Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  “This is exiting, my first drink ever. Who knows, maybe by tomorrow I’ll be doing shots.”

  Carter’s brow crinkles. “You won’t be doing shots.”

  “I might,” I counter. “I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll start doing shots in the afternoon just for the heck of it.”

  “If you’re someone who uses the term ‘for the heck of it,’ I’m pretty sure you won’t be going on any afternoon shot binging.”

  “Well, now I have to prove you wrong.”

  “Go ahead,” Carter challenges me. “And be sure to call me after your first shot, I’m sure you’ll be singing songs of regret into the phone.”

  I hate to admit that he’s probably right. Just the mere thought of doing a shot has my stomach quivering.

  “Fine, I won’t do any shots. But I could if I wanted to.”

  “You could.” He pauses and asks, “Do you want a job?”

  Having a job never really crossed my mind when I was with Grams because my job back then was taking care of her. Now that I don’t have her to watch over, I’m having a hard time figuring out what I want to do for a living.

  Answering Carter’s question, I say, “I do want a job. I’m not quite sure what it’s going to be though. I have some money from my dad to live on right now while I figure it out.”

  “Let’s figure it out.” Leaning forward, his arms propped on the table, he asks, “What interests you?”

  “Oh gosh, I love crafts, and making people smile, and watching musicals.”

  “Okay,” Carter drags out. “Not quite what I was looking for. What about baking? You could always do something along the lines of baking.”

  “Oh, that would be a dream. Baking for a living, what a wonderful job that would be.”

  “One Upslope and a Breaking Bad for the lady,” the waiter says, handing us our drinks.

  I stare down at the colorful concoction with an orange peel floating inside and get nervous. With one sip will I feel drunk? How does this really work?

  “Are you ready?”

  “I think so. My first drink.” I pull my phone out of my purse and hand it to Carter. “Will you take a picture of me with my first drink?”

  “Why am I not surprised by this request?” he asks sarcastically.

  I hold my drink up with both hands and smile brightly. Carter stares at me for a few heartbeats before holding the phone up and taking a picture. His expression is so intense.

  Shaking his head slightly, as if he’s trying to forget something, he holds his beer up to me and says, “Cheers, Snowflake. Here’s to your first drink.”

  “Cheers.”

  We clink glasses and with a deep breath, I take my first sip. I let the liquid ride down my throat and into my belly while I wait. When I feel like it’s settled, I open my eyes, expecting to feel completely different, but I experience nothing.

  “Well, that’s a letdown.”

  “What is?” Carter asks, his grip on his beer strong. Why do I find that attractive, the way his hand grips a pint glass?

  “I thought after my first sip, something explosive would happen.”

  Once again, his eyebrow lifts. “What, did you think when you took a sip of alcohol you were going to morph into something else, like when Peter Parker is bitten by a spider and instantly he’s Spiderman?”

  “No.”

  “Did you think a mariachi band was going to appear and start playing a song for you?”

  “No.” I giggle, kind of wishing that did happen.

  “Then what were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A little lightning bolt would have been cool. Or maybe a dancing leprechaun could have appeared and given me a high five.”

  “Ah, yeah, leprechauns are on strike right now. Not happy with union wages,” he jokes.

  “Well, that explains everything.”

  For the rest of the evening, we talk about what baked goods I excel at making, his favorite things to cook, and other drinks I should try since I apparently like the fruity ones. I’ve established that only after one drink. When it’s time to pay the check, Carter slips his card in the folder before I can even look at the receipt. Apparently it is his treat since it is my first night of drinking.

  Before we leave the table, I down two glasses of water, wanting to avoid any kind of hangover. Carter assures me it will take consuming many more drinks before I have to worry about getting a hangover, but I take a few more sips of water just in case.

  The cold night air hits us when we exit the restaurant, the dark, expansive sky lit up by the city lights.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Oh, I don’t have one. I took a cab over here. I need to call the company to come get me.”

  I start to dial the phone number to the cab company I used to get here when Carter places his hand over my phone, his fingers grazing my skin.

  “You’re not calling a cab. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t mind taking a cab.”

  “You’re not taking a cab,” Carter says more sternly.

  Before I object, he laces his fingers with mine and starts walking me down the street.

  My heart freezes in my chest. My brain short-circuits. Carter is holding my hand. Carter—one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—is holding my hand and walking me down the street.

  My inner Daisy is squealing in delight, reveling in the moment, while the outer Daisy is trying to act as cool as possible.

  But . . . eep, I’m holding a boy’s hand.

  CARTER

  Pretty sure I’ve lost it completely.

  Warning bells are going off in my head, telling me to drop her hand, step away, and run for the hills, but instead of pulling away, my hand stays firmly in place, making sure Daisy sticks close by.

  I would be lying if I didn’t say that was the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever shared with anyone. It’s not just because Daisy’s light and sunny personality is contagious, but because I was able to talk to someone about my passion, and not only was she more than happy to listen, she was actually interested. In my passion. We bounced ideas back and forth about different flavor combinations and what dessert would match what entrée. It was . . . fun.

  Yeah, I fucking said it. It was fun.

  Fun was the last thing I thought I would have tonight after Daisy walked into the restaurant looking like a blonde bombshell. I’ve always thought Daisy was pretty, the girl next door, and it’s impossible not to see her innate beauty. But with the new clothes that frame her physique perfectly, I wanted to take her back to her place, retrieve one of her baggy turtlenecks and a pair of overalls and drape them over her.

  She was more than gorgeous. She looked sexy.

  And I wasn’t about to let sexy, naïve Daisy take a cab back home at night. Nope, not going to happen.

  “You really don’t have to do this,” she says from behind me, trailing my every step.

  “It’s no biggie.” I reach my motorcycle and I hear Daisy gasp from behind me. “Something wrong?”

  Her eyes widen as she observes my ride. “You’re going to take me home on that?”

  Swinging my helmet forward and into her view, I nod. “Do you have a problem with it?”

  She shakes her head rapidly as if she doesn’t want to insult me and then stills. Leaning forward, she whispers, “Aren’t motorcycles dangerous?”

  Matching her lean, taking in her flowery scent, I whisper back, “I’m more dangerous than this motorcycle, and you don’t seem to have a problem being around me. Now, hop on.”

  “B-but, I don’t have a helmet,” she stutters.

  I move in close, so close that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Because I have to touch her—because against my will I feel drawn to her—I reach up and gently push her silky blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her cheeks.

  Eyes widen, mouth parts, and her cheeks flush. Shit, she’s so gorgeous.

  “You’re
wearing mine,” I say in a husky tone, my voice almost betraying the way Daisy affects me.

  “What are you going to wear?”

  I snap the chin-strap in place and flip the visor down so I see my reflection in my helmet. “Nothing.”

  I waste no time getting on my bike and snapping up the kickstand. Holding on to the handles, the wind whipping open my jacket, I nod toward the seat. “Hop, on, Snowflake. It’s getting fucking cold.”

  Hesitant at first, she steps tentatively toward the bike, almost looking like a bobblehead with my helmet on. “I don’t know . . .”

  Turning on the bike, balancing it upright with a wide stance, I lift her visor so our eyes meet. “Tell me something. Aren’t you the one who wants to change, who wants to experience new things?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing. This is an experience. Eat it up and enjoy it.” I gesture to the seat behind me once again. “Now, hop on. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she carefully straddles the seat and quickly wraps her arms around my midsection. Her legs grip my hips and it feels like I have a spider monkey attached to my back. Fuck, if it isn’t the most amazing feeling.

  Shouting through the helmet, she says, “For the record, I’ve always thought my peanut butter cookies were better than my grams’s. Let that be known to the world.”

  I rev the engine and move out onto the road.

  “Noted.”

  JACE

  “One more shot.” Hollyn sways, carrying a Tupperware container with Jack Daniels grazing the bottom. I don’t have shot glasses so we resorted to little Tupperware containers. Classy, I know.

  “One more shot was three shots ago,” I answer, my head feeling fuzzy.

  “Yes, but to end on five shots seems criminal. You can’t end shots on an odd number, then you will have bad luck.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “It is a thing.” She smiles down at me, wiggling the container in temptation.

  When Hollyn called, her voice was bitter, exhausted, like she was at the end of her rope. Kind of like I was feeling, so inviting her over was an easy decision because misery loves company. That, and I wanted to see her. No, more like I needed to see her. She would understand, she would listen, she would tell Life to go fuck itself like I want to.

  “It’s not a thing,” I counter back, not taking the shot. One more is a bad idea, a really bad idea.

  “Fine, you’re going to have bad luck.” She places the shot on the coffee table and flops down on the couch next to me.

  “Bad luck? Come on, Hollyn, pretty sure it can’t get any worse than it already is for me. I’ve reached the pinnacle of bad luck.”

  “Not true.” She shakes her head. “You could break your face and never play baseball again.”

  “Break my face? That’s the term you decided to use? Break my face, not my leg or my arm, but my face.”

  “Face is more dramatic. You can’t recover from a face break.”

  “Face breaks are easy to recover from,” I say, turning toward her, draping my arm over the couch.

  “Oh yeah?” She turns as well and tucks her legs under her ass, curling up. God, she looks so fucking good right now, cuddled up on my couch, her hair flowing over her shoulders. “Ever break your face before?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Huh, weird.”

  “Why is that weird?” I ask.

  Scanning me up and down, with a smile she says, “It sure does look like you broke your face at least once.”

  Burn.

  She’s laughing when I respond, “You must think you’re so funny.”

  “I know I am.”

  “You’re really not,” I counter.

  “You’re only saying that because I bruised your ego.” Leaning forward, providing me a whiff of her feminine perfume, she pats my chest, her hand lingering for a second or two. “Don’t worry, your face is pretty.”

  “Pretty? I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before. Handsome, hot, sexy, but never pretty.”

  She rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on my arm that’s draped along the couch. “And that’s why I have to tell you it looks like your face is broken, so you don’t get too full of yourself.”

  “Believe me, I’m not full of myself. I don’t need your insults to keep me grounded. I have enough guilt to keep me floored.”

  She pauses before responding. “Are you going to finally talk? Or are we going to keep dancing around the elephant in the room?”

  “I don’t know, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  A sad smile crosses her beautiful lips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “Are we talking stories or boobs? Because I have no problem taking my shirt off right now.”

  A breath falls between us before she moves her foot and pushes my leg with her toe. “Are you . . . flirting with me?”

  We’re crossing over into unknown territory. Friends don’t flirt; friends also don’t lust after each other. I want to tread lightly, but the five shots are kicking in and my mouth starts talking before I can stop it.

  “Do you want me to flirt with you?” I answer with a question, because confirming my actions seems too forward at the moment. “Let me guess, you don’t like broken faces flirting with the likes of you.”

  She chuckles, and the almost-terrified look on her face vanishes, the smile I crave more than anything replacing it. “Broken faces need love too on occasion.”

  “Yeah?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her only to gather a palm to the face.

  “Get out of here with that.” Her head still resting on my arm, she continues, “Are you going to tell me what’s got your liver quivering? Or are you going to keep cowering in the corner about it?”

  “Bedside manner, might want to work on it.” She shrugs and waits for me to answer. Yeah, I knew this was coming at some point; she wasn’t going to let me drink and not say anything. That sixth shot is looking good right about now.

  Where do I even start? How does someone talk about their baby mama drama that goes way past who’s going to pay child support? This is the kind of drama that can ruin a person, and not just me. This is the kind of news that will destroy June and Alex.

  Fuck, just thinking about the look on their faces is obliterating me from the inside out.

  “Jace, just get it out.”

  I nod, trying to find the right words. I run my spare hand over my face and blow out a long breath as I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling. Staring at something inanimate will be a hell of a lot better than seeing Hollyn’s reaction. “Rebecca came by my place today.”

  “Who’s Rebecca?”

  “Hope’s birth mom.”

  “Oh God.” Hollyn sits up and scoots closer. With her hand, she forces me to look at her, concern lacing her eyes. “What did she want?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do. Was it money? I hope you didn’t give her any.”

  “Ha.” A sardonic laugh escapes me. If only. “I wish it was money she wanted.”

  “Oh no . . .” her voice trails off.

  “Yeah, she wants Hope back.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? Can she do that?”

  “I have no clue. I talked to Matt today about setting up a meeting with the team’s lawyer and mine to go over all the legal bullshit involved in adoption.”

  “How can she even justify wanting Hope back? Didn’t she sign her rights away?”

  “She did.” I nod, my chest growing tighter and tighter by the minute, sobriety eclipsing both of us due to the heaviness of the conversation. Yup, shot number six would have been a very good idea. “Funny thing about the law, it’s pro family most of the time, meaning justice is often in favor of the birth mom.”

  “I don’t understand. She can’t just ask for her back. She gave her away.”

  I shake my head. “No, I gave her away.” And that’s where the probl
em lies.

  “What do you mean?”

  Blowing out another long breath, I try to steady my voice, anger, guilt, and anxiety making it sound rickety and uneasy. “When Rebecca came to me about three months ago, she said she wanted me to take the baby because she couldn’t handle it. I took that as Hope was my responsibility. When Rebecca signed the rights away to being a parent, she thought she was just signing them so she didn’t have any legal obligations to me. At the time, she wasn’t aware I was giving the baby up for adoption, meaning, she technically didn’t agree with the decision.”

  “But she signed the papers.”

  “Under false pretenses according to her.”

  Hollyn goes to respond just as my phone rings. Giving her an apologetic look, I glance at the caller ID and see June’s name come across the screen. Fuck.

  Instantly my body stiffens, my heart pounding, I feel the urge to throw up.

  With a shaky hand, I stand and answer the phone on a squeak. “Hey, June.”

  “Jace?” Her voice quivers. She knows, there is no denying it. Fuck! “Is it, is it true?”

  Taking a calming breath, my legs feeling like they are going to break beneath me, I ask, “What has been told to you?”

  “That Hope’s birth mom was unaware of the adoption and plans on taking legal action to get Hope back.”

  Yup, that’s the gist of it. Shit.

  Her sobs break me half.

  “Can she . . . can she do that, Jace? Can she take her away? I can’t lose her, Jace. It will destroy me; it will destroy Alex. This is something we won’t be able to bounce back from.”

  I’m going to fucking lose it. Right here, with Hollyn in my home and June on the phone. Regret settles deep in my belly, regret for not making sure Rebecca knew my plans, regret for not checking all the boxes before I matched Hope, regret for being so hasty about having lawyers involved. This is all my fucking fault. Why hadn’t I been advised about this? Perhaps I should have been more clear, but at that moment in time, when deciding who to give my baby to, being clear to Rebecca wasn’t even on my mind. Now I wish it was.

  I pace the living room, pulling on the ends of my hair. “I’m not sure, June. I’m meeting with my lawyers tomorrow. We are going to figure this out. I promise.”