by Jacie Lennon
She stops, pulling me in for a hug. “Oh, Jules, it’s going to be okay.”
She doesn’t say anything else. What else is there to say? I’m grateful she hasn’t asked who the father is. Maybe she already suspects, but that’s not something I want to talk about just yet. I nod against her shoulder, the tears leaking from my eyes, leaving a large wet spot on her shirt.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asks, pulling back to peer at me.
“I think I just want to go to sleep.”
“Okay. You go lie down. If you need anything just text or call.” She walks back to my room where she pulls a T-shirt from my drawer and hands it to me.
I numbly undress and put it on. Crawling into bed, I mumble, “Bye,” to Hanna as she walks out, turning my light off.
A moment later, I hear the front door close and the lock turning before I drift off, happy to let everything go, if only for a little while.
I wake up suddenly, my heart racing, and I glance around. It’s starting to get dark in my room, so I reach over to flip my lamp on. The motion sends nausea through me, and I groan, everything that happened earlier rushing back in one fell swoop. I lower myself back down, my body hot and sweaty.
Maybe it’s just the flu. You can get false positives, right?
That’s it. It’s not real. I’m not pregnant.
I push myself up again. My mouth dry, I head to the kitchen and grab my watered-down ginger ale from the table where I left it. Checking the time on the microwave, I see that I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to call the clinic and set up an appointment. Better check again and make sure that I’m not imagining everything. I grab another box from where they lay next to my drink, taunting me.
As I head to the bathroom, I stop when I hear my phone ringing from the bedroom. I remember Hanna was coming to bring dinner, so I set the test in the bathroom and head to grab my phone, feeling famished.
I hit the voice mail button and freeze. The deep, masculine voice sends a shiver through me—and not a good one.
“Jules, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you? Why aren’t you ever at the coffee shop anymore? I miss you. Quit avoiding me.”
I end the voice mail and hit Delete before I can even process the message. This is the first time I’ve heard from Kyle since I left. Maybe I need to change my phone number.
Quickly, the next voice mail starts to play. It’s another deep, masculine voice, but this time, I don’t hate it.
“Hey, Jules. It’s Mason. Give me a call when you can to discuss a schedule for working together at the bistro. Okay, um … bye.”
I hit the play button two more times, the sound of his voice curling around my body and sending good shivers through it.
But then I remember.
I’m Pregnant. With Mason’s child.
18
Mason
“Hey, Grams,” I say as I walk into the den where she’s sitting and watching a game show.
Her eyes light up as she looks over at me, a grin stretching across her face. “Mason, glad you came by. Sit down.” She motions to the spot next to her on the couch, and I sit. “Are you hungry? I spent this morning baking, and now, I’m tuckered out. Just sat down to rest my weary bones.”
“I’m good, Grams. You should be taking it easy,” I say, feeling like a parent more than a grandchild.
“If I took it any easier, I’d be dead,” Grams fires back with a chuckle.
I can’t help but smile at her joke.
“Now, out with it. I can tell something is weighing you down.”
I’m always surprised when she does that, but I shouldn’t be. Grams has always been able to tell when I’m feeling sad, happy, or angry. I think she’s halfway psychic sometimes. I swipe a hand over my face, thinking about my life at the moment.
“Mom has been calling Dad, wanting to talk to me,” I say, laying it out there.
Grams nods as if it’s no surprise to her. “Your dad might have mentioned it to me,” she says.
“What should I do?”
“What do you want to do?” she asks, leaving the decision on my shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I’m just not sure I want to have a relationship with someone who can walk away from a child and then go on to raise another one. What if she decides to walk away again?”
“That’s possible. You have to weigh your fear against closure. Do you want to deny yourself a relationship with her because you are scared of being hurt again? Or do you want to have some sort of closure over the hurt you’ve felt for the last twenty-four years? Even if she leaves again, at least you will know.”
Grams has put it into words when I didn’t want to. No grown man wants to admit that he’s afraid. But I am. I’m afraid of opening my heart to my mom and getting crushed all over again. I don’t know that it’s something I will ever completely get over, but I have to try. This anger is only hurting me. I reach over and grab Grams’s hand, noting how small it feels in mine now. A hand I have held many times over many years, the familiarity a comfort. I’m older now, but I will never outgrow holding my grams’s hand when I need to. We sit in comfortable silence until the game show ends, and Grams leans over.
“How is the old love life going?” she asks, attempting not to smile but failing.
“Is it funny to you?” I say with a snort.
Grams has always been able to lighten the mood.
“What love life?” I finally say.
“Your dad said a woman was going to be helping at the bistro? I assume it’s the same girl you have been telling me about—Jules.”
“Yeah, she is, and yes, it is. Dad hired her as a consultant on the building of the shop and then is keeping her on as manager for a while to get it up and running.”
“Ah, and you are working as the GC, right?” Grams smiles.
“Yep, all day long.” I sigh.
“There’s your chance. Long work hours with her, and then she can’t help but see what a fine young man you are.”
I groan. “She got sick the last time she saw me. I don’t think the words fine young man are anywhere in her vocabulary when it comes to me. I think she likes the way I look … well, no, I know she likes how I look. But she doesn’t like me at all as a person.”
“I’m not sure you know what you are talking about,” Grams says primly and folds her hands in her lap.
“I don’t think you know what you are talking about,” I say to her, laughing. “You haven’t met this girl. Besides, I don’t think I want to pursue anything with her. It’s a bigger headache than it’s worth even if she does intrigue me.”
“If you say so. Can you grab me a lemonade from the fridge?” Grams asks, and I get up to get her one. “Cut a piece of that pie and take it home. Better yet, cut two pieces and give one to Jules. She’s not watching her weight, is she? Even so, take her a piece,” Grams keeps on talking while I’m in the kitchen, and I can’t help but grin.
“Okay, Grams, I’ll cut two … but I’ll probably eat them both. We both know you are the best cook around.”
“Well, if you were smart, you wouldn’t eat a woman’s food.”
“It’s not her food yet. I haven’t given it to her,” I say, rolling my eyes as I hand her the glass of lemonade.
“I’m going to ask her when I meet her,” Grams says as she narrows her eyes at me.
I laugh, but I know she’s not playing around. She will remember to ask, so it looks like I’m dropping a piece of pie off for Jules sometime soon.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, and I fish it out.
Speak of the devil.
I walk back into the kitchen and answer, “Hey.”
“Hey, it’s, um, Jules,” she says.
God, her voice is sexy. I’ve never really noticed since she’s usually shooting daggers at me.
“I’m returning your call about scheduling.”
Oh shit, right.
“Oh, yeah, um, hold on. Let
me look at my calendar real quick.” I put her on speaker while I pull up my calendar.
“Okay,” she says, waiting.
“Mason? Who are you talking to?” Grams asks from the den.
“No one, Grams,” I say to the doorway.
“Excuse you. I’m not no one,” Jules says out of the speaker.
“I heard that.” Grams is standing at the kitchen table now, and I jump.
“God, Grams … don’t sneak up on a person like that,” I mutter.
“Give me the phone,” she says, holding her hand out while sinking into a kitchen chair.
I stare at her for a moment and then decide that I don’t want to be on her bad side. Handing the phone over, I clench my fists, a million thoughts running through my mind of what Grams could say to her.
“Is this Jules?” Grams says, holding the phone up.
“Yes, um … who is this?”
Grams grimaces when Jules’s voice comes out loud over the speaker.
“I’m Virginia, Mason’s grandmother,” Grams says loudly into the speaker.
“Grams, it’s on speakerphone. You don’t have to hold it up to your ear,” I tell her while she shushes me.
“Hi, Virginia. It’s great to talk to you.” Jules’s voice bubbles out of the phone. “Weird coincidence, but I’m actually from Roanoke, Virginia.”
“Are you now? Do you happen to know the Marsdens? They still live there, I think …” Grams trails off while staring at the ceiling.
“My parents are friends with Jimmy and Martha Marsden, but those are the only ones—”
“Yes, that would be Kent’s son and his wife. Oh, tell your parents to tell them that Virginia Porter said hello.” Grams grins widely.
Oh my gosh, what have I done?
“I will,” Jules says.
“Now, I’ve made a pie, Jules. Do you like pie?”
“Love it.”
“Great. I was hoping you weren’t one of those girls who didn’t eat. I’m going to have Mason drop you off a piece, so you tell him where you live, okay?”
“Okay, Virginia.”
Jules’s laugh sounds from the phone, and I cover my mouth to shield my smile.
Damn, Grams has game.
“Perfect. So nice to talk to you, dear. Here’s Mason now,” she says as she hands the phone back to me. “Now, was that so hard?” she says to me before pushing herself from the kitchen chair and heading back into the den.
“Hey, sorry about that,” I say, clearing my throat as I bring the phone back to my ear.
“No problem. I’m excited about pie now, and your grandmother is wonderful.” Her voice blares into my head before I remember that I never took her off speakerphone.
“Okay, about the schedule. Are you free to start this week?”
We hash out plans, and I somehow remember to grab her address before hanging up.
That was weird.
She was almost nice to me. She did sound a little odd, giving me her address, but it is a strange thing I’m doing, just dropping off a piece of pie my grandmother, who she has never met, made. Grams is slick; I’ll give it to her. Too bad this is one fairy tale that won’t have a happy ending.
Jules and I are just too different to work. Oil and water. Fire and gasoline. Any other things you want to put together that don’t mesh. I guess that’s why we have clashed from day one.
My mind picks that moment to bring up images from the backseat of my truck. A whisper of a moan, the way her skin felt as goose bumps rippled underneath my fingers, the little hairs that stuck to the sweat on her forehead. God, that was our best clash yet, and I can’t help but get a little stiffy.
I look around, remembering that I’m standing in my dad’s kitchen, and reach down to adjust myself.
“Mason? Why are you so quiet in there?” Grams’s voice floats in from the den.
I smile. I can’t help but be amused by her matchmaking ways. According to her, I’m wasting my potential for not settling down. Too bad this is one match that won’t be made, but I can’t deny her the fun.
“Bring me a piece of pie, will you?”
“Coming right up, Grams,” I say and open the drawer beside the sink for a knife. I lean over the table to cut three pieces of pie and put plastic wrap over two of them on the same plate.
“Here you go.” I hand Grams her plate and fork, and she looks up at me with a grin.
“What are you waiting for? She’s expecting pie.” Grams sticks a forkful of crust and strawberries in her mouth before shooing me away with her hand.
I lean down to kiss the top of her head and head out the door with my plate. Nerves suddenly assault me, causing me to second-guess what I’m about to do as I climb into my truck. After a few deep breaths, I decide not to risk the wrath of Grams and plug in Jules’s apartment address in the Maps app on my phone.
Two pies, coming right up.
19
Jules
Oh God, Oh God.
“What have you done, you idiot?” I hiss at myself in the mirror as I lean over the sink, my hands splayed on either side.
As soon as I hung up the phone with Mason, I realized my mistake. I’m pregnant. With his child.
And now, he’s coming to bring me pie that his angel of a grandmother baked.
What would she think of me if she knew? Pregnant from a one-night stand with her grandson. I have to leave. They can’t ever know. I will swear Hanna to secrecy and get the hell out of Dodge.
Oh God. I still haven’t told my parents. I’ve been living a life of lies and secrets. They will kill me.
Running to the toilet, I empty my stomach again—for the fifth time today.
At least there will be room for pie now.
I roll my eyes and stand, brushing my hand against my mouth. I walk to the sink to rinse my mouth with water, not looking in the mirror. I know I look terrible. My face is flushed and clammy, but Mason is coming, and I can’t put this off any longer. I have to tell him. I reach into my drawer and pull my brush out, running it through the matted mess on top of my head.
Screw it. I reach over to turn the shower on. I’m not smelling my best at the moment.
After a shower and a little makeup application, I feel like a new woman. I sit down on my couch, my stomach a ball of nerves as I anxiously check my phone, wondering if he’s coming or not. I’m wound up, and I leap a foot off the couch as someone pounds on my door. I stand, pressing my hand to my chest before moving it down to my stomach and cradling it lightly. I stare down at my hand, eyes wide as I realize, in a few months, the view is going to be different.
The knock comes again, jolting me from my reverie, and I start toward the door, checking the peephole. Mason is on the other side, a plate held in one hand and the other tucked casually in the pocket of his jeans. His brown hair is perfectly mussed, and he has a day’s worth of stubble lightly dusting his jawline.
I reach with shaking hands and turn the dead bolt while twisting the doorknob. I open the door a crack and peek out. Gosh, he looks even better than he did through the peephole. My face starts to flush, and I throw the door open wide and turn to stand with my back against it, ushering him in.
“Hello,” I say as he stands there, looking at me.
“Hey,” he casually says back, looking good enough to eat.
I press my palms against the door as we look at each other.
“Would you like to come in?” I ask, pointing to the inside of my apartment.
He nods and steps over the threshold, and I wonder if this will be the first and last time he does after today. My heart is in my throat, and I try to talk around the lump, rambling on. I grab two forks from the silverware drawer. Mason sets the plate of pie down on the table and lightly rests his hand on the back of a chair.
“Sit down. We have to try the pie,” I say with a smile before pulling a chair out for myself.
Mason glances around, his eyes wide as he looks back at me. “You want me to stay?” He points to his chest.
We both pause a moment.
I narrow my eyes and shove my fork toward the plate on the table. “Only for the pie. Don’t get any ideas,” I tell him.
His smirk returns, and he takes his jacket off and puts it on the back of his chair.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, sitting down across from me and popping a forkful in his mouth.
We both dig in, enjoying the pie and avoiding each other’s eyes like the plague. Once we are done, I hop up to quickly wash the plate off before giving it back so Mason can return it to his grandmother.
“Tell your grandmother the pie was delicious, and I would love the recipe,” I tell Mason with a smile while my gut clenches when I think about what I’ve got to tell him.
He takes the plate from me with a nod and then takes a few steps back toward the door while still facing me.
“Yeah, sure,” he says awkwardly.
The silence that stretches between us is deafening. I take a deep breath and decide to just get it over with before I throw up right here on the floor.
“Mason—”
“Jules—”
“You go first,” I tell him, forcing a laugh.
“Okay, I just wanted to say that even though I enjoy our arguing, it was nice to just be friends with you,” he says, shuffling one foot around on the floor.
My eyes follow the path it makes before trailing back up him to land on his eyes, and I do it. I blurt it out because I can’t hold it in any longer, “I’m pregnant, Mason.”
The smirk falls off his face, and he releases a strangled noise from the back of his throat. He bends over and places one hand on his knee, the other still holding on to the plate. He tucks his head down, and I can’t see his face anymore.
“Hey, are you okay?” I step forward before he suddenly stands back up again.
“Yes. Why are you telling me this?”
Is he dense? Why else would I be telling him?
“Because it’s yours.” I control the urge to roll my eyes. I realize I’ve got my fists clenched, and I slowly relax them, rubbing them against my legs.