Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  The neighbor girl hesitates. Shrugs.

  “Do you need advice about something?”

  Another tentative shrug. “It’s stupid.”

  Everything is stupid when you’re fifteen, including the things that aren’t actually stupid, but I know she’ll get the words out eventually. The two of us eat in silence for a bit.

  Then,

  “This boy texted me today and I have no idea what to say back.”

  Ah.

  Boy troubles.

  “Do you not like him? Because you don’t have to text him back.” That will just open a window for more conversation, and if she’s not into him, that will only—

  “Kind of, but I’m not sure. I guess I might, but I haven’t thought about it much. I have so much going on and I’m very busy with work, you know.”

  I bite back a smile.

  Work.

  Meaning the Wallace family drama.

  “It’s okay not to know.”

  Molly pauses. “But what do I even say?”

  “That depends—what did his message say?”

  “It says…” She retrieves her cell from her back pocket, taps on the screen, and holds it up. “Hey.”

  I wait.

  “Um. Is that all it says?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jesus. I cannot with teenage boys, and thank God I’m not a teenage girl these days. If that’s what poor Molly has to work with, she has a long road ahead of her.

  “And you know who this person is? Because if they’re just dropping into your messages, it could be anyone.”

  “Well.” She pushes hair behind her ears. “I said, ‘Who is this?’ and he said, ‘Nate,’ and now I don’t know what to say.”

  “He’s not giving you much to work with.” I know cavemen with better communication skills than Nate. “You could text him back and be like, ‘Hey what’s up?’”

  “That’s really lame.”

  “Well, yeah—it is lame, but I don’t think texting is Nate’s first language.”

  Molly scowls. “Maybe I won’t reply.”

  Her phone chooses that exact moment to ping again, and both of us look at it, stunned.

  I gasp dramatically. “What if that’s him!”

  She checks it. “Oh my god, it is!”

  “Well what does it say!” Don’t keep me in suspense—I can hardly take it!

  “Are you going to the dance next weekend?” Molly reads out loud, glancing up, speechless. “What does that mean?”

  “It means he wants to know if you’re going to be at the dance next weekend!” I laugh. “So, are you?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.” She bites her thumbnail. “They’re pretty boring, and I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to go—they are legit super boring.” She’s holding her phone in one hand, brownie chunk in the other.

  “Alright, well—tell him you’re not sure.”

  “But…” She hesitates.

  “But what?”

  “If I tell him I might not go to the dance, he might not go to the dance. But if I do go after I told him I might not, he might not be there.” Molly sighs loud enough to wake a ghost. “But if I tell him I’m going and then I don’t, he’ll think I’m a jerk.”

  Teenage logic never ceases to amaze me, and I wonder if I confused my mother the same way Molly is confusing me. Or maybe she’s making perfect sense and I have baby brain.

  “But I also don’t want him to think I like him, because I might, but I also might not.” She looks down at me as I soak in the tub, brownie suspended above the water. “I’m very busy you know.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” I can’t resist teasing her, this girl who is so unsure of herself. “There’s nothing wrong with not knowing. Just because some boy decided to text you out of the blue does not mean you have to know how you feel about it.”

  She has a lifetime ahead of her to not know how she feels about people.

  I’m the last person she should be talking to about this.

  “But I’d like to know how I feel about it,” she muses passionately. “I feel like I’m at that age where I should be able to accurately assess how I feel about certain things.” Her teeth nibble into the edge of her dessert. “Shouldn’t I be able to figure this out?”

  Accurately assess? Say again?

  “Word to the wise, Molly—if you’re not sure, that’s probably your answer about it. Nate is a no.” I give my head a definitive shake.

  “So what do I say to him?”

  “Tell him you probably won’t go to the dance—you’re busy that night.”

  She pauses, staring at the screen of her cell. “I can just…say that?”

  “Yes.” I sit up a little straighter in the tub, mindful to keep my boobs submerged. “You can say whatever you want—you do not owe the kid an explanation.” You don’t owe any man an explanation—unless of course you’re preggo with his unborn child.

  Then you have some serious explaining to do.

  I sink back down under the water, blowing bubbles on the surface like a hippo might do at the zoo.

  Ugh!

  Which reminds me: I have a guy to text back as well. One who wants to cook me some food—or have his mother do it.

  “Can I ask you something?” Molly puts down her phone after sending a message—presumably to the unlucky Nate—to give me her full attention once again.

  “Sure.”

  “Who is your baby’s father?” There is no hesitation in her voice, no shy pausing. She wants to know so she’s asking, and it shocks me that this confident girl is afraid of a timid pubescent boy.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? That it could be one of several people and you’re not sure?”

  Is that what she thinks? “No! That’s not at all what that means.” I splash at the water. It’s starting to get cold, which means I should be getting out, or I should run more of it. “I meant…he’s not in the picture.”

  “Why? Is he a deadbeat?”

  “No!”

  Her face scrunches up. “Well what did he say when you told him you’re pregnant? Was he pissed?”

  God, these questions are making me feel horribly guilty because Mateo has done and is none of these things people will assume about him if I don’t tell him soon and let him into my—and the baby’s—life.

  Crap.

  “No, he wasn’t pissed.” I can’t even look Molly in the eye.

  “Well…what did he say?”

  “He…well, the thing about that is…he, um…”

  “Wait—oh my god, is he dead?” Molly’s hands fly to her mouth as she gasps out the realization that the baby’s father may have perished.

  “He’s not dead, he just…I’m taking my time telling everyone the news.”

  There.

  That’s putting it diplomatically.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  I do one of those awkward, clenched smiles. “That depends…what is it you think I’m saying?”

  “That you haven’t told him yet!”

  I disappear below the water, plunging down into my brother’s deep, sunken tub to hide. When I bob back up to the top, Molly is still there waiting for me, disbelief written all over her pretty teenage face.

  “Ms. Wallace!”

  I disappear again, the moniker making me feel old when in reality, I’m young and immature and clearly should not be given the responsibilities God has thrust upon me.

  I rise back up, wiping the water from my eyes. “Don’t say any more, please!” I beg her. “I suck, okay? I’m the worst person! I’m not fit to be a mother!” I cry, letting my bottom lip tremble.

  Molly rolls her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. Your life isn’t over—you’re having a baby, for crying out loud.” She reaches for a towel and sets it on her lap. “It’s way messed up that you haven’t told the dad yet, but you’re going to do it soon—I know you, and you’re not the kind of lady who’s goi
ng to keep it a secret.”

  She has way more faith in me than I have in myself.

  I sniffle, feeling dejected, reaching for the towel. “I’m going to tell him this weekend.”

  “Good.” She stands. “Think of it this way: once you tell him, you won’t be alone anymore.”

  “But I’m not alone.”

  She shrugs. “Having your friends and family know is one thing, but having the guy who’s half responsible…be responsible with you is going to take a lot of the weight off your shoulders.”

  Huh.

  She’s totally right! It will take tons of the burden off me to have Mateo involved, and I bet he’s going to be incredible—if not smothering, wanting to help any way he can. Plus, his sisters?

  Why haven’t I thought of it that way?

  How is this fifteen-year-old wiser than I am?

  Molly the Omniscient leaves me in privacy, and I rise to towel off my wet, pregnant body, stepping out of the tub and pulling the stopper on the drain.

  The plate of brownies has been left behind, so I snatch another one up and pop it in my mouth whole, Molly’s words about needing to eat more echoing in my brain. Don’t eat a ton of junk, but don’t not eat a ton of junk.

  In goes the brownie.

  Once I’m dry and wrapped in the bathrobe I left hanging on a hook behind the door, I slide into slippers and pull back the covers on the bed even though it’s still too early to commit.

  When I’m done texting Mateo back, I’ll join Tripp on the couch if he’s made it home yet, but for now?

  I can flirt a little.

  Mateo: Ice cream, cake, pie, cookies?

  Me: Yes

  Mateo: Ha, you actually want all four? Because I will GIVE YOU ALL FOUR!

  Fifteen minutes have gone by since he replied to his own message.

  Mateo: You still there, or did you doze off?

  Me: Sorry, I’m here! The neighbor girl, Molly, came into the bathroom while I was in the tub to ask me some advice, and she just left.

  Mateo: Wait—so you were being serious about being in the tub? Wet and naked?

  Me: Wet and naked with a plate full of dessert LOL.

  Me: Molly baked brownies and I just ate 3.

  Mateo: Those are my favorite. I especially love the brownies from the outer edge, when those pieces are just a little overcooked.

  Me: If we don’t stop talking about food, I’m going to find myself back in the kitchen and eating whatever I can get my hands on. Your sisters didn’t leave me much pizza. Might still be hungry.

  Mateo: Oh my god, speaking of my sisters—I am so sorry.

  Me: Do NOT apologize for them! They love you and they were adorable. They remind me a lot of my family—and if one of my brothers were single, I’d probably want to set him up with Camila.

  Mateo: **gags**

  Mateo: First of all, that would never happen. Second of all, that would only happen over my dead body. No offense, I love your brother—but he would murder me for dating you, therefore I would have to murder him if he dated any of my sisters.

  Over his dead body? Funny, that’s the same thing Buzz said about him.

  Oh, the irony is not lost on me.

  Mateo: Besides, Camila would eat him alive. He wouldn’t stand a chance, because he wouldn’t be able to stand her—she’s the worst.

  Me: Those are the same things my brothers say about me.

  Mateo: Yeah right—pretty sure your brother thinks you’re a paragon of virtue.

  Valid point.

  I’ve already established in my head that Buzz is going to shit himself when he finds out not only did I have sex, I had it with his teammate and got myself pregnant accidentally.

  Me: Well, I’m confident Buzz could hold his own against Camila. She would be putty in his hands—if he were single. Should we try to find her a boyfriend? I’ve always fancied myself a matchmaker.

  Mateo: Can we worry about ourselves before we start worrying about everyone else? You haven’t told me what night works for this feast I’m preparing for you via mi madre—just that you’re eating all the desserts I can get my hands on.

  Mateo: My very BIG hands, IF you catch my drift.

  Me: Ew.

  I tell him ew even though I don’t think his hands are gross; I’m already well aware that they are huge. Felt them on my body, on my skin. Vaguely. I mean, I was drunk, so…

  Me: How about Friday?

  Nothing like ripping the Band-Aid off at the beginning of the weekend and ruining Saturday and Sunday for him.

  Mateo: Not a word of this to anyone, you got it?

  Me: What do you mean?

  Mateo: I mean, if any—AND I MEAN ANY—of my sisters slide into your messages, you do not under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES tell them you’re going to be at my house on Friday. They WILL show up.

  Me: Promise.

  I need him all to myself for the news I have to break. Can’t afford to have the moment ruined.

  It’s too important.

  Probably the most important night of my life…

  …maybe his, too.

  His. Mine.

  Ours.

  We’re a team now, whether he likes it or not.

  For life.

  If this baby inside me wasn’t already making me queasy, that thought would do the trick.

  I roll over on the bed, sliding under the covers I earlier deemed unnecessary, suddenly wanting to curl up in a ball and sulk, feeling quite sad and alone.

  It’s a miracle I’m able to drift off and dream.

  Mateo Espinoza is the most attractive man I have ever seen this close up—and I would know, because I’ve seen some pretty damn good-looking men in my life. When you have brothers who play professional sports and when you spend your life working in a male-dominated industry, you’re bound to see enough perfect male specimens to curl your toes.

  I totally check him out when he doesn’t think I’m watching; each time he turns his head to glance toward the dance floor, I study the side of his neck. His thick neck, the tendons straining with every movement.

  Clean shaven, I bet he smells divine.

  Like aftershave lotion and shower and man.

  I measure the width of his shoulders with my eyes; they’re broad perfection.

  His dark hair is jet black and looks freshly shorn, if my instincts are correct—it’s not short, but it’s not shaggy. It’s the perfect length for a set of hands to run through.

  My hands, to be exact.

  I keep them busy to prevent myself from touching him, but it’s hard and growing increasingly more difficult.

  Mateo Espinoza is funny. Cute. Smart.

  Polite and behaving like the perfect gentleman.

  Why did I assume he’d act like more of a douche? He’s aligned the features of his face into a polite, respectful mask, giving nothing away. If he’s thinking dirty thoughts about me—the same way I am about him—I would have no way of knowing it.

  Mateo’s gaze hasn’t strayed down to my cleavage once.

  Not one single time—not that I’ve seen.

  Maybe he was gawking at my boobs when I wasn’t looking?

  That gives me hope.

  Or.

  Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive. Maybe he’s only being nice to me because I’m the groom’s sister…

  Weddings are like a drug, and some people get high on the romance, the atmosphere. The food, the decorations, how nice the guests look, decked out in their finest.

  The guests at my brother’s wedding certainly spared no expense for this black tie affair, where potted plants surround the room, their branches sprouting cherry blossoms and lit up with thousands of dim, twinkling lights.

  Mateo himself is wearing a deep navy tux, its fabric so expensive and thick the threads practically gleam. Black satin lapel. Black shiny shoes I only caught sight of when he stepped away to shake his teammate’s hand moments ago.

  Oddly, most of the guests have left us in peace, most likely because there are
no fans here—just teammates and other sports professionals, the few journalists in attendance ordered to be brief and make themselves scarce after any interviews they nab.

  These men are not here to work.

  They are here to enjoy themselves.

  To drink free booze and eat free food.

  To dance with their wives and girlfriends.

  Sure, a few of them aren’t in relationships and their dates are your typical gold-digger-looking types: big boobs, fake hair, spray tans. No offense to them, of course—it’s no crime to be sexy; it’s just…common when it comes to these guys.

  They love that shit.

  Big lips, fake lashes.

  Ugh!

  I’m not feeling dowdy tonight though, thanks to the shapewear beneath this gorgeously slinky bridesmaid dress. Its pink color compliments my complexion, my heels are high, makeup professionally done.

  It may be the few drinks I’ve had, but I feel like a goddess.

  Mateo seems to think so too with the way he’s staring down at me, our height difference magnified by the fact that we’re standing at the bar and not sitting.

  He’s offered me the one open seat a few times, but I prefer it this way, prefer that I can accidentally bump into him. Accidentally brush my hand against his.

  He has to lean down to hear me when I speak, lips grazing my ear each time he does.

  Then.

  He does something new.

  His teeth bite my ear and tug, breath hot.

  It sends a jolt through my body, beginning at my neck. Down my spine, through all the places south of the border, straight to my toes.

  I shiver.

  His nose nuzzles that sensitive spot just below my lobe. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

  Beautiful.

  Not sure I quite believe him when he undoubtedly dates women more beautiful than me, but I’m certainly willing to take the compliment and blush from it.

  Add that to the tingling already coursing through my veins, and I’m positively vibrating.

  I lift my chin a notch so I can look him in the eye; he’s so close his nose drags along the smooth plane of my cheek until our air mingles, mouths a breath apart.

  “You’re pretty, too,” I tell him, for the sake of responding—not knowing what to say. Legs giving out a little, I take the opportunity to seat myself.

  His hands slide over my bare shoulders, large and strong, calloused and a bit rough, if I’m being honest.