My hands are shaking as I hang up the phone from my latest conversation with Mitch. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I told him I was pregnant and he’s already got Nike super-hyped on his idea. They want to design an entire ad campaign around me and my pregnancy, culminating—of course—in the birth of my baby and my first trips back to the slopes next season. There’s even talk of flying me down to New Zealand for a photo shoot in July or August, if I’m in good enough shape to tackle the mountains down there two months after giving birth.
Now I just have to call Luc and my dad, fill them in on everything I’ve decided. Nike’s chomping at the bit to get this thing started—they’re already drafting a press release they plan to drop sometime in the next week. We might not be on particularly friendly terms right now, but the last thing I want is my dad to find out I’m pregnant from a sound bite on the local news.
I call him first, because I want to get it over with and because I know exactly what I’m going to say. I get the answering machine even though today is usually his day off, and I’ve got myself so worked up that I just blurt it out before I can think better of it.
“Hi, Dad. This is Cam. I mean, obviously, right? I’m calling because I wanted to tell you that I’m pregnant. There will probably be something on the news about it in the next few days since I have to pull out of all the invitationals I’ve got coming up and people are going to want to know why. I didn’t want you to hear it from the news so—yeah, anyway. I’m pregnant. I’m fine. I’m good. Everything is good. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Mitch is helping me and we’re getting everything figured out.”
I know I’m babbling, so I hang up before I can say anything else idiotic. But as I put the phone down, it occurs to me that the way I referred to Mitch makes it sound like my agent is the father of my baby. Which he definitely isn’t. And which probably won’t go over very well, considering the twelve-year age gap between us, and the fact that he’s been around since I was a fifteen-year-old kid. If I’m not careful, my Dad’s going to drive down to Salt Lake and murder Mitch before he even knows what hit him.
With that thought in mind, I pick the phone up again and redial my dad’s house number. I expect it to go straight to the answering machine again, expect to just be able to leave a quick message telling him that Mitch isn’t the father, that Luc is, and that things are going really well. It’s a lie, but with the way things are going lately, I’m beginning to think the truth is highly overrated.
Except this time, my call doesn’t go to voicemail. This time my mother picks up the phone on the second ring.
“Hello! Cam? Please don’t hang up.”
> I start to ignore her request, am actually halfway to pressing END before I stop myself. I’ve been running away from too much lately and if I’m going to be a mom—if I’m going to turn myself into a grown-up sometime in the next six months—then the running needs to stop now.
“Hi…Lily.” I might be willing to talk to her, but I still can’t bring myself to call her mom. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to.
“Hi, honey.” She sounds a little confused, a little out-of-breath, and a lot concerned. “Your dad got called into work today because someone called in sick. You can probably reach him on his cellphone or—or I can give him the message for you.”
“I’ll call his cellphone.”
“Oh, okay.” She sounds disappointed. “That’s fine, then.”
There’s a long, awkward pause while I try to figure out what to say. Finally, though, I settle on “thanks.” After all, there doesn’t really seem to be much more to say.
Except Lily doesn’t seem to feel the same way. She takes my thanks as a sign that I want to talk, even though it was pretty much the opposite of that.
“You’re welcome,” she says warmly, and then, “this Mitch. He’s the baby’s father? He’s taking care of you?”
So it had sounded exactly as I feared. “Mitch is my agent, not my boyfriend. He’s handling all the endorsement stuff, things like that.”
“Oh, right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Why would you?” It comes out harsher and more accusatory than I mean it to. “I’m sorry. I mean, I just told you.”
“Are you okay?”
Her voice has softened with what sounds an awful lot like concern. And though I don’t know her and don’t think I want to know her, I find myself responding to the sympathy in her voice. Responding to the echo of the role she’s supposed to play in my life rather than the role she’s actually played.
“Is your boyfriend taking care of you, then?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her voice is cautious now. “Do you need anything? Is there anything I can help—”
“It’s complicated, all right? I mean, it’s not like it was a one-night stand. The father is a great guy, one of the best”—my voice breaks and I clear my throat a couple of times before trying again—“he’ll totally be here for me, if I let him.”
“If you let him?”
If possible she sounds even more careful, like she’s afraid any wrong move will set an explosion off right in her face. “Are you thinking of doing this alone?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking yet. I don’t want to tie him to me with this pregnancy. I don’t want him to think that I need him to be involved, that I can’t do it alone.”
“Do you want him to be involved?”
“No. I’ve got money and resources. I’ll be fine on my own.”