a bonfire. There are blondes, redheads, and brunettes—all of them are pretty—but with each turn of the page, none of them are the same. None of them seem to have stuck around for long.

I clear my throat. “Dean had a lot of girlfriends.”

“Oh yes, he was very popular. Quite the ladies man.”

I don’t know what to say about that—how to feel. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel anything at all, so I say nothing.

Grams pats my knee again.

“Cake batter.”

I search my mind for a Wayne’s World quote involving cake batter.

“What do you mean?”

“My grandson is like a bowl of cake batter, Lainey. All the ingredients are there, just waiting for the right flame to come along. Once he’s done cooking, he’s going to be an exquisite piece of cake. I’m old—I know these things. You just wait and see.”



~



It’s after nine when we get home. Dean drives back with us to get his car, but comes inside after we pull into the driveway. Jason heads straight up the stairs without being told.

“I have to shower and hit the hay—it’s a school night.”

I hit the jackpot in the good kid department with him. Though, I guess that means I should be prepared for karma to even things out with baby number two. It’s probably going to be a demon.

“Hey—how was that calculus homework?” Dean calls after him. “Did it kick your ass?”

“Nah, I didn’t even break a sweat.”

“I’ll have to up my game.”

Jason waves. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow . . .” he pauses awkwardly “. . . Dean.” Then he shakes his head. “Still weird.”

“You’ll get used to it. See you tomorrow, Jay.”

After Jason’s bedroom door closes, I move to the kitchen with Dean following close behind. I get a glass of water from the refrigerator.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea or water or lemonade?”

“I’m good.”

The pitch-black night outside the window makes the dimly lit kitchen feel cozy and safe. Being here with Dean, just the two of us alone, fills the air with a close, familiar intimacy. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and my eyes roam over the toned, rugged forearms beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his black sweater. I take a long drink of water as I look at his hands next—those big, sure hands. The remembered feel of them on my body brushes across my skin, and my breasts tingle with an achy need.

A ghost of a smile teases Dean’s lips, as if he can sense where my mind is wandering.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you,” he says.

“Go ahead.”

“Am I really the only person you had sex with in five years?”

I laugh. “Yep.”

A growly sort of sound comes from his throat.

“That’s a goddamn sin. I could cry.” He drops his hands, leaning closer, his chin dipping, and his voice rough. “How is that even possible?”