Pregnant in Pennsylvania Page 18

  “GO, AIDEN!” I hear Jamie shout.

  “UP FIELD!” Coach Barnhart shouts. “NORTH AND SOUTH, NORTH AND SOUTH!”

  Which, I’ve learned, means Aiden is supposed to run toward the end zone instead of heading for the sidelines. Aiden angles away from the largest group of opposing players as if heading for the near sideline, and the onrushing players try to head him off—but Aiden, instead, cuts back toward the middle of the field, dances around one tackle, dodges another, trips out of a third…and then he’s gone. Sprinting full speed, Aiden is running so fast that he’s steadily putting yardage between him and the nearest player from the other team.

  His whole team is chanting, shouting, Barnhart is clapping—and Jamie is jumping up and down excitedly, pumping his fist as Aiden jogs into the end zone to score a touchdown, turning to accept the pile-on hugs of his teammates. His team line up for the two-point conversion. There’s the count, the hike, and the quarterback, one of Aiden’s best friends, plugs the ball into Aiden’s belly and Aiden darts right up the middle. I lose him in the crowded jumble of players, and then I see the refs raise their arms over their heads—the two-point conversion is good!

  Mom is shrieking like a banshee, Dad is on his feet and clapping, and I, predictably, have lost every bit of my dignity as I shout Aiden’s name, whistling, clapping, and just generally embarrassing myself.

  As our offense jogs off the field and the kick-off unit takes its place, Aiden is engulfed in a back-slapping round of hugs from the players on the sidelines.

  And then I watch as Jamie approaches him. Instead of hugging him or doing the weird football player butt slapping thing—which I’ve never understood—he kneels in front of Aiden, catches his helmet by the face mask in one hand and slaps him on the helmet with the other. I can’t quite tell what he’s saying, but it’s a deeply personal moment, somehow. Intimate. A man encouraging a boy whom he cares about very much.

  Mom glances at me, watching Jamie and Aiden. She leans close. “Elyse…is there something I should know about the new principal?” Her eyes cut into mine, knowing and suspicious.

  I shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Ahhh…no.”

  “Elyse.” She glares at me, using the Mom voice—which still works on me, even though I’m thirty-two.

  “No, Mom. There’s nothing you need to know about Jamie.”

  “Jamie, is it?”

  Crap. “Um. Yeah. Jamie Trent. We’ve…spoken a few times.”

  Mom’s eyes are narrowed to slits. “Aiden talks about him all the time. Practically worships the man, it seems to me.”

  “He’s a great principal and a great coach.”

  “And he’s giving you quite a look, if you know what I mean.”

  I glance at Jamie—he is, indeed, staring at me in a telling way; I look away and meet her eyes. “Mom…no. Just let it go, please?”

  She shrugs. “It’s just that he’s awfully handsome, and he really seems to have taken a shine to Aiden.”

  “Handsome, is he?” Dad mutters. “He ain’t so pretty.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh stop, Dad.”

  “He’s a darn sight better than that pathetic worm of a loser you were married to. That boy was as useless as a screen door on a submarine.”

  “Dad.”

  “What? He couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a flashlight. Didn’t know what he had with you, never appreciated you, and I never liked him.” He gestures at Jamie. “I ain’t even met that boy, and I like him a hell of a lot better.”

  “Dad,” I snap.

  He lifts an eyebrow at me. “Elyse?”

  “Can we not?”

  “You been divorced from Daniel for three years. About time you moved on, sweetheart. Aiden needs a father.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. “He’s got you.”

  “I ain’t gonna be around forever.” Dad’s firm, unforgiving hazel eyes fix on mine. “And I’m his grandpa. I love that boy somethin’ fierce, but I can’t ever be his dad. Daniel made it clear he don’t give a hoot, which means there’s got to be someone else.” He gestures at Jamie. “That fella down there seems interested in the job.”

  “He sure does,” Mom agrees.

  “Neither of you know him,” I argue.

  “So? Don’t need to meet him to be able to tell he cares about Aiden,” Dad says. “That’s about all anybody can ask for, from where I’m standing.”

  I shoot to my feet. “I—I need some coffee.”

  I leave the bleachers and head for the concession stand. Mom and Dad both know I never drink coffee past noon, so this is an obvious gambit to escape the conversation. Fine. I’m avoiding the topic. I just…I can’t do it.

  I want to, but I can’t.

  I just can’t.

  I have a visceral memory of signing the divorce papers.

  Of watching Daniel’s car drive away for the last time.

  Of Aiden sitting in our living room, his overnight backpack packed and resting on his back, ready to spend the night with Dad…who never showed up.

  Of Aiden sitting with my cell phone in his little hands, on his birthday, waiting for his dad to call and at least wish him a happy birthday—he didn’t even care that Daniel didn’t send so much as a card, he just wanted a call. And he got nothing.

  I know, rationally, that Jamie is a drastically different sort of person. But I just cannot and will not risk putting Aiden through all that. Bottom line is that Daniel didn’t fight for me, and he didn’t fight for Aiden.

  So how I can begin to trust that Jamie would? Or that Jamie would choose to fight for a woman he barely knows, a single mother, a closed-off woman who has rejected him so many times, and who continues to push him away.

  Why would he fight for that? What is there for him to even fight for?

  I’m tapped out, emotionally drained, and I spend several minutes alone, watching the game from the concession stand.

  “Moping, are you?” I hear Cora say.

  I don’t turn to look at her; I just bump her with my hip. “Jamie gave me a look from the sidelines when Aiden scored, and Mom caught it, and now Mom and Dad are putting pressure on me to…” I break off with a hissing sigh. “To move on, like it’s this easy thing to do.”

  Cora takes my coffee from me and sips at it, knowing I won’t actually drink it. “They love you and they want to see you happy, and they know how things were with Daniel and, they can see, even from a distance, what the rest of us see when Jamie looks at you.”

  I groan. “CAN WE NOT?!”

  Jess, a classmate of Cora’s and mine, and the mother of Carter, the quarterback, is inside the concession booth, scooping popcorn into bags—she has, up till now, been pretending she can’t hear our conversation. “Oh man, he really does look at you in…ahem…a certain way,” she says to me.

  I sigh. “Oh, no. Not you, too.”

  Jess is a volunteer at the school, working the lunchroom and the pickup line—she’s one of those moms, the “involved in everything at the school” type. She just rolls her eyes. “If you haven’t seen the looks he gives you, you’re blind, Elyse Thomas.” She leans over the counter. “There are rumors about the two of you, you know.” Jess is a fledgling member of the Busybody Society—she’s not as gossipy as Cora or Yvonne, but she’ll talk your ear off if you let her.

  I push away from the concession stand. “And on that note, I’m going back to the bleachers.”

  “I’m coming too!” Cora says.

  “You missed his touchdown kickoff return,” I scold as we clomp across the noisy bleachers to where Mom and Dad are sitting.

  “I know, but Tina was having this hormonal sobbing episode about something,” she waves at someone in the stands, “so I had to talk her down before I could leave her alone.”

  “Will she be living with you permanently?” I ask.

  Cora shrugs. “Not permanently, but just until this whole thing is over. She needs a support system, and having been kicked out by my own parents, I understand more tha
n most what it’s like to try to make it in this town, alone, as a teenager—and I wasn’t even pregnant.”

  “My parents all but adopted you,” I remind her.

  She nods. “Oh, I know. And that’s why I’m all but adopting Tina. Paying it forward.”

  Cora is suspiciously silent as we take our seats next to my parents. We settle in to watch the next play on the field but then I realize that Cora and my mom are whispering conspiratorially.

  I lean against my dad and clutch his arm dramatically. “Dad, help. They’re cahooting.”

  Dad cackles gruffly. “Good luck to you, darlin’. Once those two start jawing, ain’t much can stop ’em.” He pats me on the side of my face with a big, rough hand. “They just love ya, girly. You know that. We all do. Just want to see you happy, and you been letting what that—”

  “Dad, please,” I whisper.

  “Aiden ain’t here to hear me, so I’m gonna say it,” he grumps. “A piece of moldy moose shit. That’s what Daniel was, and what he is. He hurt you, and you been lettin’ that hurt fester in you ever since. Now, you’re right—I don’t know that Jamie Trent fella from Adam, but your son fairly adores him, and that says somethin’. And I’m just sayin’, maybe you oughta give some thought to letting bygones be bygones and…well, as much as I hate using clichés…maybe you oughta start a new chapter in your life.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ ever simple, Elyse.” He indicates Mom. “You think it was simple when she and I had that big fight? We had to choose to get past the hurt. You and Cora were just girls when it happened, and we kept how bad it really was from both of you. We nearly didn’t make it, Elyse. I said things I regret, she said things she regrets, she left and I let her…it took a whole hell of a lot of work to get past it. To trust each other again, to not keep seein’ and hearin’ all that old mess.”

  “It’s not the same thing, Dad. It’s not like I’m trying to get Daniel back.”

  “No, and thank god for that, ’cause he never deserved you. Point is, takes time and effort and willpower to get over some things, baby girl. It don’t just magically happen all on its own one day. You gotta work at it.”

  I shake my head and focus on the game, and Dad knows better than to push it. And, bless him, he shushes Mom and Cora when they try to bring their guns to bear on me.

  I know they mean well, but…the harder they all push, the more determined I am to keep Jamie at a distance.

  16

  There’s no practice the day after the game—Aiden’s team won in an absolute slaughter: 64–8, and Aiden scored the majority of the touchdowns. After such a great game, the coaches gave the players the next afternoon off, so once my appointments are done and the bell rings, I skedaddle out of the office in a hurry: I plan to pick Aiden up from school and take him to get ice cream at the pharmacy—which still doubles as the town ice-cream shop, as it has since the inception of the town. After ice creams, we are going to a movie at the theater in Hanover.

  I’m excited for my impromptu day out with Aiden, since the two of us haven’t really had a chance to go out just for fun since school started.

  I’ve even cleaned out the car, including a forty-minute session with Dad’s Shop-Vac. Basically, the car is as clean as a secondhand car that gets heavy usage as a mobile restaurant and equipment storage unit can get.

  And, just for fun, I’ve gotten a little dolled up for Aiden. Which just means nicer jeans and a dressy top and my favorite fall boots with a sweater duster, and maybe a little more makeup than usual.

  It’s all for Aiden, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to see Jamie in the pickup line.

  That would be stupid and immature, especially considering I most assuredly do not want, need, or crave his attention, or the way those big warm sexy brown eyes look at me.

  GAH. I am such a liar.

  I turn into the elementary school parking lot and merge in with the line of cars waiting to pick up their children. I idle forward inch by inch as the line crawls through, occasionally glancing at my phone or fiddling with the radio. I’m third in line, and I see Aiden standing with Jamie just outside the front door.

  Jamie is his usual preppy principal self, with pressed khakis and a white button-down and a Transformers tie. He has a walkie-talkie hanging from his hip pocket, and his eyes dart here and there, overseeing the progress of the line. If he sees a child waiting too long, he gets on his walkie-talkie and alerts Mrs. Emory, who knows literally everyone in town, and she will contact the parent in question and find out their ETA. While the child is waiting, a teacher or other staff member takes the child aside and stays with them until their parent arrives.

  I pull forward few more inches and Aiden surges forward, intending to jump into the car with me as fast as possible. But the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

  I see Jamie’s eyes widen, and then I see him lunge forward, grab Aiden by the backpack and yank him forcefully backward. Jamie’s eyes are locked behind me, and then they go to me.

  I glance in the rearview mirror just in time to see a pair of headlights and the chrome grille of a pickup fill the mirror. And the vehicle is not stopping.

  My foot, instinctively, slams down on the brake pedal.

  But it’s not enough.

  I feel the impact, hear it—a deafening BANG-CRUNCH accompanied by the squeal of metal on metal and I’m sent jolting forward, the impact too forceful for my brakes. Even with my foot on the brake pedal, I’m sent flying up onto the curb and into the landscaping. The red brick of the school wall fills my vision and I’m surging forward with momentum. I’m still trying to slam on the brakes even though my foot is already fully depressed—

  CRASH.

  My car slams into the brick wall, my windshield splinters and spiderwebs, my hood accordions, and I’m thrown forward as I abruptly, violently come to a halt.

  My seat belt has already caught, I feel it constricting painfully against my chest, slamming me back in my seat.

  Time returns to normal.

  My ears ring in the silence.

  My head throbs.

  My neck and back are aching from the whiplash.

  It’s hard to breathe.

  Aiden?

  Aiden.

  I blink, but it hurts to do so.

  Something is hissing.

  “…Lyse? Elyse?” I hear a warped, distorted voice, blink again. “Elyse? Are you okay?”

  It’s Jamie. He has my door open and he’s kneeling in the opening, brushing my hair out of my eyes, his brown gaze worried, scared.

  I groan. “Unh—” I swallow hard. “Yeah. I…Yeah, I think I’m okay.”

  “Who am I, Elyse?”

  “You’re Jamie. Aiden’s principal.”

  “Do you know who you are?” he asks. “What’s your full name?”

  I wonder why he’s asking me this…

  Oh—he’s worried I have a concussion.

  “I’m Elyse Gabrielle Thomas.”

  “Do you know your address?”

  I tell it to him and then wave him off. “I’m okay. Just…help me out of the car, please.”

  “The police are on the way. I want to make sure they’re sending an ambulance.” He grabs his walkie-talkie, adjusts the channel, depressing the talk button.

  I stop him with a hand on his. “Don’t. You know the insurance we get won’t cover an ambulance. I’m fine.”

  “You need to be looked at, Elyse,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “That was a really bad crash. You were rear-ended and then you slammed into a brick wall.” His eyes are worried. “Give me your insurance card, I’ll handle the police and insurance.” I gratefully give him my insurance card and let him deal with Mrs. Quincy and the police and everything.

  He comes back once that’s all dealt with and takes my hands, but I put a few inches of distance between us, unnerved by his proximity, by the obvious concern in his voice and eyes. His hands are
on mine, and his thumbs are probing my forehead, his eyes tracking mine carefully. I realize, as a football player and coach, he’s probably very familiar with signs of a concussion.

  “I didn’t hit my head,” I tell him. I wince. “But it does ache.”

  “The impact and the whiplash can cause headaches.” He brushes my temple with a gentle thumb. “I don’t think you have a concussion.”

  “No, just bad whiplash.”

  “You need to see a doctor to be sure, though.”

  “Aiden.” I glance past him, and then through the passenger window. “Where’s Aiden?”

  “Inside with Mrs. Emory. I wasn’t sure how hurt you were, and I didn’t want him to see you if you were bleeding or something.”

  I swallow hard. “Th-thank you for that.”

  His smile is tender, and it makes my heart hurt. “Come on. Let’s get you up out of this car.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  He shakes his head. “No. The person who rear-ended you is fine. Mrs. Quincy, I think it is? Thank god one of the first things I did as principal was make sure no one is ever on the sidewalk over there during pickup and drop-off—for exactly this reason.”

  “Smart guy.”

  He reaches in and unbuckles me, and I smell him, feel him—he makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline and the headache. “Come on.”

  His hands are gentle but strong, guiding my legs out of the car and helping my feet hit the ground, and then he has one hand in mine and the other around my waist—far too intimately—and he’s helping me to my feet.

  I’m shaky, unsteady; my legs are wobbly, and my hands are trembling. I’m grateful Jamie is beside me, thankful for his arm around my waist as he helps me away from the car with its hissing radiator. I want to lean into him, press my head against his chest, and let him wrap me up.

  Instead, once I’m on the sidewalk, I grip his hand hard and push away from him so I’m walking on my own, standing on my own. My head throbs and my neck aches, and I just want to lie down, curl up into a ball and cry.