Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

She looks up into my face, her big eyes shining, her jaw set.

“The thing is, Dean . . . with kids . . . you have to be sure. Jason’s father isn’t in his life—he never was and I know that was hard for Jason. But it was a clean break, the hurt was allowed to heal. He has uncles and a grandfather who love him and have filled in that space when I can’t. But if his dad had been half in and half out—if he’d let him down, said he’d do things with him then didn’t, if he’d messed with his emotions—that would’ve been like ripping off a scab over and over. It would’ve . . .”

“Scarred,” I finish softly.

Because I get it. I understand what she’s saying. I’ve seen it in my students, and because of my own screwed-up parentage. Kids know when they’re wanted, and when they’re not—and it’s really fucking important that the people closest to them, want them.

“Exactly.” Lainey folds her hands across her stomach, and her pretty mouth purses. “So, if you decide that you’re not up for this—I’ll understand—no hard feelings, really. But if you decide that you’re in, you have to mean it. You have to be sure. You have to be all in.”

I look back into her eyes and it’s like everything inside me is shifting and spinning and upside-down. I don’t know what I’m doing—and I have no idea what I want.

I nod slowly. “That makes sense. Totally reasonable.”

Lainey gives me a soft smile and stands. “Call me if you want to talk some more or if you have any questions.” She tilts her head toward the door. “I’ll be over in the haunted house on Miller Street.”

I chuckle. Then Lainey leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek, and the scent of her surrounds me. I remember that too—the fragrance of her skin, the taste of her—warm and clean and honey-sweet. The way I craved another taste of her for days . . . weeks, after we hooked up.

She straightens up and turns toward the door.

“Hey,” I call softly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you being so cool about this? How are you so . . . not freaked out?”

She thinks a moment before she answers.

“I had Jay when I was nineteen—this is not my first time at the unplanned pregnancy rodeo. And, though my family has helped out, I’ve raised him on my own. Every instinct I have tells me you’re a good guy, Dean. A decent guy. So, while I want to do this with you, if it turns out I have to do it without you . . . I know I’ll be okay.” She puts her hand on her stomach. “We’ll be okay.”

~ ~ ~

After Boston Market, I swing by Garrett’s house. Two of his brothers, Connor and Tim, are there and the four of us sit out on the deck around the firepit having a few beers while Connor’s three boys are down at the dock skipping rocks on the lake.

There are four Daniels boys in total—Connor the doctor, Ryan the cop, Garrett, and the youngest—Timmy the fireman. Being best friends with Garrett gave me a taste of what it was like to be a part of a big family, to have brothers who looked out for you, ragged on you, knocked you around. They always treated me like one of their own. They still do.

“I say run, dude. She gave you an out—take it. You’re the genius, right? Don’t be stupid.”

That heartwarming bit of advice comes from Tim.

Every family has a dick in it. Timmy is the Daniels’s dick.

I like the guy, don’t get me wrong. But he’s got youngest child syndrome and he’s got it bad. That means he’s selfish, self-centered, with the mentality of a sixteen-year-old. An immature sixteen-year-old.

“You’d really ditch your own kid that easily?” Connor gives his brother a judgmental look.

“Depends.” Timmy thinks it over. “Does Mom know?”

“Can you not be a dick?” Garrett asks. “For like, two seconds? Is that even possible?”

“Probably not.” Tim pats his brother’s shoulder. “But, good talk, bro.”

Garrett goes to smack him—but through the years Tim’s learned to be quick with the block.

“Dude, I’m joking,” he says, laughing. “I swear to Christ, Callie’s hormones are catching—every time you get her pregnant you get all oversensitive and emotional.”

“Shut up, dumbass.”

“I’m not going to run,” I tell them, steering the conversation back into focus. “I’m paying her child support—obviously. I’m not going to leave her hanging.” I shake my head. “But the whole dad thing. . . I don’t know about that.”

Discipline is not my strong suit. I think you’re only young once—and you should make it last as long as possible. I think partying is good for the soul. I think teenagers should learn how to handle their alcohol years before they actually turn twenty-one. I hate green vegetables. I eat them, because they’re good for me—but I don’t think I could make someone else eat them.