Kick Off: Secret Baby Romance (Bad Ballers) Page 7

  “Well, I’d be doing it for you. Not for him.” What was wrong with me? Did I have to say that? I sounded jealous, and why would I be jealous of Andrew? If I had to be completely honest with myself, I had a small crush on Sarah. It was hard not to. She was incredibly attractive, and sweet, and very thoughtful and easy to talk to… I could go on, but I didn’t need to. I’m with Yvette. Dudes want to be me.

  Sarah looked like she wasn’t sure how to respond, so I changed the subject and began to rattle off the plans I’d made with Yvette for tomorrow.

  Sarah listened, chewing thoughtfully on her makeshift sandwich of bread, cheese, and sausage, but she looked distracted and a bit… off. Her skin looked pale and slightly clammy, and she put down her plate, suddenly got up, and said, “I’ll be right back.” Then she bolted.

  I stared after her for a moment before deciding that she might need my help. I grabbed up our picnic shit, shoved it in the plastic bag, and raced after her.

  She’d found a trash can not fifty yards away and was in the process of heaving up everything she’d just eaten.

  I don’t think she knew I was behind her because she straightened, wiped at her mouth, and pressed a hand to her stomach. She looked worried.

  I was suddenly thrown back to a memory of my oldest sister, eating right around mid-morning and then rushing off to throw up. She’d been pregnant.

  “You all right?” I asked Sarah, handing her a napkin and a water bottle from the bag. Sarah took it gratefully, washed her mouth out, and then drank the whole thing down.

  “Yah. I feel better, actually,” she said, but she was staring at the fountain and at the children playing with wooden boats. My sister, Margot, had always felt better after she’d gotten sick, too.

  “Can I ask a personal question?” I said.

  Sarah looked up at me warily but nodded.

  “Are you by any chance pregnant?”

  Sarah blinked and took a deep breath in and then out. For a moment, I was afraid she might burst into tears. “Let’s keep walking,” she said, her voice rough. She turned and moved in the direction of the exit. I strolled next to her.

  “I didn’t meant to offend you…”

  “You didn’t. I am pregnant. I took a test a week ago when we were in Berlin.”

  I felt my stomach rise and then fall. The thought of Sarah having Andrew’s baby upset me more than I wanted to admit. Sarah was a really great girl, and Andrew wasn’t the guy for her. But that wasn’t any of my business, and a baby… I was an uncle five times over. Kids were fucking awesome.

  “Sarah, congratulations!” I said. Meaning it. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you!”

  She glanced up at me. “You are?”

  “Of course!” Why wouldn’t I be? “I fucking love kids. I want a huge family someday.”

  “You want a big family?”

  “Oh yah. I come from a big family. Four sisters, five nieces and nephews, and over twenty cousins… the Tylers are good breeders.”

  Sarah was silent beside me, and I realized that she might not necessarily be excited about the pregnancy. I felt like a jerk.

  “Hey,” I said, wanting to comfort her. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do with your life, but kids are a blessing. Really. Congratulations.”

  Sarah didn’t say anything else. She wasn’t looking at me; her eyes were following the garden path. I was okay with silence, and I figured she was best left to her thoughts.

  11

  Sarah

  I saw my OBGYN the day I got back to the States. I knew I was late to see her, but I’d had no idea I was pregnant. I didn’t recall not using a condom with Burke. And my period was notoriously unreliable – sometimes coming every six weeks, sometimes every two months. It was when I’d started feeling sick in Germany that I’d realized something might be off.

  I sat in the cold, impersonal office, waiting for the doctor to tell me what I already knew. When Dr. Deeds came into the room, she was beaming ear to ear.

  “Congratulations, Sarah!” Dr. Deeds was a tall, red-headed woman in her late forties who got excited about everything. Your pap smear is clear! Looks great down there! “You’re pregnant!”

  “I don’t know if congratulations are in order,” I said. I felt overwhelmed and alone. “I didn’t mean to get pregnant.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Deeds, wrinkling her nose. “In that case, do you know if you want to go through with the pregnancy?”

  She said it so casually. Like this sort of thing happened everyday – and I guess it did. I knew plenty of women who’d had abortions, but now I was the woman sitting here with an unplanned pregnancy. With a baby growing inside of me. With Burke’s baby…

  I knew it was Burke’s, instinctively, but just to check, I asked, “Do you know how far along I am?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re between nine and eleven weeks into the pregnancy,” said Dr. Deeds, enthusiastically. “So you’re going to want to make the decision before the week’s end; otherwise, we can’t perform an abortion for you.”

  “Right…”

  “You don’t have to decide now. Here’s some information.” Dr. Deeds went over to the side table where there were stacks of pamphlets, and she pulled out a couple. “Do some reading,” she advised. “Figure out what it is you want. Give us a call before Thursday, though, okay? We can schedule you next day, but that’s the latest.”

  Six days. I had six days to figure out whether or not I was ready to be a mother.

  I got up, feeling numb, and headed out of her office. Thank God Yvette didn’t fly back from Paris until tomorrow. I needed the day to think - not that I hadn’t thought about the baby in the two weeks since I’d taken that stupid test. I’d thought about it a lot. I was twenty-four, I had a good deal of money saved, and I had a boyfriend whom I’d probably marry…

  I wandered around Boston’s Back Bay for a while, trying to clear my head and trying to calm the rising tide of panic. Finally, I headed home to do what I always I did when I was troubled: talk to Roz.

  I found Roz standing half-naked before our fridge, staring at the contents and muttering to herself. When I closed the door, she turned, took one look at me, and said, “Shit, honey. Okay. Let’s talk.”

  For the first time in her life, Roz just listened and didn’t offer any advice. I talked for a while. I told her how sick I felt about telling Andrew. I told her how scared I was to tell my mother. “But mostly, I’m scared for me,” I said. “I know this sounds selfish, Roz, but I have dreams. I want to go to law school next year and become a lawyer. If I have a baby, I’ll have to give up everything! No law school – Roz, it’s my dream!”

  Roz cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. We were sitting in the kitchen. At some point in our conversation, she’d gotten herself a beer and poured me a glass of apple juice. “Sarah,” she said. She sounded hesitant. “Sarah, this is delicate, and I’m trying to be delicate. But can I make an observation?”

  I didn’t know how much I wanted an observation at the moment, but I said nothing, so she continued. “I’m not sure law school is your dream…”

  “Roz, what are you…”

  “Just hear me out!” Roz cut in. I quieted.

  “If law school was your dream,” Roz continued, “you could have gone last year. You had enough tuition money after two years of working with Yvette, and yet you’re still working for her.”

  “Well, yah, but I have to…”

  “Sarah, did you even start an application? They were due in February for most schools. Did you even look at the deadlines?”

  I blinked. Words seemed entirely too difficult to form. Finally, I managed to mumble, “I’ve been busy…”

  “That’s bullshit, Sarah. You get down time. And what do you do in your down time? You write. You’re a great writer! You edit your photos. You work on your blog. Can I guess that it’s because law school is not your dream?”

  I pressed my lips together, not willing to admit it.

  “It’s
your mother’s dream,” said Roz. “Your mom is the lawyer. And hey, by the way – your mom went through law school while she was pregnant with you.”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t alone. She had my dad…”

  “We’re getting away from my point,” said Roz, cutting me off again. “The point is that you can make whatever decision you want to make. But don’t let law school be a factor. If you want to have this baby – there’s nothing stopping you. You could monetize your blog. I have tons of friends who could help you do that. You get enough traffic as it is, and have you ever done a diagnostic to see how old your readers are? What if some of them are moms? What if you kept travelling and kept taking photos and kept writing – but you did it with a baby?”

  “Roz,” I said, my voice coming out fainter than I would have wished. “This is all a lot, okay?”

  Roz sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. But you’ve just seemed so stuck in a rut the last two years. I just can’t help but think that this is a blessing in disguise. That this is a chance for you to start redirecting your life…”

  “Roz, it’s just a hell of a redirection!”

  “You don’t have to be scared either. It’s Burke’s baby, so he’ll have to support you and the child. He has the means to do it. You might never have to work again…”

  “Oh God, Roz. I’d never tell him!”

  “Well, that’s stupid… Listen, you don’t have to take my advice, but here it is anyway: Tell Burke, keep the baby, monetize your blog, and commit yourself to your writing and to your child. Don’t want to do that? Fine: Don’t keep the baby. Continue your life as it is right now – travelling, hobnobbing, assisting – you could even get that law school application in.” That last comment was snide, and the look she gave me was superior.

  I didn’t want to talk to Roz anymore. It was clear what she wanted me to do, and I didn’t want to be persuaded to do anything.

  “I’m going into my room,” I said, needing to end the conversation and needing to be by myself.

  “Hey,” said Roz as I turned to go. I looked back at her, and she was frowning. “I’ll love you no matter what,” she promised. “But also, you need to tell Andrew.”

  Oh God.

  12

  Burke

  What do you fucking mean you’re fucking cancelling!?

  No. I didn’t say that. I took a deep breath, and I said, “I’d really like you to be there.” Goddamn, Yvette! I’d been looking forward to this since I’d gotten us the tickets! And there was no way Burke Tyler, party boy and meathead extraordinaire, would be caught dead at a Van Gogh exhibit. Unless, of course, he was taking his gorgeous, worldly model girlfriend. Yvette was my excuse to go.

  “I’ve seen all the paintings anyway,” Yvette said over the phone, sounding bored. Her voice was tinny, and I could hear the ambient sound of traffic behind her.

  “Are you still in Paris?” I asked, trying to quell my rising annoyance. She was supposed to be back today. She’d blown me off a few times in Paris, too. I’d actually spent most of the trip with Sarah. And while I’d had a good time with Sarah, it was hard to be in a good mood when your girlfriend won’t make time for you.

  Yvette was supposed to have flown back this morning. We’d made all these plans… we were supposed to go to the gala tonight and to the opening of the Onyx hotel in a few days. If I showed up at too many of these event solo, the press was going to start to talk.

  “Yes,” she clipped. “I’m still working. I have a lot of work today. You know the fashion world – things change, and they change fast. It’s spring, and the fall fashion shows start now.”

  “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have figured this out before we made plans…”

  “Stop being petulant,” she said. But she sounded off-hand, like I was boring her. “It doesn’t suit you.” Oh! Fuck. Her. I let my silence do the talking for me, and I could hear Yvette sigh into the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Sauvage,” she said. She didn’t sound too sorry. “But when I get back, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go to the cape or to the Hamptons…”

  I wanted to snarl at her, tell her that I had a job, too! That I had endorsement deals and practices and business ventures that I was involved in, and maybe it wasn’t convenient for me to go to the cape whenever she felt like it…

  But I wasn’t an idiot. In fact, I liked to think I was pretty good with women, having grown up with four sisters. I knew what Yvette wanted to hear from me; I just didn’t know if I wanted her to get what she wanted.

  “Just let me know when you’re flying back,” I said.

  “Bien sur, Cheri,” she replied, her voice softening to a throaty coo that had my balls tightening, despite my anger. “A tout a l’heur.” Talk to you later. We hung up.

  I contemplated the benefits of going to the gala versus not going. I had an image to maintain, and it was one that I’d carefully cultivated. Burke Tyler would never go to a Van Gogh exhibit because he liked to see the paintings. But damnit, I wanted to go. I thought briefly about giving Dash a call. I had a feeling that since Coach was such a big donor, Dash might be, too – Dash and Coach were thick and thieves, always. And Dash was always more than happy to be my cover. In the end, I decided that I’d go and just avoid the cameras. If anyone commented on my appearance, I could make up a story later.

  Which is how I ended up dressed head-to-toe in Armani, sneaking in through the Museum’s back entrance. No cameras allowed inside, of course, so once I was in, I could relax and stroll the galleries.

  The MFA was a beautiful museum, and the gala was being held in the rotunda and spilling into the European painting wing. The museum was packed with people. Every echelon of Boston’s elite was at the exhibit tonight. The rotunda and the impressionist wing were packed with suits and gowns, wine flowed liberally, and people laughed and chatted and mingled.

  Unfortunately, even the Boston Brahmin were big sports fans, and the problem with being six-foot-seven and wearing your hair in a braided mohawk was that you didn’t really blend in. People were coming up to speak with me all night.

  Also: these people really did think I was an idiot, and they talked to me like I was an idiot. I spent a good hour smiling confusedly at people and giving nonsensical answers. Goddamn Yvette for not being here.

  I was started to get annoyed. Like, really annoyed. I finally had to leave the exhibit for the rotunda, hoping to find refuge in a familiar face.

  As if summoned up out of my desperation, a vision appeared.

  Hot-fucking-damn.

  Sarah wore a dark green, one-shouldered gown that hugged her lithe figure and trailed behind her. Her honey-brown hair had been swept off of her face in a sleek French ponytail. Shimmery gold makeup matched the gold embellishments on her dress. Damn.

  Beside her, Douche Andrew managed to look bored and self-important at the same time. I really didn’t like that guy. He was gesturing toward the large glass sculpture in the center of the rotunda, and Sarah was listening politely to whatever he was droning on about. Andrew had his hand possessively on the small of her back, the gesture clearly conveying to anyone watching, This one’s mine.

  I didn’t care. Sarah was the one person in this whole damn museum that I didn’t have to play the idiot with. She also might know what the fuck Yvette was doing still in France. I made a beeline for her.

  I had to shake off a few arts patrons who were also Pats fans, and by the time I neared, Sarah had spotted me.

  “Andrew,” Sarah said when I was close enough to hear them. “You remember Burke?”

  Andrew didn’t seem to have noticed my approach. A self-involved prick, his eyes flicked over me. His smile was practiced and friendly. “Hey, man.”

  I took great pleasure in the fact that Andrew was not a small man, but I made him look like a child. “Sullivan,” I said, addressing Andrew by his last name. “You guys enjoying the exhibit?”

  “It’s pretty great,” said Andrew, still wearing that practiced smile. Dude must
be a shark in whatever it was that he did (business?). His suit was a black, slim-fit Calvin Klein, and he wore a damn expensive Breitling watch. “Can’t thank you enough for securing us the tickets.”

  “It was really no big deal,” I said. “Coach gets a bunch of ‘em and offers ‘em up. None of the other guys go for this shit.”

  “Lucky for us,” said Sarah. Her smile looked a bit strained, and I found myself reaching out, needing to give her some sort of comforting touch. Andrew watched my hand graze her arm, frowning slightly.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Fine,” she said, her smile just a bit too bright. “It’s gorgeous in here.”

  I wondered if maybe the pregnancy was still messing with her. Oh, speaking of pregnancy: I turned to Andrew, offering him a smile, and I stuck out my hand. “Hey, man, congratulations.”

  “Congratulations?” Andrew asked, but his hand came out automatically, and we shook.

  “Yah, on…”

  “Have you and Yvette spoken recently?” Sarah cut in. “I felt really bad when I knew she wasn’t going to be able to come tonight.”

  That made two of us. “I’m definitely bummed about it,” I said. “I don’t even know when she’s coming back.”

  “I booked her a ticket. She gets back from Spain in two days.”

  I blinked. What? “Spain? I thought she was in Paris.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, and her smile was small. “Oh no,” she said. She sounded forced casual. “She had some last-minute meetings in Spain, and she headed there probably the day after you left.”

  Was she kidding? Spain. Why had Yvette said she was in Paris? Was it just a mistake, a language issue? Spain. Where Luis Dickhead Abasolo lived.

  “What business does she have in Spain? Aren’t you normally with her when she’s travelling on business?” I tried to sound light, but from the look on both Sarah and Andrew’s faces, I wasn’t quite pulling it off.