Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  “I typically deal with college athletes—I’m not all that familiar with the pros.”

  That’s right—I keep forgetting True works in the recruiting aspect of the business.

  “How has work been for you?”

  She shrugs, drawing my eyes to her bare shoulders. “It’s been great working from home. I don’t think my boss realized until I restructured my travel schedule due to all the morning sickness that I could get so much accomplished being home. Plus, I’m saving them tons of money by not flying. Not needing hotel rooms. Not buying athletes and their parents meals. We can do all our meetings via video calls—it’s been a dream.”

  “At least you’re happy doing what you’re doing.”

  True deliberates. “Ideally, I won’t be at this company forever. I consider it a stepping stone, but nothing else has come up yet. My dream job is working with an athletic apparel company on their marketing team. Lots of fieldwork. But that was then, and this…” She rubs her belly again. “We’ll see how it goes. I think I can do both—I know I can. I’ll just have to decide if I want to when Baby Burrito comes along.”

  “Did you just call the baby a burrito?” I think my heart just melted. “That’s fucking adorable. We should get pictures taken of it wrapped in a swaddling blanket but with lettuce coming out of the top. How stinking cute is my kid gonna be?”

  I can’t take it, the visuals of a photo session already formulating in my mind, all the things I’m going to do with my kid in the off-season.

  “I should probably upgrade my phone so I can get the one with eight camera lenses.”

  True looks confused. “There is no phone with eight camera lenses.”

  “Not today there isn’t, but there will be by the time the baby is born.”

  We laugh at the joke.

  “Can I clear these plates for you, Mr. Espinoza?” the server asks when True and I have finished our starters; I hadn’t noticed my soup is gone and the bowl is empty.

  The table is cleared, new silverware set for the entrees, and True is leaning forward with her elbows propped on the table.

  “Parents, families…who are you telling first, your parents or your sisters—or both all at once?”

  “I don’t know. It’s almost impossible to keep anything a secret, so I might as well do it all at once. If I only tell my sisters, within seconds one of them will call or message my mother, who will call me immediately to yell. But if I tell my parents and not my sisters, then the whole drama becomes why I waited, and they feel betrayed and they fixate on the fact that I waited to tell them instead of the news I’m sharing.” I snatch a hunk of bread from the basket. It’s cold, but I need to keep my hands busy and there is no paper napkin to shred apart. “Having a family full of strong, independent women is the bane of my existence.”

  “I bet.”

  “Are we doing it together, or do you want to be on your own?”

  “You would go with me?”

  “Of course.” Her expression tells me she thinks the question is loco. Crazy. “It might get loud,” I warn her just as our meals are brought to the table by several servers—all young men, who probably requested the honor so they could talk to me. “You’ve met my sisters. Now pretend they’re older and grayer so you get an idea of what my mother is like.” My steak is set in front of me. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll survive, no matter how loud it gets.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  She sets down the knife she’s been using to cut her chicken and looks up at me. “Do you think I’d abandon you if you wanted me there?”

  I mean, she did wait months and months to tell me she was knocked up and avoided all my calls, so it does stand to reason that perhaps she’d want to avoid confronting my family about the same exact thing.

  “It’ll be nice. I’m sure it will be fine, too. They’ll be happy.” Once the shock wears off. “What about your family? What are we going to do?”

  “Ugh, I don’t know. My mom is going to cry—I’m sure she’ll go through a range of emotions. Like, first she’ll be excited and cry. Then once she realizes I’m not in a relationship, she’ll get upset. But then she’ll be happy again, then she’ll be confused. So it’s going to be a whole production. I’ll for sure need a nap afterwards.” She puts a piece of chicken in her mouth and chews, but I can tell she’s not done talking. “Tripp already knows, and he’s being supportive, but I haven’t told him you’re the dad. So I’m not sure what he’ll say, but I don’t think he’ll care.” She backpedals. “I mean, obviously he’ll care, but it won’t matter that it’s you. He won’t freak out.”

  “Unlike Buzz.”

  “Exactly. Unlike Buzz, who’s one hundred percent going to spin this around and make it about himself.”

  Jeez, I don’t even want to think about how this is going to go.

  Luckily, if I’m in the room when she breaks the news, he’ll focus any negative attention on me. I can take the blame. I can take the guilt trip. I can take the ranting and raving we both know is going to follow the announcement.

  “Maybe we should send a singing telegram to Buzz’s house instead. Bet he’d love one of those.”

  “Oh, he totally would.”

  “What if we gave them gifts, like you girls like to do when you’re asking someone to be in your wedding?” Speaking of which. “Should we get married?”

  True rolls her eyes and eats more chicken. “Shut up.”

  “Okay. Just so we’re on the same page.” But if she wanted to, the door is open, and I’d probably be down to at least give it a shot.

  “What does that mean, ‘so we’re on the same page’? Does that mean you don’t want to marry me?”

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice since I believe you shouldn’t get married because of kids. I’m saying if you wanted to, I’d consider it.”

  True snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’m a good catch!”

  “So am I.” She’s cutting sections of chicken on her plate into small, bitable pieces. “You just said babies are no reason for two people to get married, now you’re arguing that you’re a good catch and I should marry you.”

  Valid point. “I’m offended you don’t want to marry me, that’s all. Not that I want to marry you, but you should want to marry me.”

  “You’re starting to sound painfully like my brother. This is the way he argues—so nonsensical it actually makes sense. Knock it off.”

  “Well, he and I do spend way too much time together.” I don’t feel like I have to defend myself, but it does make sense that Buzz Wallace and I would pick up some of each other’s habits, good ones and bad, from time spent at the stadium.

  During the season, we practically live there.

  Or, I do—he’s a married man now and only shows up when the coaching staff dictates the schedule, while I, as the single loner, hang out there more for lack of anything better to do.

  “We’re not getting married,” True declares with a smile.

  “Not yet anyway.” I smile back, happy the matter is settled. “If it’s a boy, can we name him something cool like Airplane Maximizer or Longshot McGee?”

  True stares at me—stares through me, eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” I clear my throat but can’t resist adding, “But some celebrities name their kids shit like Pilot Inspector, and I think it’s dope as shit.”

  More staring. “Celebrities who name their kids things like that are begging for attention. Besides, I have no interest in shouting for my kid in the house and calling it Pilot. Or Airplane. You’ve lost your damn mind, and I’m the one with the overactive hormones.”

  My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I have sympathy hormones—I’m not thinking clearly either.”

  “Are you gonna start eating for two, too?” She’s creating the perfect bite with her fork, stabbing a piece each of chicken, asparagus, and potato onto her fork all at once and eating it slowly, eyes sliding closed with a moan. “Mm
m—so. Good.”

  I watch her eat half the food on her plate before digging into mine, the sounds she’s emitting and the faces she’s creating making it hard to concentrate. Her smile, her rolling eyes, the licking of those pink lips—I doubt she realizes she’s doing any of these things, so blissfully unaware is she, so fixated on her dinner.

  It’s fascinating. Is this what all pregnant women are like, or just True?

  Or is this how she eats a meal in general? There’s no way of knowing until I’ve spent more time with her, which I totally plan to do.

  She catches me watching. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t been able to keep food down without gagging. Thank the lord it’s gotten better.” She dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “I’ve actually lost a few pounds instead of gaining for all the puking I’ve done.”

  That fills me with some guilt.

  Had I known, I would have been there for her to at least rub her back or hold her hair while she was hunched over the toilet.

  “Don’t apologize—keep eating. I’m enjoying watching you.”

  Her groan is audible. “That’s your polite way of saying I’m making a spectacle of myself.” She sets down her fork. “Which makes me a hypocrite because do you know how many times I’ve threatened to murder members of my family for loud chewing? Infinite times.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—my father slurps his cereal. Tripp moans when he eats soup, I’m not sure why. Buzz will sit and go, ‘This is so good,’ the entire time he’s eating something delicious. It’s enough to make a person insane. And here I am, doing the same thing. Try to deny it—I’m making noises, aren’t I?”

  Yup, she sure is. “It’s cute.”

  She skewers me with her gaze. “Cute? My bad manners are cute?”

  “Yup.”

  “Ugh!”

  The self-loathing radiating from her body has me laughing despite myself, despite knowing it’s going to get me into trouble.

  Damn if she isn’t adorable though, huffing and puffing and pouting because she’s freaking loud when she eats.

  “Promise me you won’t let me eat like a pig when I’m further along.”

  I shake my head. No bueno.

  “Mateo!”

  “What? Stop getting worked up about it. Finish your dinner.”

  Begrudgingly, she picks up her fork again, slowly loading up the tines of her fork, slowly lifting it to her mouth in an attempt to be dainty and serene.

  She fails miserably.

  “Stop looking at me.”

  “I’m not looking at you.”

  “Yes you are.”

  So argumentative.

  “What are we, five-year-olds in the back of Mom’s station wagon? Are you going to tattle on me next?”

  True pauses with the fork halfway to her mouth. “Oh god, what if our child is a tattletale?”

  “It won’t be—we won’t let it. We won’t even put Band-Aids on our kid when he or she gets a cut. We’ll just rub dirt on it.”

  We laugh at that.

  “Our baby is going to be the cutest,” I lament. “Bet it has tons of hair.”

  Dark hair, dark eyes, like Mom and Dad.

  True looks down into her plate, suddenly shy. “It’s so strange to think we’re going to be parents. I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around it.” She looks up. “I took at least twelve pregnancy tests, you know—I should have ordered them in bulk or bought stock in the testing company.”

  “Were you scared or just shocked?”

  “Mostly shocked. I never thought I would just have a child—I think I’ve always known I was going to have one, but more in my thirties? I have nothing right now, not even a place to live. I’m squatting in my brother’s guest bedroom and barely had anything to bring along.”

  “In your defense, it wasn’t very long ago that you graduated from college.”

  “Um, but you’re not that much older than I am and you have a condo and a car and a career, and I’m stuck in this in-between and throwing a baby into the mix now. I suck.”

  “Aren’t your friends having babies?” Mine are.

  “Yes. Most of them are engaged or married.”

  True looks forlorn.

  I attribute this mood swing to the hormones and not anything I’ve said or done in the past ten minutes to cause the switch.

  This is normal, Mateo.

  I googled a few of the symptoms since finding out I’m going to be a dad so I know what to watch for, and so far, True has displayed a few of them:

  Mood swings (not hot)

  Emotional (not hot)

  Appetite (hot)

  Loss of appetite (not hot)

  Pregnancy brain (kind of cute)

  Increased sex drive (hot!!)

  That’s the one I keep hoping will rear its head in my favor, totally willing to take one for the team and bang one out for the sake of the baby.

  I’d screw True any second of any day if she wanted to fuck.

  I’m giving like that.

  “You suddenly got quiet,” she says, stabbing at her potatoes. “Was it all the talk of marriage? Ha ha.”

  “No, I was making a mental checklist and ticking things off,” I admit like an idiot before I can stop myself.

  “What mental list?”

  “Um.” Shit. “I googled pregnancy symptoms and was wondering when you’re going to hit the stage where all you want to do is have sex.”

  Her expression is blank.

  She blinks twice. Three times.

  “Who says I haven’t?” Stuffs a forkful of food in her mouth and chews, grinning between swallows—or is that a smirk? Hard to say.

  “Uh—you haven’t used my body for your own purposes enough. I’m offended. That’s what it’s here for.”

  “Mateo, you’ve known a couple days that we’re having a baby, I’m not going to start jumping your bones—we ease into that.”

  “You’re a few months along and we’ve only done it twice, the first time included. Which means we have catching up to do if you want—take my body, it’s yours.”

  True laughs. “Men are so easy. As if there was any doubt.”

  “I take offense to that…kind of.”

  She scoffs. “You do not—but thank you for the offer.”

  There’s hesitation in my voice when I ask, “Does that mean you’re not interested in sex at all, orrr…?”

  “It means that right now, this very second, I do not want to bang you. What I want is chocolate.”

  Fair enough. “What about after chocolate?”

  “Oh my god, Mateo, would you let me eat in peace! Jeez.” She huffs, polishing off the rest of her meal with a satisfied sigh, nodding when the server comes by to ask if we’d like to see the dessert menu.

  The question is a no-brainer for True; if I don’t give her something sweet, she’s going to gnaw my arm off, or at the very least, chew my ass out.

  Pregnant chicks are scary as fuck.

  I remember when Sophia was pregnant; I remember her being irrational and irritable, snapping at her poor husband Mark when he forgot to do something. I also vaguely remember Sophia wanting food brought to her in the middle of the night—fast food, usually—and Mark having to deliver. French fries and ice cream. Cheeseburgers. Tacos. Lo mein.

  “Have you had any cravings yet?”

  “Not really. I haven’t been able to eat anything so I’ve been craving nothing. Hopefully I won’t—it would be great if I didn’t have to buy new clothes. My leggings have lots of stretch.” She laughs at her own little joke, eyes scanning the small dessert menu. “Ugh, too many choices. I can’t decide.”

  I’m terrified to tell her to order whatever she wants or one of everything because she might do it, and there isn’t enough room at this tiny, square table.

  I silently wait.

  She glances up at me after a few quiet moments. “Doesn’t lava cake sound good? Or this warm blondie brownie with ice cream on the side and caramel drizzle?
Mmm.” She hums. “Oh! They have key lime pie. I wonder what the crust is like…”

  It goes on like this for another ten minutes—at least—the expression on her face a mask of confusion and excitement as she deliberates. Kind of like a little kid at Christmas waiting to see Santa Claus at the mall, she’s practically vibrating.

  And all over dessert…

  Wish she was this excited about the idea of having sex with me again, but I can’t win every battle.

  Fifteen

  True

  Dear True…

  Dear True and the baby.

  Stuffed to the gills, I ate half of two desserts. Unable to make up my mind, Mateo put me out of my misery by ordering one himself and handing me the spoon once it was set in front of him.

  I didn’t hesitate to dig into the warm raspberry crumble.

  What a glutton.

  I’ve removed the letter Mateo handwrote, reading and rereading the salutation. It seems this first part was written and erased several times. Dear True.

  My name, just mine. Then, and the baby, which brings a smile to my face as I lie on my bed, in the dark at Tripp’s house.

  A key falls out of the folded sheets of paper, and I furrow my brow, curious, and read on…

  Dear True and the baby,

  I just wanted to let you know how…excited I was to find out we are going to be a party of three. Maybe not a family that lives together, but a family all the same. I always thought I would be a young dad, but there has never been anyone who’s come into my life who I wanted to keep here. And sure, maybe we’re having a baby because we made alcohol-fueled choices, but sometimes the best things come from a simple mistake. Shit, I don’t even want to call it a mistake, because I’m not even mad about it, not even a little.

  That’s not why I’m writing, though, and not what I wanted to say.

  I know you didn’t think I was serious when I asked you to come stay with me in Arizona, but I was. So I wanted to say it again and ask you again if you would consider coming.

  We don’t even have to share a room—there is a guest bedroom with a bathroom and double bed, so we can go as friends and perhaps leave as…