Pregnant in Pennsylvania Read online

  Pregnant in Pennyslvania

  Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Foreword

  Clayton, PA is a fictional location, although if you happen to venture to a little place called New Oxford, Pennsylvania, you may notice a few similarities. These are intentional. Most street names are real; all businesses and persons are fictional, but the overall feel of downtown Clayton is, hopefully, a lot like New Oxford.

  1

  “Hey, Mom?” Aiden, my eight-year-old son, is on the floor, playing with LEGO® bricks, building what looks like is going to be a robot.

  “Hmmm?” I’m absently scrolling through Facebook gossip about the new principal at Aiden’s elementary school, but mostly watching Aiden build his robot.

  “Why did Principal Mackey quit?”

  I look away from my phone and focus on Aiden. “What? Oh—he didn’t quit, honey, he retired.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Quitting would mean he decided he didn’t want to work there anymore, like he got a new job or something. But Principal Mackey is retiring, which means he’s not working at all anymore.”

  Aiden uses his teeth to pry apart a couple of pieces, spitting one out and placing the other in a particular spot. “So what’s he gonna do all day, then?”

  I laugh. “I don’t know, sweetie. Golf? Work in his garden? Travel with Mrs. Mackey?”

  He uses his teeth to pry apart two more pieces. “Sounds boring.”

  “He’s been a principal for thirty-eight years, so maybe he’s ready for some boredom,” I say. “Don’t use your teeth, Aiden. You have, like, three of those orange piece-remover things.”

  He rolls his big gray eyes at me. “Yeah, but Bobber chewed one up, I lost one, and the other one is in this huge pile somewhere,” he says, gesturing at the big box of Lego pieces. “Anyway, my teeth work just as good.”

  Bobber is my parents’ dog, and a mischievous little thing.

  “But your teeth might break,” I say.

  “Dude, it’s fine.” His slightly too-long blond hair dangles in front of one eye, and he brushes it away absentmindedly.

  I frown at him, nudging him in the ribs with my toe. “Don’t call me dude, dude.”

  He wiggles away from my toe—his ribs are his most ticklish spot. “Okay, okay!” He settles back on the floor when I stop tickling him. “I won’t call you dude…buddy.”

  “Don’t press your luck, buddy,” I tease. “I was gonna do pizza for dinner, but I could make grilled chicken and broccoli instead…”

  Aiden shoots me a horrified expression. “Have mercy, Mommy dearest! Anything but that!”

  I laugh, tickling him again with a toe. “Don’t you forget it, mister.”

  Aiden cackles, squirming away and tossing Lego pieces at me in self-defense.

  Our doorbell rings, just then—three times in quick succession, followed by the sound of the door opening: it’s my best friend, Cora. “Is there tickling happening in this room?” she says by way of hello, jumping into the living room with her hands clawed.

  Aiden scrambles to his feet with alacrity. “Nope! There was no tickling happening.”

  “I think there was!” Cora says, her voice energized with wicked glee. “I know the sound of tickling, and I WILL NOT BE DENIED!”

  I laugh as Aiden takes off running, scattering Legos everywhere as he tries to escape Cora; it’s hopeless, though—Cora loves nothing as much as to tickle Aiden until he begs for mercy. Indeed, the pursuit is short—Cora corners him by the couch, wraps him in her arms from behind, and tickles his ribs until he’s half crying and begging her to stop.

  She stops tickling, but doesn’t let go right away, peppering his forehead and cheeks with kisses until he’s ripping free with a fake disgusted shudder, wiping at his face.

  “You always get lipstick on me, Aunt Cora,” he complains.

  She licks her thumb and extends it toward him. “Here, I’ll get it off…”

  “NO! That’s even worse! It’s bad enough when Mom does it!”

  Cora pretends to shuffle sadly to the couch, slumping down onto it as if he’s ruined her entire life. “Fine, whatever, see if I care. No more tickles, no more kisses.”

  Aiden sighs, a sound of exhausted long-suffering. “Don’t be dramatical, Aunt Cora. You can still kiss me, but you’ve gotta slow down with the tickling. I almost peed my pants.” And, in fact, he’s doing the pee-pee dance, poking at himself.

  I laugh. “Well go, then, you big goofball!”

  He rabbits off at a run for the bathroom, the door slamming, the toilet seat clanking loudly.

  Cora flops onto her back on the couch. My best friend since forever, Cora is my diametric opposite in just about everything. Where I’m a homebody, she’s a party girl; where I’m quiet, she’s loud; where I’m reserved and cautious, she’s outspoken and bold. She gets us into trouble, and as Miss Sweetness-and-Light-and-Innocence, I get us out of it.

  She’s been hauling me out to parties for our entire lives and I always try to resist, only to succumb to her wheedling in the end. Which is what’s about to happen.

  Aiden comes back into the living room, plops back down on the floor, and goes back to playing Legos.

  “So.” Cora sits up, curly, glossy black hair swaying. Her bright green eyes twinkle mischievously. “School starts up next week.”

  I play dumb. “Yep. Summer goes by fast.”

  She scoots across the couch in a comical series of hops. “And you’ve barely done anything all summer.”

  I roll my eyes at her, standing up and heading out onto my little back porch, so we can sit and talk out of earshot of Aiden. “I rode bikes with Aiden, took him to the pool, went to movies, spent a week with my parents in Florida,” I tell her as we sit down. “I’d hardly call that nothing.”

  “Yeah, but that’s all Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.” She uses a whiny tone of voice when she says his name. “What about Cora? How many times have you been out with Cora, Cora, Cora?”

  “He’s my son, Cora.” I pin her with a serious look. “His behavior is just starting to level off.”

  She sighs. “I know, I know. But I’m just saying, literally everything you do is with Aiden. You have, like, zero personal life.”

  “I’m a single mother, babe. I hate to break it to you, but that’s sort of par for the course.”

  “Your parents live ten minutes from here, and they’re retired. You know they’d watch him more if you asked.”

  “Cora, come on.”

  She doesn’t back down. “You come on, Elyse. I’m not saying go out every night, or bring a bunch of guys home, but at least meet me for drinks once in a while.” She glares at me. “I’m forced to pretend to be best friends with Vivian Pratt because my real, actual best friend won’t ever go out with me.”

  “You love Vivian,” I say, sighing. “She’s fun.”

  “Sure, but I haven’t been best friends with her since birth. It’s not the same.”

  “Is there a point to all this?” I ask.

  “One week before school starts and I demand that you party it up with me once this summer. Meaning, to
night. Right now.” Cora blinks innocently at me like a cartoon character—I can all but hear her eyelashes going tink…tink-tink. “I already talked to Mom, and she’s expecting Aiden at seven. She has pizza on speed dial, a whole season of Ninjago downloaded on her iPad, and Dad is bringing ice cream home on his way back from golf.” Cora has referred to my parents as Mom and Dad since fifth grade, when things in her own home life went…er…somewhat sour, let’s say, and my parents basically adopted her.

  I sigh. “Of course you fixed things with my parents behind my back.”

  “They agree with me, I’ll have you know,” Cora says, her voice arch. “They want to see more of Aiden, and they think you need to start getting out more.”

  “I don’t want to start getting out more.”

  “You need to go out on a date someday, Elyse. It’s been three years.” Her voice is quiet, now.

  I fiddle with my phone, waking it up with my thumbprint and then putting it to sleep again. “I’ve been on lots of dates—”

  “Aiden doesn’t count,” she interrupts.

  I groan. “Why do you want me to go on a date so bad? And who with? Lewis Calhoun?” Lewis is the only remotely eligible bachelor in our tiny town—also known to be the town supplier for a certain smokable substance currently illegal in our state.

  “You need to get laid, Elyse,” Cora says, watching me warily.

  “Cora!”

  “Don’t act so shocked—it’s true, and you know it. It’s been three years since your divorce from Daniel, and we both know that what you were getting when you were married to him was…well, subpar is putting it kindly.”

  “Why are we talking about my former sex life with my ex-husband?” I ask.

  “Because your sex life with Daniel sucked. You told me more than once that he would finish and go to sleep before you even started getting close. You complained about it a lot, actually. And then, when things started to go really sour, your sex life dwindled away to nothing. And you’ve become steadily more introverted ever since.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I argue.

  Cora splutters a raspberry. “You timed him once, remember? Three minutes from first grope to final thrust.”

  I groan. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

  “Fine. But my point is, you need to move on. You need to at least go on a date with someone. Anyone. Even Lewis Calhoun. Who, yes, is a small-town drug dealer, but he is also super hot and really funny.”

  “And a drug dealer.” I pop my eyes at her. “I’m a guidance counselor. I can’t be seen with the town pot slinger.”

  Cora snorts. “Pot slinger? I don’t think anyone in the history of ever has called it that.”

  “Whatever. The point is, no.”

  “No to Lewis? Or no to going out?” She grabs my hand and gives me pleading eyes—and this is where she gets me. “Please? Tonight will be low-key. A few bars, a few drinks. Maybe some dancing at Vinnie’s, and karaoke at Field’s. Please?”

  “I hate karaoke,” I point out.

  “No, you hate sober karaoke. You love it after a few drinks.”

  “This can’t be a repeat of last time,” I warn, with a glare.

  Last time she dragged me out for “a few drinks,” we somehow ended up calling Monty the tow truck driver to take us home, and then spent the rest of the night riding with him on calls, and annoying his dispatcher by monkeying with the CB.

  “Nope. It won’t be anything like that. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a Girl Scout, Cora,” I point out, “so that oath means nothing.”

  “Fine.” She pulls her phone from her back pocket and tosses it on the table, placing her palm on it. “I swear by my precious iPhone Eight Plus—my baby, my addiction—that we will be good and there will be no trouble whatsoever.”

  Considering how seriously Cora takes social media, that’s actually a very convincing oath.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “But we can’t be out late, and we can’t do anything stupid.”

  “We’ll be perfect angels,” Cora promises. “Slightly drunk angels, but angels nonetheless.”

  2

  I study myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I sigh, because I’d almost forgotten how nice it feels to dress up, to put on some sexy lingerie and a little black dress and some strappy little heels.

  “I actually look pretty good!” I say to my reflection.

  This is, however, a little piece of positive self-talk to combat all the negative thoughts running through my head:

  Your ass is getting big.

  Your hips are bigger now than when you were pregnant with Aiden.

  Your boobs are getting saggy.

  You have those little flaps of fat hanging out under your armpits.

  Your thighs shake like Jell-O every time you take a step.

  * * *

  I shut the thoughts down and force myself to say one positive thing in response to each negative thought:

  My hair is long and shimmery and beautiful.

  My skin is tan and smooth and basically flawless.

  I’ve lost five pounds in the last three weeks—a small victory, but still a victory.

  I am beautiful, and the numbers on the scale can’t change that.

  I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m rocking the heck out of this little black dress.

  * * *

  I give myself one more look, checking for flyaways in my hair, smudged lipstick, VPLs, or bra straps that might be sticking out. I’m five-seven, with reddish auburn hair and hazel eyes that shift from green to brown to gray depending on what I’m wearing and my mood—right now, my eyes look more green than anything. My body is…well…in college and before Aiden, I had a pretty darned amazing body—an hourglass figure, perky breasts, plump but firm hips and butt, and not a lot of extra weight…just enough to make me soft and curvy. Then I had Aiden, and a few—ten or fifteen—pounds never quite left, and then things happened with Daniel and I suffered a long-term bout with depression and packed on a few more pounds—like, twentyish. After the divorce and more depression and more struggles, I finally managed to drag myself out of the emotional pits and went to work on trimming down; I’m almost back down to where I was before I had Aiden. Within ten pounds, which, considering where I started—almost forty pounds overweight—is a heck of win in my book.

  A huge part of that win has been learning to shut down and combat the negativity—most of which echoes the things Daniel said to me during the worst of our marriage, when things were dissolving, and I was letting myself go, and he began showing his true colors.

  I smooth my hands over my hips, twist to take a look at the rear view: not bad, and getting better. And, I remind myself, I’m my own harshest critic. Cora, my parents, and people around town let me know they see me differently than I see myself, but it’s awful hard to shut out that nasty little voice once it starts whispering its lies.

  I smile at myself. “You’re beautiful, and you’re going to have fun tonight.”

  “I agree,” Cora says from behind me, surprising me. “You’re sexy as hell, and all the guys in town are going to want to bang you.”

  I whirl, smacking her playfully on the arm. “Inappropriate!”

  She just waggles her eyebrows at me. “It’s not inappropriate if it’s true.”

  I snort. “Um, something can be true and inappropriate, Cora.”

  She just makes a mocking face and sticks her tongue out at me. “Whatever. Quit being lame.”

  “I’m not lame! I’m a mother and a guidance counselor,” I insist.

  “Neither of which makes you a nun!” Cora fires back. “You’re thirty-two, which means you’re in your sexual prime—you’re allowed to have fun! You’re allowed to have a sex drive!”

  I sigh. “Yeah, well, I don’t. And I haven’t for a long time.”

  Cora smacks her forehead with her palm. “No kidding! What do you think I’m trying to change? Duh! Now let’s go!”

 
She drags me out of the bedroom, and I have to hop to finish buckling the straps on my heels. Aiden is already waiting by the front door, his Nintendo Switch in his hands, tongue running along his lower lip as he plays Mario Kart. He has his overnight bag on his back—Ninja Turtles, of course—packed with pj’s, clothes for tomorrow, toothbrush and toothpaste, and his battery-backup alarm clock…which is, secretly, also his nightlight. He’s still young enough to not like a totally dark room, but too big for a real nightlight.

  “Ready, kiddo?” I ask, grabbing my purse off the counter and transferring phone, wallet, key ring, and a few other odds and ends into my little black cross-body clutch.

  He pauses his game and looks up, and does a double take, his face contorting through several expressions. “Wow, Mom, you look…” he struggles for a word. “Different.”

  I laugh. “Hot, you mean, right?”

  He fake barfs. “No! Eew! You’re my mom—I’m not allowed to think you’re hot!”

  “So I just look different, huh?” I press, just to watch him squirm a little.

  And squirm he does. “Well, yeah. I mean, you always look nice, but…” He hesitates. “I can just see a lot of your…legs.”

  I almost never dress up anymore, so I imagine it’s kind of weird for him to see me like this. I kiss his forehead. “I’m just messing with you, buddy.” I ruffle his hair—which is platinum blond, like his father’s. “Ready to go see Grandma and Papa?”

  “Yep!” He turns off the Switch and puts it into his backpack. “I’m gonna eat a whole pizza all to myself.”

  Being single and childless, Cora has by the far the cooler car of the two of us—a yellow convertible Mini Cooper. She has the top back, and Aiden is chattering a million miles a second as he sets his backpack behind the passenger seat, opens the driver’s side door and climbs behind it into the back seat. He spends almost as much time in Cora’s car as he does mine, so she keeps a booster seat for him in her trunk, which she’s gotten out and placed in the back for him.