Getting Played

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.

After Judith breaks the initial baby news to my parents, I’ll put on my big girl panties and follow-up with them this weekend—over a hot cup of herbal tea that will go down nicely with all the uncomfortable awkwardness.

But for now, I have bigger fish to fry and more of a doozy of a conversation to have.

I head up to Jason’s room and tap on the half-open door.

“Come in.”

He’s on his mattress on the floor, his back against the wall and his laptop in front of him.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey.”

I plop down next to him on the mattress, watching on the screen as Jason plays online Soduko.

“School starts on Monday.”

His lightning-fast fingers tap at the keyboard, filling in the rows and columns of little boxes with numbers.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay with clothes? We could hit the mall later if you need anything.”

“I’m okay with clothes. Last year’s backpack is still in good condition, so I’m all set.”

My recycling quirks have rubbed off on Jay.

And maybe it’s because I had him young or I’m a single mom, but Jason and I have always had a good, open dialogue. We talk about things my parents never discussed with me. Drugs, sex, alcohol, vaping, porn—I want him to know he can come to me if he has problems or questions, and I believe the most dangerous threat to a teenager is curiosity. If we don’t talk to them about the things that could hurt them, they’re going to investigate for themselves.

That being said, telling your fourteen-year-old you got knocked up by a one-night stand—by a guy’s whose last name you don’t even know—is not going to be fun.

“I have to talk to you about something, Jay. A big-talk.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Is this gonna be like the “big-talk” about the clitoris? And you told me I should research all I could about it and that I’d thank you one day? ’Cause . . . that was awkward.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “This one is gonna be so much worse.”

“Wow.” He puts the game on pause, closes his laptop, and sets it aside. “Okay.”

I swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly dry.

“So, a few months ago, when I signed the papers for the webshow, I went out with Aunt Erin and Jack to celebrate. And that night . . . I met a man.”

When I pause, Jason looks at me—waiting—his expression a nudging, wordless, “Okay, and . . . ?”

“And he was a really great guy—funny, sweet, talented. I liked him a lot, right away, and he liked me too. He treated me well, and we . . .”

Jason picks up on where I’m headed. His features pinch with a hint of hesitance and a slight tinge of disgust. “You hooked up?”

I nod. “We did. We hooked up.”

We hooked up a lot.

“Sometimes, adults can spend the night together, and connect in a moment, enjoy each other, and make a wonderful memory. And that’s all it’s supposed to be—it doesn’t always have to lead to a relationship.”

“O-kay . . . why are you telling me this?”

Here we go. Time to drop the baby-bomb.

“I’m telling you because we used protection—it’s really important to me that you understand we used protection. But . . . protection doesn’t always work. That’s why you shouldn’t have sex until you’re prepared for all the emotional and physical consequences that may result. Because, even though we used protection . . . it didn’t work. And I’m pregnant.”

My son’s eyes widen, and bulge.

“You’re pregnant? Like—with a baby?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “With a baby. That’s usually how it works.”

“Holy shit.”

“Pretty much.”

“So . . . you’re having a baby? For real? I’m going to be a big brother?”

I put my hand over his. “Yes, I am. And yes, you are.”

“Wow.” Jason scratches his head behind his ear. “Is this guy—is he going to help you? Am I going to meet him? Is he going to be around to help with the baby?”

“Well . . . that’s the thing . . . he doesn’t know. I’m working on finding him but I haven’t been able to do that yet.”

“Oh.”

God, this must be weird for him. It’s weird for me.

“Are you . . . feeling okay?” He glances down at my flat stomach. “Is the baby okay?”

“I’m tired, a little nauseous. I w

ent to the doctor today and she said the baby and I are both healthy as horses. Then she prescribed me prenatal vitamins which are the size of horse pills—so it all makes sense now. But yeah, I’m good. I’m good with the whole situation. It’s not going to change anything with the show. We’re still going to be living here for the next year, now there’ll just be a little extra content.”

I’ve already taken notes on future videos I can do on a healthy diet during pregnancy, preventing stretch marks, designing the nursery.

Jason’s quiet for several moments, then he looks at me with the adaptability and agility that only children possess.

“Okay. Cool.”

I lean toward him. “Are you all right with this? You can tell me if you’re not. If you have questions or feelings—you can talk to me.”

He nods. “I know. And I’m fine. I mean, that’s life, right? It happens and we roll with it. That’s what we do.”

And it seems my recycling quirks aren’t the only part of me that’s rubbed off on Jason.

“I think it’ll be fun to have a baby around. A little brother or sister that I can show things to. It’s going to be great, Mom. Don’t worry,” he adds.

The smile that stretches across my face is big and relieved—and so, so grateful. My throat clogs and my eyes go damp, because my son is amazing.

I lean my head against his shoulder, my voice soft. “You know you’re, like, the best kid ever, right?”

He shrugs. “I do okay.”

~ ~ ~

Late that night, in my pajamas, I climb onto my own mattress, with my computer on my lap and “Ophelia” by the Lumineers playing low on my phone. The walls are bare in the master bedroom, my boxes and suitcases of clothes line the walls, but still—the house feels warm and safe around me. It already feels like home.

I look for Dean online again. I even try searching “Dean, the sexy drummer in New Jersey” but it just sends me to a bunch of “singles in your area now” websites. So, I open up the video camera on my computer—focusing on my makeup free face, the freckles across my nose bare for all to see. I press record and talk in low, hushed tones.