The Dating Charade

by Melissa Ferguson

  Then there was The Middle Ground Plan, the plan she’d landed on. Dip his toes in the water first, ask in a general way about kids. Dig a little deeper to see if he could get on board in the future. Then, if that went well, knock him off the high dive: Hey, so you know how you just said that maybe you could see yourself with kids one day? Well, guess what? I have three now. Yay!

  So, here she was, doing the unspeakable. Asking on a third-and-a-tenth date about kids.

  And, to her slight surprise, he wasn’t running desperately for his car. To her definite surprise, in fact, his expression lightened.

  “Really? You know, I wanted to talk with you about that too.” Headlights illuminated the grass around them, the Haven beside them, as another set of cars passed. He scratched his head. “Uh, so you go first. What did you want to say?”

  “Well.” Cassie took a breath. “You know, when I put down on my profile that I didn’t want kids, I didn’t mean that exactly. It’s not that I don’t want kids. It’s more that I can’t have kids.”

  “Really?”

  She frowned. His face had lighted up like a house wrapped in five thousand feet of Christmas lights. He might as well have said, “Really? You’re infertile? That’s fantastic!”

  His face mellowed. “And by ‘really,’ I mean I’m so sorry to hear that. Continue.”

  “But, despite that . . . hurdle . . . I’m not really opposed, per say, to kids. I even like them.”

  He shook his head. “I was wondering why on earth you hung out with kids for a living if you didn’t.”

  “Yeah. Well, anyway, I think it’s important that you be aware, that you know, that—” She straightened, dropping the bomb. “—I’m thinking about adoption. Like, seriously.”

  “You’re kidding.” The ball dropped to the cement.

  He looked as though he was trying hard not to throw his head back and laugh. Then, suddenly, he was laughing. A laugh of such relief, of such joy, that her eyes drifted to the apartments behind the Haven, half expecting faces to peek out behind the blinds. “Me too.”

  “You too? Wait. You’re thinking of adoption too?”

  Jett wanted kids.

  Jett was even considering adoption.

  All the hurdles that had been ten feet high, that she had somehow been expected to jump over in her five-foot-nine-inch frame, were somehow behind her. She had crossed the finish line and stopped, amazed and surprised to see that the journey that was so impossible five minutes before was over before it had barely begun. He was not concerned about wanting kids after all. But even better, even harder to achieve, he was not concerned about her desire to adopt. If she had said that to a hundred other men with the same original stance, she doubted there would’ve been five who would’ve changed their tune so readily.

  And it took so little convincing. In fact, it took no convincing.

  It was exactly what she’d dreamed of.

  Maybe crazy Edie could’ve snuck the kids into the relationship, but that was the last thing she wanted—for Jett’s sake, of course, but even more so for the kids. Star, Deidre, and Kennedy were not tag-ons. They weren’t one of those “Buy this kitchen set and we’ll throw in a useless spatula” kind of deals.

  They were equally part of the package, as essential as the stainless steel in a stainless-steel stockpot. She wanted nothing more than for a man, this man, to be as excited to get to know these girls as potential daughters as he was to get to know her as a potential wife. And yes, though this was only a possibility for the future, she needed that assurance now. She needed to know he would never “put up with the kids” for the sake of having her.

  Suddenly, however, that needless worry was over. He wanted kids. He wanted to adopt. There was nothing left to fear.

  “My story is going to be a little crazy, Cassie.” He rolled the ball lightly beneath his tennis shoe, a sudden ease in his demeanor she hadn’t noticed before. “Honestly, I didn’t want kids. Not until three weeks ago—no, not even that long. Days. But now, I’m starting to get it. Starting to see just how amazing little people are. Of course, I still don’t know how you do it with all those teens.”

  Glistening sweat beads fell off the tips of his short hair as he raked a hand through it, smiling at what was supposed to be a compliment.

  Cassie hesitated. “You . . . don’t like teens?”

  “Let’s just say they’re better off under your wing.”

  “Teens are pretty great, Jett. You just have to get to know them.”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.” His eyes widened, clearly realizing he was barking up the wrong tree. “But you gotta admit it takes a special person to be able to work with them. Me, I’d rather haul a hundred-and-thirty-five-pound hose into a burning building than spend ten minutes with one of them. But the little kids now. Toddlers. They’re incredible.”

  Being “able” to work with them. Her focus narrowed in on that word, distinct as the crow soaring beneath a blanket of snow-white clouds. Her voice hitched. “Toddlers? Toddlers are the ones who throw temper tantrums in the middle of a grocery store. Whenever you see a parent who looks like they hate life, you can bet there’s some little kid around.”

  “They can be exhausting, sure, but at least they’re not having moody blowups every ten minutes,” Jett said. He paused as though recalling a particular situation. “They can be so ungrateful.”

  Cassie laughed without humor. “And toddlers aren’t moody?”

  “Sure, but they’re just a few years old. Teens are old enough to know how they should be acting, without doing it. But babies. When they snuggle up to you—”

  “And poop in a diaper. It’s disgusting. You won’t ever change a teen’s diaper.” She picked up the ball. Tossed it a little harder than she intended at his chest.

  He caught it, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, with teens all you have to worry about is them cussing you out and stealing your meds. Sure. Teens are a breeze.”

  His return throw bounced loudly on the concrete before she caught it. She bounced it back. “Babies spit up.”

  “Teens throw up after getting drunk at a party you didn’t want them to go to in the first place.” He bounced the ball back to her.

  She caught it. A frustrated huff escaped her chest, and she didn’t try to hide it. “At least you’re not walking around like a zombie with three hours of sleep a night.”

  “At least you’re not worrying about them getting pregnant.”

  They stared each other off, she with the basketball on her hip, he with sweat dripping down his forehead. A bead drifted into his brow, then eyelid, but he didn’t move. He was too busy resisting her, ignoring the drop as though any movement whatsoever would have been a white flag.

  Her gloved fingers wrapped around the ball. “So that’s it, then. You hate teenagers.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Sure. Yes. Forgive me, but I’m like every other person in the world who would rather dive into a shark tank than sit with them for ten minutes. And you are the one female in existence who doesn’t look at a picture of a baby and think they are adorable.”

  “Oh, I’ll look at the picture, alright,” she said, her voice rising menacingly. “Then laugh at how miserable the parents are every single night of their lives.”

  He nodded once, twice, lips once so attractive now tightening into a firm, straight line. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Likewise.”

  She stared at her ball for several long seconds, aware of just how badly things had turned in a span of a minute. “I guess I’ll see ya.”

  She heard him clear his throat, all the while incapable of looking up. “I guess so.”

  A heavy moment passed in silence. Then she dropped the ball, and they both moved.

  There was no sound but the slow, rhythmic bounce of the ball thudding against the concrete as they both walked swiftly across the grass to their cars.

  20

  Jett

  His frozen knuckles gripped the wheel tight enough to unlock
a bank vault.

  A woman who hated toddlers. It was insane.

  Sure, every point she had brought up had been verbally plagiarized from his own mouth. Sure, when Drew had torn open the shower curtain on him that morning, he’d declared he’d find the padded white walls of a mental hospital a welcome alternative to the chaos of his own apartment. Yes, Timothy had spit up on his shirt enough times to make him a walking advertisement on the benefits of stain remover. True, Drew had fallen flat on his face crying bloody murder in the middle of the cereal aisle because he wanted to hold the blue box instead of the brown one.

  But there was nothing quite like holding a sleeping baby at 4:00 a.m. against his chest.

  But no adult could make him laugh so authentically as the twins did over the silly things they said each day.

  But no one could walk past those curly-headed three-year-olds without feeling the urge to rub their heads.

  But—and here was the big one—he had no other choice.

  So, if children were her archenemies, if that was her authentic opinion, far be it from him to chain her down just for his sake.

  He swung into his parking spot and went up the stairs, his featherlight tennis shoes feeling more like tactical boots trudging through swampy waters. By the time he reached the top stair, he might as well have fought a mile against a river’s waist-deep current. The string lights framing his neighbor’s door looked dull to him. The large red bow on the wreath drooped as if it, too, wanted to give up on the holiday.

  All right, he thought, not give up. But still.

  He shuffled through his keys, trying to muster the energy to see the kids again. Because once that door opened, if any of them were awake, there would be no time for private thoughts, no moments to brood, no seconds to pity himself or complain. It was just 170-mile winds of twins; the only thing he’d be doing was hanging on tight and trying not to get tossed into the hurricane.

  He waited, but a sudden burst of energy didn’t come. Home hours early with nowhere to go, he had no choice but to turn the doorknob.

  And walk straight into Trina.

  “Trina?” He stepped back and looked down to the plastic bag at her feet. “How . . . how long have you been here?”

  Thoughts whooshed in on him. Trina had returned. She’d come back. She was standing here. She was sorry for dumping the kids on him, of course, and was about to jump in with apologies. Admit her life was out of control—there was no way she could deny it now. She’d have to ’fess up to it, and then, then they could have a realistic talk about rehab. It wouldn’t take that long, maybe a few months, but eventually she’d get out, get a job, take the kids . . .

  Take the kids.

  Freedom. He would be the fun uncle he was meant to be—

  She put up her hand.

  “Don’t say anything, Jett. Don’t. I’m just here to get them.”

  But whatever she had expected his response to be, he was certain it wasn’t for him to kick the door shut behind him. “Over my dead body you are.”

  They stared each other down. Him with hands on hips, chest starting to pant, the same stance he tried on his own mother when he was fifteen. (It didn’t work then, either.) Her with skinny jeans hanging loosely off her hips. Her dyed hair stripped at the roots, a thick coat of malnourished gray aging her beyond her mere twenty-eight years. She sucked in a deep breath, her collarbones rising from the thin layer of pale skin like a wishbone ready to be snapped.

  It wasn’t she who was snapping, though, but him.

  “Where the heck have you been?” He was tired, so tired, of tiptoeing around her. “You scared your kids to death.”

  “I knew you were coming back.” She said it as if concluding the conversation, moving past him and toward the hall.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Trina. That is no excuse and you know it.”

  His last words emphasized the truth, the shared memories of an unsupervised childhood—particularly the fresh-colored scar along her jawline serving as the daily reminder of the two-story fall out the window when she was five years old. Guilt found him every time he looked at it, always aware that though only six, he had been there, had gotten her to sit on the sill with him, had experienced the horror of seeing her suddenly explode through a screen that, to his child eyes, looked like a concrete wall only moments before. He’d never forget the horror of thinking she’d died that day, seeing her body laid out on the grass below.

  But instead of stilling her, of making her remember, she shook off his hand as though he’d tried to capture her instead. Her face grew indignant, her neck red. “Get out of my way, Jett. I can take my kids if I want.”

  “Take them where, exactly? Last time you were here you had no place to go.”

  “I found an apartment.”

  “Where?”

  She lifted her chin. “Beaver Run.”

  Jett shook his head, knowing exactly the shoddy complex she was referring to. The very thought of Dakota skipping down the cracked sidewalk littered with cut glass, curls flying, made his stomach ball up. “If that’s really where you want to go, fine. But you’d better go ahead and lease a one-bedroom.”

  Her eyes were starting to bulge, the explosion imminent.

  “Well, what did you think was going to happen after you left them here, Trina?” He held out his hands. “That I was just going to turn them over to you as if nothing happened? Help you load up them up in their car seats? You aren’t in a position to keep them safe right now. For their sakes, and your own, you need to take a good look at yourself and get clean.”

  Trina put a shaky hand behind her ear. Her voice was tense, tight. “I’m fine, Jett. I’ve taken care of them just fine for three years.”

  No. She wasn’t fine. Nothing was.

  “Are you high right now?” He took a step toward her, knowing the familiar scent on her breath, seeing the dilated blacks of her eyes trying to swallow the celery color whole.

  This time she retreated, pulling on the sleeves of her jacket as though hiding her fingertips helped conceal the truth.

  His chest felt like it was going to burst at that moment. The world was insane. Everything, everything, about it was broken, and he was utterly powerless to change any of it.

  Except right now he could do one thing. And everything within him pointed to that one thing. He could keep them safe. Tonight.

  Jett forced his voice to remain calm. He took a step toward her. “Stay here. Sleep it off. And, for the love of God, yourself, and your kids, let us get you help tomorrow. Please. Your kids need you, the Trina I know. They need their mom.”

  Jett held out a hand to her, prepared to usher her toward the bedroom. To the kitchen. To the shower. To wherever she needed to go.

  And for a fleeting second he felt he saw the dilated pupils recede and the celery irises of her eyes fight to return.

  His hand stretched out.

  Dakota’s giggle floated down the hall, and Trina’s eyes flickered toward it. Her expression widened as though trying to peer down a hall that looked miles away. A single expression: longing. A single moment: contemplation.

  He’d finally struck a nerve.

  But then, quick as a wink, she was gone.

  Jett stood in the open doorway and looked out for a long time on the parking lot below, the icy breeze billowing up the dark stairwell.

  He heard Drew call out for Jett from the bedroom. He moved inside, shut the door.

  Always love. Always try. But never, ever, raise your expectations.

  21

  Cassie

  “It’s a . . . Grow Your Own Boyfriend,” Cassie said, speaking to Bree through her smile and gritted teeth. “Just what I always wanted.”

  Frank Sinatra sang over the speaker on the fireplace mantel, trumpets interrupting conversations on couches and love seats, recliners and floor. Star, Deidre, Kennedy, and their soon-to-be cousins were huddled up beside the tree they had not so long ago called the fire department over, intently sorting thr
ough the presents for name tags they recognized, passing out—when prodded—ones meant for the adults.

  Christmas morning at its finest. Well, technically two days after Christmas morning at its finest, given Cassie had learned the hard way why mothers everywhere dreaded winter and all its shower of germs. Even so, the family was all here at her house now. The stomach bug had finally been purged, and there were gallons of eggnog to go around. The sun couldn’t have shone brighter on her happy little home.

  “What did you get, dear?” Cassie’s mother stood up from behind the couch, finding another shred of wrapping paper to squeeze into the overstuffed trash bag. “Show everyone. We want to see.”

  Cassie bit her bottom lip and held up the package that looked like it contained a Ken doll. Only instead of a Ken doll, it was a purple blob of a figure. Directions on the box proudly directed the user to just drop the thing in water and see it grow overnight.

  Bree stepped in.

  “A Grow Your Own Boyfriend,” Bree declared loudly. “I got one for both of us.” Bree whipped hers out of her purse and held it up, either ignorant to the vapid smiles of Cassie’s family or, what was more likely, totally unconcerned about them. She wrapped an arm around Cassie. “I threw in a gift card. We’ll take ’em out for a night on the town.”

  “That’s hilarious.” Star dropped her new burgundy jeggings in her lap and reached over Bree’s knees for it.

  “Oh, my turn. Robby, give Cassie her gift, please.” Cassie’s mother grabbed another piece of wadded-up paper with the superior-quality aluminum reacher she’d unwrapped this morning—known by her mother as “the claw thingy that picks up stuff like those nice people do when picking up trash from the side of the road.” The reacher zoomed over several heads as she pointed it to the coffee table. “That one, with the big bow.”