Out of My League

by Sarah Sutton

  “Your mother was craving tacos tonight.”

  My nose scrunched up.

  “Don’t worry. I made the vegetable casserole that you like too.” My expression—which morphed into utter shock from the fact he remembered one of my favorite meals—must have been comical, because he laughed. “We’re sitting at the table tonight.”

  I stared at his retreating figure, pushing to my feet. “Were you abducted by aliens?”

  “Yep,” Dad called. “And they’re coming for you next. It’s better to have a full stomach.”

  When we got downstairs, Mom was already sitting at the table, smiling down at her cuticles. Her eyes lifted when I hopped off the last step, smiling with teeth. It shocked me more than just a little. “Hi, honey. Come sit down.”

  I approached slowly to my seat, trying to trick my mind into thinking that this was a normal, everyday occurrence. It didn’t believe me. Probably because Mom called me honey. “Why are we eating at the table tonight?”

  Dad carried a plate full of hard taco shells over from the countertop, rattling with every step of his. In his other hand was the veggie casserole, steaming. “A change of pace,” Dad said, setting the plates down and sliding behind Mom to sit. As he passed, I noticed that his fingertips traced her shoulders faintly, and she leaned into the touch.

  I immediately braced myself, picking up my knife and fork like they were my weapons in battle.

  “Actually…” Mom slapped her palms together, making a loud pop. “We have some good news.”

  “Good news?” I echoed, skeptical. I wasn’t sure what really classified as good news to them anymore, and I was worried to find out. But Mom’s face held enough of a glow that my heart couldn’t help but beat a little faster.

  Dad caught my eye as he doled out a portion of my veggie casserole. “So, did you know that your mother’s friend, Mariana, is a licensed therapist?”

  I looked between them. “Uh, no, I didn’t know that.”

  “I spoke with her over the Fourth,” Mom said, smiling wider, “about everything. Things with you, things with your father, and she talked us into it.”

  “Talked you into what, exactly?”

  Dad reached over and placed his hand on Mom’s, squeezing her fingers. “We’re no longer getting a divorce. We’ve decided to start therapy.”

  It took several moments for his words to actually register in my brain. Therapy. The word didn’t make sense at first. They actually signed up for therapy? Like, couple’s therapy? Despite their struggles over the years—they’d never done that before.

  I was blinking fast, as if fast blinking would somehow make all this normal. “You’re going to Mariana for therapy?”

  “Oh, no,” Mom said. “That would be a conflict of interest. But she gave us a great referral. We’ve been going for the past week.”

  “She did help us realize, though, that we’ve been too absent. And I know grounding you was a bit too much, but we’ll find our balance soon.” He dipped his chin a little, staring me straight into my eye. “We’re sorry.”

  Mom reached for my hand across the table, across the food, and slid my hand into hers. Her eyes filled, rapidly, a dam about to burst. “We love you—love this family—enough to fight for us.”

  A big part of me just wanted to laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of this moment, how cheesy it could’ve seemed. But there was something so genuine about this. It didn’t feel like some theatrical performance, didn’t feel fake or forced. It felt…real.

  And jeez, maybe that’s because I wanted to believe it so bad—wanted to accept their words so easily.

  The strange feeling that started to well in my chest, I realized in that moment, was pure and utter relief. The old pain of being a silent player in this family was finally going to be resolved. Finally, finally going how they were supposed to. We’d go back to the way things were, or something close. I’d finally have my parents back.

  Things were going to go back to the way they were. They were going to try. Finally, we were really going to be a family again.

  “I love you guys, too.” They were words I couldn’t remember the last time I’d told them. They were words that were a new morning, night turning into day, and I finally woke from my bad dream.

  And then we were all crying over tacos and veggie casserole, holding hands like we were going to start praying, and I couldn’t remember a time I’d been so happy. I couldn’t remember a time where we all held hands, all wore smiles lighting our faces.

  I couldn’t remember a time when I felt so light.

  * * *

  My mom and I curled up together after dinner, Shiba resting along the arm of the couch. Dad already retired into his room after watching a whole chick-flick with us. He’d claimed the romance made him sleepy, and Mom laughed. On that couch, I was a kid again, soothed by her mother’s voice and lulled by her touch. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d binge-watched movies like this together, curled up and happy.

  When the clock chimed eleven o’clock and another romance movie was about to come on, Mom stretched, absently touching her stomach. “Oh, sweetie, I don’t know if I can make it through another.”

  “Me neither,” I said, even though I was still energized from our conversation. “Thank you, Mom. For this.” I gestured at the TV screen.

  She turned to me, her eyes shining. Her smile was wobbly. “Oh, Sophia, we should have done this a while ago. We haven’t done much right. I never realized how much you were hurting in all this. We wanted to give you space to grow up, but it was too much.”

  No kidding. I pulled the hem of the afghan over our legs. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Was it hard to stop thinking about yourself? Changing your mindset and not being so…” I trailed off, knowing that self-centered would’ve sounded bad.

  Mom pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, clearing her throat. “When the incentive is better than being selfish, I found that it wasn’t so hard. One of the first things Dr. Lively taught us was how to stop the situation before it grew destructive. So if there is a point where I put my needs and wants above anyone else’s, I need to stop and see how the situation is unfolding.”

  It felt strange to hear Mom speak like that, self-aware and determined. It made me want to talk to her about everything. About Scott, about Walsh, about the article, about the internship. I wanted to let it all fall out there, hear what she had to say on any of it. But if I told her about my article, what would she say? Would she think it was a good idea or be like Edith and try to talk me out of it?

  So instead, I asked, “What made you two think about therapy, anyway?”

  “Oh.” Mom’s voice was soft, and the tears that were in her eyes a moment ago vanished with her own look of excitement. It ignited her whole face, making her look so young in the dim light as whatever thought in her head built. “We didn’t tell you.”

  Another spasm of apprehension went through me, but less cautious this time. “Tell me what?”

  “Oh, dinner got so emotional, and it completely left my mind—”

  “What did?” I asked again.

  “—which is silly if you think about it, the idea that I could actually forget.”

  I frowned a little. “Mom. What did you forget?”

  If I could’ve frozen this moment in time, I totally would’ve. Slammed my finger on the pause button, never allowing this scene to develop further. Mom’s fingertips curved protectively over her stomach, the wedding band on her finger winking mischievously at me. “I’m pregnant.”

  The words did.

  Not.

  Compute.

  Several beats passed, and it still didn’t register.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I’m pregnant.” Her excited expression hadn’t dimmed yet, hadn’t lost an inch of its glimmer.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Her eyebrows slammed down, effectively cracking her excitement. “Uh, yes, I am.”

&n
bsp; “No,” I reiterated slowly, like trying to get the words through to a child. “You’re not.”

  She shifted her position, tucking her ankles underneath her and leaning closer. “Sophia, I am. I have all the symptoms. Morning sickness, weight gain, cravings—”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re pregnant.”

  “I went to the doctor, Sophia. They confirmed it.”

  They confirmed it. So she made an appointment, and they did an ultrasound, and there was…a baby. In my mother. Right at this very moment.

  The urge to laugh hit me, but no sound came out. A baby literally a baby—was growing in my mother’s stomach. Had been there for some time now, if I really stopped to think about all the times she’d been sick these past few weeks.

  Dear God, I hoped no one thought to secretly videotape my reaction, because the longer Mom stared at me, the more I felt like the world had been ripped out from underneath my feet, and I was falling.

  And I knew now that no matter what people said, I was about to hit the ground. Hard.

  I saw this moment like a picture in a book, reading the little description underneath. A mother speaks the joys of new human life whilst the daughter, sitting beside her, is about to start screaming.

  It all became so horrifyingly clear. My parents weren’t making up for me. Well, not entirely. No, it was for him. Or her. The baby that was butting its way into our messed up lives.

  That was what was happening: they were back to their cycle of playing house.

  It was never about being better parents for me.

  It was about being better parents for the baby.

  Shiba meowed as I got to my feet, my head spinning around and around like a top, nearing the edge of a table. And I was about to fall off the edge.

  “Sophia—” Mom tried to reach out for me, her hand only finding air. “Honey, please listen.”

  But I was already dashing for the staircase, my socked feet slipping on the wooden floor, throat so, so tight. I stumbled as I took the steps three at a time, propelling myself with the handrail. My skin itched and stung, like I’d been bitten by a thousand mosquitoes.

  I shut myself in my bedroom, leaning against the door and squeezing my eyes shut. It was a stupid soap opera. I was trapped in a stupid TV show where it all revolved around death or new life, breakups or hookups. There was no being normal, having normal parents. No normal relationship with normal boys.

  I wanted to scream and scream and scream at the top of my lungs and never stop.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was official.

  I was a complete stalker.

  But standing in the middle of Walsh Hunter’s yard a little after midnight sounded weirder than it actually was. Probably. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

  I should’ve just called him. I should’ve swallowed my stupid pride and asked him what he was doing. Saved myself the embarrassment of staring up at his dark house like a freaking serial killer. And it totally didn’t help that the sky was seriously about to crack open, the thunderstorm looming threatening any second. It just made my presence in the dark creepier.

  This was a bad idea. On so many levels, just a bad idea.

  Granted, I hadn’t set out to do this. Pedaling away from my house in a frantic fervor, Walsh Hunter’s house wasn’t my destination. I didn’t really have one. Desperation fueled me—desperation to just get away. And I found myself here.

  But now that I was here, clutching the handlebars of my bike for dear life, was it wrong that I still wanted to see him? Just to be with him. To feel his arms wrap around me in a way we’d only been once before, hear his voice in my ear telling me everything would be okay. And I would believe it because it was him.

  The collection of windows on his house only held shadows, a vast difference from that night of the party, when someone had turned on every single light on the premises.

  “Sophia?”

  In a rush of sensation, I felt my stomach drop swiftly to my toes, the air whooshing from my lungs.

  Walsh wore long blue pajama pants, a black, loose-fitting t-shirt, and sported his normal mussed hair. His eyes, though, were alert, as if he’d been awake for hours. As if he’d never gone to sleep.

  And when those eyes met mine, those beautiful, beautiful eyes, his eyebrows came together, like he couldn’t comprehend as to why I’d be here at this time of night.

  Breathe, Sophia. Breathe.

  “You tripped the motion sensor in the driveway,” he said, stepping out onto the porch. “The thing lets out a sound in the house like a doorbell.”

  Ah, awesome. So he knew I was out here. Or, well, not me, but someone. He knew someone was being creepy.

  Standing in the middle of his lawn, still propping up my bike, I felt insanely shy. Like, hide-me-under-a-rock shy. Like, is-there-a-way-to-disappear-into-the-ground shy. I wanted to ask him what he was still doing up, but my brain was caught on him and how he said my name. “Hey.”

  Walsh started down the steps in his bare feet. “Are you okay? It’s, like, one in the morning.”

  Did I say shy? No, I believe the correct term would be embarrassed. Insanely embarrassed.

  “I’m great,” I said with way too much enthusiasm, sounding like I was attending cheerleading tryouts. “Seriously. Just out for a little…bike ride.”

  He didn’t quite look like he believed me, and I couldn’t quite blame him. “I refer to my previous statement.”

  I tried for humor. “I wanted to be the first one there when the library opened.”

  “Sounds like you.” He smiled a little bit, but it did nothing to overshadow the concern that was so clear on his face, in his gaze. “What’s really going on, Sophia?”

  His soft-spoken question chased away any further chance of humor, carrying across the yard. My throat burned, and I swallowed hard. I hadn’t been able to let out any tears at home, and not even on the long bike ride over here, but in that moment, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because my emotional threshold reached its limit or because Walsh was looking at me with his eyes so full of concern that it cracked my heart apart.

  The wind, thankfully, was on my side. Icy air coming off the ocean kept my watery eyes from overflowing. “Can I come inside?”

  Walsh and I stood about four feet apart in a faceoff, him just off the edge of his front porch and me still clutching the handlebars. His hesitation had me bolstering myself for a rejection. It was one in the morning—why would he invite me in?

  And yet here I was, asking him to do just that.

  And yet there he was, about to say— “We have to be quiet. Janet’s sleeping on the couch. She fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake her.”

  Everything inside me lurched again, in a way that wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. He’s actually inviting me in.

  As gingerly as I could, trying to hide my shaking hands, I set my bike down and made my way over to Walsh. Five fingers were outstretched to me, and I took them, his hand warm, calloused in all the places I remembered.

  Once we crossed the threshold, Walsh didn’t give me a chance to take my sandals off, so they clack-clacked on the staircase, despite me trying to tip-toe. As we climbed higher, I could see a little bundle on the sofa, graying hair against a dark pillow.

  Potent adrenaline shot through my veins, sending my pulse into high gear. He was taking me to his bedroom. For some reason, the idea of it made me want to simultaneously dig my heels in and go with him. Going to his bedroom felt personal, intimate, a real line that this fake relationship shouldn’t cross.

  But at the same time, I almost felt eager to jump over it.

  Walsh pushed open a door, and my eyes immediately went to a queen-sized bed pushed in the corner, with silky navy sheets that were rumpled, as if he’d just rolled from bed. Looking at it made my cheeks flush.

  It was a relatively clean room; no clothes littered the floor except for a pair of wadded up jeans. A desk sat along the far wall with a picture frame sitting on its sur
face.

  For a moment, neither one of us moved. Walsh still stood with his hand on the doorknob, and I was standing just over the doorway into his room, looking around. I could feel his watchful gaze on me, wary, like he wasn’t sure what I was about to do.

  Honestly, I didn’t know either.

  “So, are you getting excited for the final game?” I asked him, feeling horribly awkward with the uncomfortable silence in the air. His unmade bed called my name—pillows fluffed and blankets ruffled. I couldn’t help but picture him tossing and turning in it, trying to get comfortable. “You haven’t really talked about it much.”

  “I can’t wait,” Walsh replied, but there wasn’t any enthusiasm in his voice to back up his words.

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  “Do what?”

  “Lie.” I fell down on the top of his bed, falling back until the back of my head touched the mattress. It was how he was on my bed, lying back to stare at the ceiling. “You can tell me anything, you know. If you’re not excited about the game, you can be honest with me.”

  I heard Walsh draw in a breath like he was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Even without looking at him, I knew he’d be wearing his mask. The one he shrugged on when he wanted to conceal emotion. More than anything, I wanted him to take it off.

  Two breaths passed before he tried again. “Why are you here, Sophie?”

  Ah, of course. Dodging the subject. For now, I’d let him.

  “I wanted to see you.” There. The words were out there, spoken to the ceiling, spoken to the universe. “I know we said we’d see each other tomorrow, but I…I wanted to see you now.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  It was such a loaded question, and I could’ve unleashed everything onto him. Staring up at his ceiling, I could’ve told him everything. I wanted to. Jeez, I wanted to tell him everything—everything with my parents, with the article.

  But I was a total chicken. “You have a nice bed, Walsh,” I told him instead, stretching out my limbs. His bed was comfortable. His sheets were soft on my exposed skin, and I ran my fingertips over the wrinkles. “Feels super expensive. I bet it’s nice to sleep on.”