by Aria Ford
I laughed. “That’s rough.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said thinly. “Now, what are we having today?” he pulled out the menu and gave it a brief glance. He always does that and he never orders anything new. It was a ritual I’d gotten used to over the years.
We ordered what we usually ordered—I ordered salmon and he ordered the quinoa burger with tahini sauce. While we sat chatting and catching up, I noticed him giving me an odd look.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re different,” Art observed thoughtfully. “Something’s up.”
“Different, me?” I asked, then laughed. “I’m probably just stressed, Art. There’s a big meeting with my dad’s investors on Monday and I don’t want to make a mess of it.”
“The stress is normal,” he said with a grin. “I’ve known you what—five years? Never seen you not stressed…this is different.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I kept quiet. I had a good idea of what might be different, but I wasn’t letting on. Is it so obvious how happy I am?
Meeting Jackie had made me happy. It had also disturbed me a lot. I had never had such an overwhelming reaction to someone on first meeting them. It was weird. I was half-tempted to confide in Art, except that we were in a busy restaurant and it wasn’t really a subject to discuss where the next table could hear everything we might say.
“So, plans for tomorrow?” Art asked, taking a sip of water. Our order had arrived and I was eating methodically, enjoying the rich taste of the salmon, cooked to perfection as always.
“Not really,” I confessed, swallowing a mouthful of the buttery salad of wilted greens that always came with the salmon. “Catch up with things, go work out, check work…”
“The usual cheerful weekend, eh?” Art chuckled.
“It’s peaceful,” I said defensively. Peaceful and way healthier than what I used to spend my Saturday nights doing, but I didn’t say that to him.
“Well, I’m heading out of town for the day,” he said. He went on to detail his plans about driving into the countryside to go hiking. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to get myself talked into joining him or not, so I kept my replies neutral. He didn’t press me for information, or to accept his invitation for tomorrow, but I could see those clever eyes observing me and I knew he was trying to work out what was new in my life.
Well, there’s not much point in guessing, Art. She’s not part of my life.
I surprised myself with how much that thought hurt me. I regretted that she couldn’t be part of my life. Which was crazy, since I barely knew her. We finished lunch and when I drove back home I got a call from my father. I sighed.
“Son?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“We have to meet Stuart Jutland tomorrow. The business lunch? The proposition? Don’t forget.”
“Okay,” I said, sighing. I actually had forgotten. That put paid to any ideas I might have had about going hiking with Art. “I’ll be there.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Okay, Dad.”
I sighed and hung up. Leaned against the steering wheel for a bit while I thought about my life. My dad owned the company—an international transport company for goods—but I was supposedly a leading executive at the place. All the same, my job description seemed to be as flexible as Dad’s needs were: from entertaining business guests to keeping lists of freight ships and their different capacities, Dad had always drawn me in wherever he needed me.
I guess the research about ships and engines and things probably shaped my love for cars. That was the only good thing I could think about it. For all that he ran me down almost every day, Dad did tend to use me.
I guess it was tough for him after Mom left him. Dad had never gotten over that. I loved both my parents devotedly, and the divorce had been hard on me too.
I hadn’t thought about all that stuff for years. It felt as if, after that night, my heart was slowly thawing out. All the little things I’d put on ice over the years were coming to the surface to be felt and considered for the first time.
“Why did she do this to me?” It was weird. I wasn’t sure I wanted my heart to start waking up.
Come on, Scott. You’re being silly. Just go home and do work and get some sleep. I pulled off into the traffic.
As I walked up from the garage and into the sleek, elegant building where I lived, it occurred to me that, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pursue things with Jackie anyway. I hadn’t asked her for her number. I had no way to contact her. I knew her address, but I didn’t even know the number of her apartment, for pity’s sake!
I had no way of finding her again.
After the gym and checking my slides and sorting out my wardrobe and cleaning the bathroom cabinet—things I’d been putting off for months—I found myself on the couch with my phone in my hands, browsing Facebook. I found myself typing her name into the search bar—I knew it was silly to try and go backwards, to try and make something happen, to hope she’d want to see me again after I just walked out and left her—but I couldn’t help it. I also couldn’t find her.
Lots of Jackie Jeffersons popped up, but none of them were her. I tried Jacqueline, too, but no one like her showed up.
Hell. She isn’t on Facebook. I shook my head. Come on, Scott. Stop it. Forget this. How many girls have you had in your life? Move on.
But it wasn’t the same. That was the whole problem. It was completely different and I couldn’t forget. I would have to make myself try.
CHAPTER SIX
Jackie
I woke up and groaned. It was Thursday—the day after my day off. I should have felt refreshed and ready for the rest of the week. But I didn’t. I felt horrible. I rolled over and managed to get myself into the bathroom just before I was sick. I leaned over the toilet, retching dryly and thought angry thoughts.
Great. This is exactly what I need. Now I’m sick too.
As if, I thought, brushing my teeth firmly, I hadn’t had enough horrible surprises this month. Three or four weeks ago, I’d had that whole issue with the gang. Then the guy who’d picked me up. Then dad had got sick and I’d had to take him to the hospital. He was fine now after treatment for his lungs. Now I was sick, for Pete’s sake.
I put the toothbrush down and stared at myself. As I often did, my mind wandered back to that night. The weird night, four weeks ago, when I’d met the guy. Scott. I thought of him often.
“He’s probably the first guy who’s actually made me feel pretty.”
I sighed. That explained why, every time I caught sight of myself in the mirror, or more often than not, I thought of him. I brushed a strand of mousy hair out of my eyes and rinsed my face.
“Right. Let’s get ready for work.”
I washed my face, showered and dressed. Did makeup. Ate breakfast. As I ate my muesli my stomach gave a queasy lurch and I thought I might be sick again, but I kept it down.
At work, things were as they usually were. The teachers handed me the list of referrals and I saw the students, one after the other in my small, anonymous office. It was tough work. Most of them came from families who could have been textbook examples for what not to do—their stories wiped me out completely.
I was feeling particularly exhausted that day and, when lunchtime came along I dragged myself to the tearoom feeling finished.
“Hey,” Barbara, one of the teachers, called. “You okay?”
“I’m fine…” I murmured. “Actually, I don’t know.” My head was throbbing and I closed my eyes, feeling myself sway back. Dammit, what was wrong with me? “Coffee,” I murmured. “I need some.”
Barbara chuckled, then took my arm, looking into my face with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jackie?” she asked. “You look finished.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just seem to have caught some stomach thing or something.”
“Hell, Jacks—you probably should have taken the day off. That sounds serious.”
“No,
” I murmured, sitting down with my coffee cradled between my palms. I felt cold and shaky and the coffee, mercifully, was helping. “I think I’m okay. I don’t know what this is. It’s just that, when I wake up, I’ve been feeling sick just lately. Probably something that disagrees with me. Maybe I should cut out dairy or something.”
“Maybe,” Barbara said. She was looking at me shrewdly. “You feel dizzy sometimes?” she asked.
My head was pounding like a bass-player was having a go at it and I couldn’t focus. I sure was dizzy. “Yes,” I said. “Why?”
As I said it, I realized something. Feeling sick in the mornings. Dizziness. Nausea.
Oh, shit.
I really thought it wasn’t possible. I thought I had a cycle as regular as clockwork and there was no way in hell anything could happen in the first week of the month. But apparently not.
“What is it?” Barbara asked.
“N…nothing,” I murmured. “I think I’ll just go lie down a bit. See you.”
“See you.”
As I dragged myself off towards the sick room, my head still aching, I found myself shaking, only this time it wasn’t fever or longing. It was concern.
I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could I?
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I should—since I was quite regular—get my period tomorrow or thereabouts. But I hadn’t had any of the usual signs. I thought about it more and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was probably right. I was expecting a child.
Scott West’s child.
I made a note to buy a pregnancy-testing kit on the way home—before I got myself all stressed out about this, I might as well make sure of my facts.
I bought a kit when the day finally ended. Took it home. Used it. I thought I might actually faint.
The result was positive.
“Oh, my…” I closed my eyes, feeling a strange sensation in my chest that was mostly panic and horror, but a tiny, jewel-bright thread of wonder.
What was I going to do?
I thought about my options. I didn’t really have many. I had seen too many unwanted children to be entirely against termination—though myself, for personal reasons, I didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to think about it. Already, this tiny life below my hands—tentative, a month in the growing—felt precious to me. If I closed my eyes to imagine him or her, I could almost see the little face before me. A face that was part, Scott, part me. My heart ached.
I do have some maternity benefits, I told myself, thinking about my options. It wasn’t as if I had no way to support myself. I was state paid, which meant I wasn’t paid extremely well, but there was leave and compensation and I could afford medical care. As far as the short term—the next five years—I would be okay. By the time my kid needed to be educated, I would have to have a better income.
That’s in the future, I told myself determinedly. I am going to focus on the present and the next five years first.
I knew perhaps it was bad not to take a longer view. Maybe if I did, I would consider other options. Termination, adoption. Fostering. But for now, all I knew was that I wanted it to be possible to keep her. I wanted my child.
Scott’s child.
I sat on the bed, leaned back on the pillows. Recalled his face to my mind. I hadn’t seen it for a few weeks but I could still remember it clearly—the smooth planes of it, the chiseled bones, the eyes. I felt a tear run down my cheek. I wished I could tell him. Wished I could share this with him. Yeah, he might have used me and walked out without a goodbye, but I felt close to him. Something had happened between us that night, something I couldn’t forget.
I cuffed away the tears, feeling angry and impatient with myself. I should forget him. He had used me.
Scott West, you are an asshole. I repeated the phrase that kept me upright. Kept me hating him and forgetting about him.
I needed to hate him. I needed to forget. Because, deep inside, I knew I felt more strongly about him than I had felt about anyone else in my life before.
And now I was carrying his child.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Scott
The sound of water tinkling into crystal glasses chimed in my head, a delicate counterpoint to the burr of conversation. I looked up. My father was looking across the table at me. We were at the Halston, one of the finest restaurants in town, the wonderful view from the rooftop spread out below us. It was sunset and the sky was deep blue touched with orange and pink fire—a late summer sunset.
“We’re very grateful for your collaboration, Howard.”
That was my father’s voice breaking through my reverie—and he was speaking to the man on his right—a well-built, glossy-haired fifty-year-old in an impeccable business suit. Nevertheless, he was looking at me. I frowned, trying to bring my mind back to the present. Had I missed something? Probably.
It was months since I’d seen Jackie, and I really thought I’d forgotten, but today, more than ever, she was back in my mind. I had been watching the evening sky, lost in thoughts and memories of her.
“Yes,” I murmured. “It’s good to see eye-to-eye.”
The man laughed. I seemed to guess the right thing to say. Which was good. This was not a man I wanted to offend. Father would never forgive me.
He was my father’s main competitor and recently, through considerable effort and entertaining bills that would even have turned my dad’s hair white—not that it could turn whiter—we’d won him round. He had agreed to cede the field of short distance trucking to us, in exchange for partnership in our new shipping venture. It was an occasion worth celebrating.
In fact, we were celebrating, I reminded myself. Which was why I found myself in a suit sitting at the rooftop restaurant on a summer evening, with the sound of clinking glasses and muted conversation in my ears, the scent of spice and perfume in my nose.
Perfume. Alexa.
I turned to my right, where Alexa Jones sat. The daughter of Howard; in fact, his only child, Alexa was elegant, refined and pretty in a cool, indifferent way. She could have been a magazine come to life, from the tips of red-painted nails to her immaculate hair. She was also as quiet as if she were the cover of a magazine.
“Enjoying the salad?” I asked politely.
“Mm,” she nodded coolly. She lifted a glass of sparkling wine and sipped it indifferently, her vermillion-bright lipstick leaving a tiny smudge on the edge. Under normal circumstances, I would have felt my loins tense at that. Weirdly, nothing happened.
But then, it wasn’t so weird. Not only had something happened inside me that left me searching in every face for the soft, gentle lines of Jackie Jefferson. Dad was putting pressure on me and Alexa.
He wanted me to marry her.
“You read the latest book by Stiglitz?”
“Yes,” I nodded. I had, a bit. Mr. Jones looked surprised by my answer. I could almost hear the machinery in his head ranking me up a level. Man can read books. Ten points.
I shuddered and reached for my water. I wasn’t drinking—since my playboy days I avoided drink when I could, afraid to kick-start another cycle of madness in my life. Mr. Jones frowned.
“You going to have some of this Champagne?”
I moved my head to one side, a small shake. “Pass, thanks.”
Raised brows. In Mr. Jones’ world, apparently not drinking was anathema. The machinery ratcheted and I moved down a level. Alexa coughed delicately beside me.
“You went to Hawaii for your holiday this year?”
“I did,” I nodded. “It was nice. You enjoy Hawaii?”
“Oh yes,” she smiled, inclining her pretty head in a dainty nod. “I do.”
“Alexa likes to water ski,” her father put in encouragingly. If she was embarrassed by the paternal intervention, she gave no sign. Just looked at her hands and giggled prettily. I found myself feeling sorry for her.
What would it be like to be a caged bird? To have everything, even your likes and dislikes, in the
common domain as Alexa seemed to? She wasn’t free to make any choices of her own: she even had someone’s hand so firmly on your future that she didn’t even get to decide who to marry.
I shuddered again. I was largely in the same situation, though the bars were less obvious. My father wouldn’t have actually stooped to making conversation on my behalf, but he was nonetheless pushing me along, trying to make me do as he wished. And he wanted Alexa for me. He had said so.
Make her like you, son. I expect great things…having Jones on our side will make us golden. You know that and I do. So make a good impression. We need an alliance—I’m counting on you.
Anyone else saying that would have been being obscure. Knowing my father, it was as good as an edict from the highest lawmaker that I had to marry Alexa. He needed it of me.
“I tried to water ski once,” I said to her with a grin, trying to make conversation. “It didn’t work out too well.”
As it had happened, I had been so drunk as to be incapable of an upright posture on land, never mind at speed on the surface of the water. The experience was one I was lucky to survive. It made me question my friends and the breadth of their friendship. I could have died and all they would have done was cheer me on as they pretended to cheer all my actions, no matter how ill-advised.
She snorted. “It’s easy,” she said lightly. “Maybe you just weren’t shown how.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I said nothing. Just lifted my glass and drank some water and looked out over the magnificent view and the sun sinking slowly across the way.
“Alexa, you should tell Scott about your first skiing lesson.”
Alexa colored. “Oh, Dad. I couldn’t possibly tell him that!”
As Mr. Jones proceeded to tell the story, I watched Alexa swallow her discomfort and giggle along with the rest of us. My father raised a brow at me across the table, as if to say, “this is going well, isn’t it?”
I looked at my plate. The remains of an inordinately expensive dinner looked back at me. I wished myself away from this moment, away from this place.