Locked Out Read online

  Locked out

  by

  Anna Chastain

  Dedicated to the librarians, the keepers of the books

  Prologue

  Have you ever been carried over your home’s threshold, had your body pressed up against a wall, and been kissed to heaven and back? Well I hadn’t either…until tonight. Until right this very moment. And good gravy, Dean Slade’s lips and hands are magnificent. They are magical. Ladies and Gentlemen, they are metaphysical (as in, not of this world).

  Of the two men I’d been with prior to Dean, one could have physically carried me, but beyond his brute strength and stamina, he held few powers or talents. The other could barely lift my cat, let alone wantonly thrust me onto furniture. And I was not this woman, mind you. I’ve never had a one night stand, I’ve never picked up a man outside a bar and brought him home, I’ve never had sexual relations with any person outside of a committed, monogamous relationship.

  But then again, I never thought Dean Slade was an option.

  Chapter 1

  Holly

  Full disclaimer: I feel no shame for my night of wanton lust with one Dean Slade, nor do I carry judgment for those who choose to engage in one-night love affairs. It’s just not something I’ve ever been terribly comfortable with, much in the way I find most personal interactions with strangers uncomfortable. I’ve always envied those who can “work a room”, if you will; those who can engage and open themselves up to other humans so easily. While I, on the other hand, have worked ridiculously (ridiculous being the key word here) hard to avoid most situations that involve small talk; I abhor it (probably because it is a weakness and I abhor feeling weak).

  So, once I saw that little pink plus sign, I found myself in a pickle. Less because I was a single woman impregnated after a one night love affair, more because I was going to have to force contact with the one who impregnated me.

  So, the fact that one Grace Donovan, sister of the man whose baby I am pregnant with (how’s that for a soap opera opener, huh?) is standing on the other side of my front door is both a curse and a blessing. This could possibly be my way out of contacting her brother (wherever he is) in hopes that she’s already alerted him (look, I’m not exactly proud of this line of thinking, either); but also, she could be upset with me, on behalf of her brother (like I had any intention of becoming pregnant).

  Only one way to find out. Stop being weak and open the door.

  “Hi,” I brace myself.

  “Hi,” she lifts a hand in greeting. “I’m Grace Donovan-“

  “I know who you are,” I interrupt her, but throw in a smile so as not to seem rude.

  “Right.” She bites her lip furiously, nodding to herself, and perhaps…gathering strength? “Does he know?”

  Welp, there goes my Saturday plans.

  “Come on in,” I swing back my front door (while sighing so hard on the inside) to let her in.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this, I’m not usually this forward, but ever since I saw you at that coffee shop…”

  I gesture her over to sit on my couch. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  I was, in fact, sorry about that.

  If only I weren’t so awkward in the ways of conversation, perhaps I wouldn’t have accidentally blurted out to her that I was pregnant while waiting for my hot tea.

  “I think I’m literally dying of curiosity. I mean, the baby is Dean’s, right?” Grace Donovan, in my living room, on my couch, begging to know if the father of my baby is her brother. Again, which one of my client’s romance novels had I fallen into? “I mean, I remember you guys, well, my husband remembers you two leaving the bar together that night and…”

  “Yes, it’s his,” I answer her resolutely, prepared for whatever she’s come to say. “And, no, he doesn’t know, not yet. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to contact him.”

  I let the sentence hang, waiting to hear her pipe in with, Oh, I’ve already mentioned it to him, but no.

  That night with Dean Slade changed my whole life, and not in the rocked-my-world kind of way (well, I mean, there was that, too) and the thought of telling him I was pregnant, yeah, totally nausea-worthy. I absent-mindedly reach into my pocket for a ginger candy to go ahead and settle the stomachache I know is coming. Never be more than a ten second trip away from a bathroom or trash can was my new life rule.

  The longer Grace looks at me, the more relaxed her features become, until her face has morphed into an expression of soft wonder and her eyes are a tad watery. Awk-ward.

  “Um…” Remember, this is not an area I excel in, face-to-face communication. Besides, it’s Saturday morning and twenty minutes ago I was enjoying a bagel, a big glass of strawberry milk, and peace and quiet. I was not currently at the top of my game.

  “Sorry, it’s just, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but…that’s my niece or nephew in there,” she explains, gesturing to my mid-section, her voice tender.

  “Oh…right.” Without thinking, I lift a hand and press it to my stomach as Grace’s eyes track the movement. My tummy’s not big yet; I’m not so far along, just a few months, so it’s barely a blip, but it may as well be Mount Everest for all that this tiny bump represents.

  “Okay, moving on,” Grace shakes herself out of her baby-trance, folds her hands in her lap, and nods her head. “How can I help? What do you need?”

  Well, that’s not what I was expecting, but then again, I did have a bad habit of underestimating people.

  “I-I’m not exactly sure.”

  I watch as her eyes narrow and her head tips to the side, another Grace-morph happening right before my eyes.

  “What if there was a way for me to get in touch with Dean?”

  “Uh…” My voice raises at least an octave, reaching glass-breaking decibel levels. “I’m not sure-I mean-maybe…yeah.”

  It’s true that I didn’t have the first idea about how to get ahold of Dean. He’s a Marine and is currently overseas and who-knows-where; he and I didn’t exactly talk a whole lot the night we were together and we definitely didn’t exchange numbers or emails or pen pal addresses. I mean, it’s not like I intended to not tell him. But, okay, yeah, not knowing how to get ahold of him was a rather convenient excuse for procrastination.

  “It’s just, if you wait until he gets home…” She bites her lip and looks away. “Yeah, I think it’s best to let him know early, the sooner the better.”

  Well that’s not a worrisome assessment at all, no.

  “Mmhmm.” I chew just a bit harder on my ginger candy while I mull this over. “Are you sure?”

  “If he calls…I’m just not sure this is something I can knowingly withhold, you know?”

  “Right,” I stretch out the word, growing irritated with each letter sound I produce. “Except it’s not really your news to tell…maybe?”

  “I know, no, I know. I do. I don’t mean it like that, like I’m…well, I don’t know what, but I do know Dean and Dean doesn’t really like surprises-no, it’s more that he doesn’t like to be the last one to know something. But, that’s just my opinion and I know I came here today sticking my nose in your business, but, Holly, I really do want to help. And I guess I am totally jumping to conclusions in assuming you’re keeping the baby?”

  She slides onto the couch next to me, her knee settling close to mine, her voice little but her face so full of hopes and wishes and dreams.

  “Yes, uh, that is the plan,” I answer quietly, relieved I didn’t have to squash those hopes and dreams today.

  “Between you and me, I’m thrilled about this. A baby,” she whisper-squeals, pressing her hands together under her chin.

  Right. I smile and nod. Why does it feel like my life is about to be invaded by this family?

  By day, I a
m a high school librarian, helping teens with all their book-related needs. Our school year started three and a half weeks ago, so we’re all still in the stages of adjusting to a new school year. For me, that means a lot of shelving: books that came in over the summer, books that were returned at the start of the school year, books that just didn’t get where they need to be at the end of the last school year, books, books, books. It means learning a new software program for book inventory and checkout, as well as setting up the research station with the new laptops I’d received via a generous grant. It also means turning the library into an inviting and welcoming place once again. At the end of each school year, I box away personal items and library decorations for summer cleaning, and at the start of each school year, I take it all out again. It doesn’t matter that these students are teenagers, supposedly mature and on the cusp of adult life; they are still kids and they still deserve a space that is fun and homey and visually appealing. So up go the paper lanterns and themed bulletin boards and white lights, and out go the bean bags and throw pillows and the festive table centerpieces. If the library engages just one student with a feeling of peace and joy or motivation, then I am doing my job.

  This past summer, I’d recovered the cushions on roughly 30 library chairs with enough yards of fabric for me to get to know Joanne at the fabric store on a first-name basis. So, goodbye avocado green and harvest gold, hello happy tropical prints and citrus colors (we live in the land of sun; drabness has no place here).

  The library has officially been open to students for one week, and right now, I’m currently taping the outline of a body onto the carpet in front of the mystery book section. The bell rang about ten minutes ago, the start of homeroom, and this is typically my quietest time of day. Typically.

  “Holly! Holly, where are you?” A voice calls to me from across the library.

  “I’m over here,” I answer back, waving a hand over the low bookshelves hiding me. I find that quick movements equal nausea, so I’m reluctant to even stand up right now. I’ve just begun my second trimester of pregnancy and I’m waiting for the day I don’t wake up ready to barf.

  “That’s creepy, Holly.” Maya says, leaning her upper body onto the bookshelf and peering at my work.

  “It’s not creepy, Maya, it’s…interesting, and engaging, and…yeah, kind of morbid, I guess, but whatever. These kids have cut their teeth on Call of Duty and The Walking Dead. I don’t think they’ll be unnerved by some masking tape.”

  I slide the masking tape roll onto my wrist and reach out a hand, begging Maya for help standing.

  “Jeez, you’re, like, barely pregnant and already so needy.” She rolls her eyes, but still comes to my aid, giving me a gentle tug until I’m on both feet and continues to hold onto me until the room stops swaying.

  “Okay, I’m good.”

  Maya Martinez is a guidance counselor here at school and it’s all her fault that I’m even pregnant. Her brother is in the band that she dragged me to see the night I went home with Dean. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, literally pulled me out my front door that night and into her car. If she would have just let me hermit it up that night…I guess I wouldn’t be pregnant and, well, I don’t like how that makes me feel, so, anyway, moving on.

  “Maya, please, I haven’t told anyone else yet,” I beg of her and her big mouth while glancing around. The library is still empty, thank goodness.

  “Sorry, but Holly, you know I’m no good with secrets,” she thankfully whispers this time, while cupping her mouth with one hand and waving the air with the other, like she can waft away her words like a bad smell.

  “I know, I know,” I’d planned on talking to the principal once I entered my second trimester, but, what can I say, I wasn’t exactly in a rush for everyone to know about my, um, delicate state. And people around here are shameless when it comes to secret spilling; I mean, honestly, you’d think a group of adults could be a bit more trustworthy, but no, they gossip just as badly as the teenage students they work with, perhaps more. Plus, after talking to Grace last week, I felt weird about everyone knowing, except the actual father. So I was keeping my mouth closed for a bit longer and since Maya is the only other person I’ve told (on purpose), I expect her to do the same.

  We chat a few more minutes about work stuff and how glad she is that summer is over and her three kids are back in school and out of her hair, though she’ll be singing a different tune in a few short months when she’s up to her eyeballs in homework and sports practices, I have no doubt.

  “Alright, shoo, the kids are starting to filter in and, don’t you have actual work to do?”

  “Yup, loads,” Maya concedes, lingering a minute longer before exiting the library with as much flourish as when she entered.

  By the end of the day, my back is killing me, but I didn’t vomit once, so progress. I’m camped out in front of the television with my cat, queueing up some Netflix, with a carton of Neapolitan ice cream in my lap when the phone rings. I groan, set everything aside and follow the sound of the ring until I find the cordless handset under today’s mail on the kitchen counter (yes, I still have an actual landline phone).

  “Hello?” I catch the call just in time.

  “Hi, Holly, it’s Grace, how are you?”

  Dang, I really should learn to screen my calls better. Last week, I’d spent twenty minutes talking to a man about a contest I never entered and a prize I didn’t want.

  “Oh, I’m alright, how are you?” Small talk is the worst, right?

  “I’m good. Great, actually.”

  I shuffle back over to the couch in my fuzzy socks and pajamas and settle in cross-legged, ice cream back in lap.

  “So, I heard back from Dean.” Just yesterday, she’d gotten ahold of me to let me know she’d sent Dean an email, hoping to schedule a Skype call, but she wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to get the email. In other words, I wasn’t expecting this news so soon.

  “So, it turns out he should be able to make a call tomorrow between 5:00 and 6:00 our time, unless something comes up of course.”

  I really wasn’t expecting it to be that soon.

  “Tomorrow?” I squeak, moving my dessert to the coffee table. No way could I eat ice cream now with how quickly the nerves have settled in.

  “Yeah, and I was thinking, if you wanted, I could come over to your house, that way you could be in your own space but you wouldn’t have to be alone. You know, if you want. Whatever works for you, Holly.”

  I bend over until my forehead is touching my toes so the next words from Grace’s mouth come out muffled.

  “Holly? You there?”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m freaking out, though.

  “Okay…do you want to call me back and let me know?”

  She’s super nice, Grace Donovan, but my manners have hightailed it big time.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay,” she responds, her voice soft. “I’ll be here.”

  I press the end call button and let the phone slide to the floor, enjoying my own personal cave space here in my lap. Okay, what am I so worried about? I am a 31-year-old self-sufficient woman; this is nothing I can’t handle. I didn’t even freak out like this when I got the two little pink lines on the pregnancy test (okay, there may have been a minor freak out-and by minor, I mean major, of course). But my life has rarely gone according to plan and therefore, I was well-trained in rolling with the punches, starting from an early age.

  Dean Slade is a few years older than me and I had a fuzzy memory of him from when we were in high school (he was a senior, I was a freshman); I hardly noticed him that year, but he was the kind of person that was impossible not to notice, at least a little bit (plus, I’ve since gone back and looked him up in the yearbook). He was popular and beautiful and wild. And if I’d been any shade of normal at that point in my life, I would have huddled by my locker and drooled over him as he passed by, like ninety-nine percent of the girls in school that year. But I wasn’t in a normal-gir
l-space back then, so I’d ignored him (and just about everyone else while I was at it).

  But that night at that stupid bar where that stupid band was playing, when I made eye contact with that big, stupid oaf across the bar…I became that ninety-nine percent girl, i.e. drooly.

  These thoughts were just irritating. I was irritating myself. So I sit up, huff out a big puff of air, shake out my arms, call Grace back and go ahead and invite my baby daddy’s sister over to my house so I can drop a big ol’ Skype baby-bomb. Oh, My-lanta, my life.

  Chapter 2

  Holly

  I know it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. I would be talking to a guy through a screen and he’d most likely only see my head, but still. But still.

  I’d spent the day with my books and my kids, met with my book club at lunch and set up a schedule for future meetings, trained two new library aides on how to do check out and shelve books, repaired a far too tall stack of books (poor babies), and yet, I could not rid the nervous bubbles from under my skin. Grace is due to arrive at my house any minute with the laptop of doom and I am standing in front of my vintage, hand painted (aqua smoke), full length, cheval oval mirror pleading with my side-button, high-waisted jeans to button, but they are just not cooperating. I glance to my dresser beside me (a mid-century graphite-distressed piece), reach out to nab the hair band sitting atop it, and wrap it around my top button and through the button hole, then back around the button and, voila, my jeans now fit. I should have just left my wrap dress from work today on, but to say I was not using the most logical part of my brain right now is an understatement.

  A knock reverberating down the hall had me spinning around and my cat fleeing to his under bed sanctuary. I give myself three seconds to mentally pull up my big girl pants, smooth down my peter pan collar, triple-check that all of my hairs are following orders, and then head down the hall. My house is a two-bedroom bungalow built in 1948 and has all original hardwood floors throughout and no matter how quietly one tries to walk, footsteps echo, so I had no doubt Grace can hear me coming, even from outside the front door. Not to mention, the front door has glass tiles from top to bottom separated by lines of white wood, so she could totally see me. I give her a wave and a smile from my side before unlocking and opening it up wide.