Getting Played

“You don’t have to decide this minute—we have time. You should think about it, figure out what you want.”

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.

I always saw myself as more of the fun uncle type of guy, who’d send Garrett’s kids birthday cards full of cash and who’d eventually retire to Florida with a rotating harem of girlfriends half my age.

As far as life plans go, that was the extent of mine. Children, a wife, a family—they were never part of the picture.

“I mean, really, could you see me raising a kid?”

Garrett looks me dead in the face, his brown eyes dark and serious.

“Definitely.”

Connor—who’s opinion I’ve always respected, agrees.

“Absolutely.”

“For real?” I ask.

“Hell, yeah,” Connor says. “I’ve seen you with Will—you’re good with him.”

I jerk my thumb toward Garrett. “Will is his. I can give him back.”

Garrett shakes his head. “But when they’re yours, you don’t want to give them back. Everything they do is amazing. They take a shit and it’s like a miracle.”

Timmy grimaces. “That’s gross, Gar.”

“And yet, still true.” Garrett takes a drink from his beer, looking at me. “You’re great with your students.”

I wave him off. “They’re teenagers.”

“Teenagers and babies aren’t so different. Most of the time, the babies are easier to reason with.”

Connor points at his brother. “This is a fact.”

Connor’s youngest son, seven-year-old Spencer, calls up to his father to come skip rocks with them. Connor got divorced about two years ago—he only gets the boys every other weekend, so when they’re with him—he makes damn sure he’s with them too. He puts his bottle on the table and heads down the steps to the dock.

“There is the baby-momma perk,” Tim throws out thoughtfully. “That shouldn’t be discounted.”

Garrett shakes his head at his youngest brother. “Please don’t frigging help.”

Still I ask, “What’s the baby-momma perk?”

Tim leans forward. “I’m assuming this Lainey chick is good-looking?”

“Gorgeous.” I confirm.

“Well, she’s going to need someone to bang her during the next nine months. It’s not like pregnant girls are big on trolling for hookups, so that duty will more than likely fall on your dick. We’re talking unlimited, easy access booty calls—condom-free—it’s not like you can knock her up twice.”

That is an excellent point. I’m shocked I didn’t think of it myself.

I’ve been dreaming of getting back inside Lainey for months. And now she’s here. Available, eager—I saw the way her eyes roamed over me on conference night and at lunch today—the way her pupils dilated and her nipples hardened. I know when a woman is interested in me, and Lainey is definitely up for a repeat of the summer. Probably several repeats.

I picture how she’ll look a few months from now—her breasts fuller, her stomach rounder and heavier—and yep, it feels slightly wrong, but it’s even more of a turn on.

Tim’s phone rings and he glances at the screen, wiggling his eyebr

ows. “Speaking of booty calls.” He heads up the steps toward the house as he answers, “Hey, baby,” leaving Garrett and I alone on the deck.

I look out across the lake and take a long drag on my beer.

“I’m just not sure if I can do this, D,” I tell him softly. “What the fuck do I know about being anyone’s dad? I don’t know if I have it in me, you know?”

Garrett nods slowly.

“Yeah, I get that. I really do.”

Even back in high school, Garrett always had his shit together. He was the quarterback—steady, solid, consistent—and I was the risk-taking wide receiver who liked to push the limits and go for the big plays. It’s why we made a good team, why we still do. I could kick his ass on an IQ test, but between the two of us—he’s the wise one.

“But the question you have to ask yourself, Dean, is a year from now . . . five, ten, fifteen years from now—how are you ever going to look at yourself in the mirror again, if you don’t do it?”

~ ~ ~