Locked Out Page 2

  “Hi.” Grace looks every part the California beach girl that she is. Long blonde hair, long tan legs, and bright blue eyes. If I cared about things like outward appearance, I’d be intimidated.

  Just kidding, I’m intimidated.

  “So, where should we set this up?” She asks after I’ve greeted her and welcomed her in.

  “Um…” I glance around the room and think, does it really matter? “How about just there, at the table?” The big, wooden dining table is a holdover from when my grandma was alive and living here and I had too many good memories of time spent sitting around it to get rid of it, so instead, I filled an old Bugler tobacco can with flowers and set it on top of a brightly patterned circular placemat in the center to make it fit in with the rest of the house.

  “Perfect,” she agrees, setting her armload down on the table. “I love your house, Holly, it’s so cute. You have such great style.”

  “Oh…thanks.” What I had was time on my hands and a need to keep busy (and also, maybe a mild obsession with everything vintage).

  I offer her something to drink while she sits down and turns on her laptop.

  “Internet connection can be spotty from Dean’s end, so I’m going to hope for the best,” she informs me while I busy myself getting us ice and water. “I was actually really surprised to hear from him so quickly.”

  I set her glass of water in front of her and take a seat across the table. I think maybe all my words are storing themselves up for later because I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I just watch as Grace takes a sip of her water and smiles shyly at me.

  “So how long have you worked at the high school?” She asks me, wiping a drip of water from her glass.

  “This will be my fifth year there.”

  She nods her head, her eyes darting all around.

  “How have you been feeling?” She tries again.

  “Mmm, well, I guess as far as pregnancies go, I’m feeling alright.” Two days in a row I haven’t had my head near a toilet, though I’m withholding celebrating until I’ve had at least a week off from vomiting.

  “Yeah, when I was pregnant with Liam, it was smooth sailing all the way. No morning sickness, not even a bit of nausea, I felt great the entire pregnancy. But with Amelia, blech. I barfed for months, could eat nothing but plain toast and soup broth until, mmm, the seventh month, I think; oh, and I could hardly stay awake. I was afraid to drive!”

  Her face opens up talking about her kids and, maybe upon finding some common ground. She was trying and I was behaving horribly.

  “I’m sorry if I’m not very chatty, I’m just a little nervous,” I confess.

  “Oh, that’s alright.” Her expression softens. “Dean’s really a great guy, Holly.”

  I wish I could say I knew that, but, yeah, I didn’t. One night, remember?

  We chat for a bit longer, or I should say Grace chats and I listen. She talks about her family, about her parents and how she thinks they’ll be so excited to have another grandchild; she talks about her uncle and his new girlfriend who’s really his old girlfriend (it’s kind of a long story that she promises to tell me another time); and she speaks tenderly about her kids.

  Grace, I also remember from high school. She and I were in the same grade and in some of the same classes. Like her brother, she was hard not to notice. She wasn’t wild and popular like Dean, but she was (is) beautiful. What I do remember is she was quiet, kept to herself mostly, but was nice to everyone. And it kinda seems like she still is, even if all the talk about family does nothing but fuel the disquiet in my mind.

  A shrill ringing breaks through her words and I nearly fall out of my seat sideways. Oh holy heck, it’s the computer, it’s Skype, it’s Dean, I want to pass out. Grace pushes a button and her smile multiplies by a thousand.

  “Dean!” She shouts, leaning in towards the screen with a smile big enough to reach all way across the distance between them. And then I hear his voice and my skin prickles. Then my palms start tingling and my heart, it’s trying to punch itself out of my chest.

  “Hey, Gracie Lou.” There’s a deep chuckle, a wonderful sound I’d never heard before, rumbling through the speakers.

  “You look really good, Dean. I miss you so much,” she tells him while blinking a lot.

  “I miss you too,” his voice is so gentle-another something I’d never heard before this moment. “So what’s up? Your email was rather mysterious.”

  “Well,” she draws out the word, shifting her eyes to me. “Dean, there’s someone here that wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is it Mimi? She’s always good for a little cheering up.” Mimi, being Amelia, Grace’s five-year-old daughter.

  “Um, no…” She’s tipping her head and giving me a look, like a wide-eyed get-over-here look, but my body is all locked up. “I’m just going to pass you over to her, okay?”

  “Grace, what’s going on? Is everything alright?” His voice loses its joviality and gains a sharp edge.

  “Everything’s great, Dean, I promise. I love you, and I want to talk to you again before you hang up, okay?”

  With that, she spins the laptop around to face me, goes out the front door, and then I’m looking at Dean Slade’s handsome, so handsome, face. I think I’m smiling (if a terrified grimace counts) and so I make an effort to hold that smile while I watch his head kick back in surprise and then his eyes narrow in confusion and then his jaw set in suspicion.

  “Holly?” Well, at least he remembers my name.

  I sit up as straight as I can and clench my hands together in my lap; I’m going to literally hold my own hand through this call. And, darn, he looks good. He’s wearing an olive green shirt (see, clothes do matter!), his hair is shorter than it was when I saw him three months ago, and he no longer has a beard.

  “H-Hi.” My voice is weaker than I’d like it to be. The night I met him I’d had a few drinks-over the course of a few hours, so I wasn’t sloshed, just emboldened-and I’d felt relaxed and confident. I needed some of that back, just without the alcohol.

  So I try again, taking a deep breath, and letting my shoulders drop a couple of inches.

  “Hi, Dean.” I even manage a tiny smile (less grimace).

  “Hey, uh, what’s up?” He rubs a hand across his jaw and his guarded eyes move to the side. Maybe he’s not been given the luxury of privacy.

  “I’m probably the last person you expected to hear from, huh?” I say and his eyes snap back to mine.

  I breathe out roughly and when the air puffs out it sends a rogue curl flying up into the air. It doesn’t escape my notice that he watches that curl do its dance.

  “Yeah.” He moves his hand away and I can see his whole stupidly handsome face now and by the way his jaw keeps flexing, I’m guessing he’s probably worried about the person on the other side of the screen from him. He probably thinks I’m some weirdo stalker who’s infiltrated his family while he’s not here to defend them from my insanity…so maybe what I have to say won’t seem so bad in comparison...

  “I, uh, I’m not quite sure…I mean, your sister thought…,” I begin, so, so nervous that my awkward’s starting to show. “Well, it’s just, I didn’t know how to get ahold of you which is why I, uh….”

  Blank. That’s what he’s giving me. Blank eyes, blank face, blank posture.

  Blech. Not a good start. And oh, god, my throat is so, so dry, I think all the saliva is leaking out my palms.

  “Uh, not to be rude, but I don’t get a lot of time for phone calls and they sometimes cut out, so if you have something to say, you might want to get to it.”

  Not to be rude, huh? Okay.

  I chew on my lip and watch all the signs of impatience flit across his face, eyebrows lifting expectantly, jaw muscles tic-tic-ticking, before blurting, “I’m pregnant.”

  Welp, I got to it. And now I’m holding my breath and my fingers are gripping each other painfully, but I do my best to appear cool. Only, he’s just staring at me, still bla
nk. And then he clears his throat, shifts his big body in his chair, licks his lips, presses them between his teeth, nods. And I wait. I’ve known about this pregnancy for two months (being a regular kind of gal, I’d discovered my state of being pretty quickly) and that is a fair amount of time to come to grips with unexpected news. Two minutes, not so much. So I wait.

  And then he grunts, runs a hand across his jaw again, opens his mouth-

  And the picture splinters, the screen cuts out and his face disappears.

  “Sometimes he’s able to call right back,” Grace assures me after I popped my head out the front door to let her know our call had cut out. Seconds after informing Dean Slade I was pregnant with his baby, our connection was severed, the soap opera continues.

  “Do you want to wait?” She asks, and I find myself staring into her blue, malice-free eyes, feeling so grateful she’s here. Grace, my unexpected comrade in unplanned pregnancy reveals. Who could have even guessed I’d end up here.

  “If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it,” I concede and Grace smiles. “But can we move to the couch?” The hard chairs are making my back ache and my couch is what dreams are made of: a sectional with a chaise, swathed in the softest dove gray fabric, wrapped around fluffy cushions that cuddle better than humanly possible. And, bonus!, because I could use some extra cuddling right now.

  I offer her more food and drink before sitting down, to which she declines, so I grab the sleeve of saltines from off the kitchen counter and start munching away, staring off into space. I was really hoping this little tidbit of news wouldn’t affect Dean’s ability to do his job. I would assume one would need to be focused and not distracted by unplanned pregnancies in order to stay alert. Wherever he was, I imagined it was dangerous. I also had this niggling worry that he’d think I got pregnant on purpose, like I’d lured him back to my place that night using my wicked feminine wiles, perhaps in some warped way to snatch him up. However, while I’d always kind of abstractly dreamed of having a baby, a family, I would never, ever, ever go about it deceptively. Lies make me sweat and I hate to sweat (also, I was pretty sure I lacked the feminine wiles gene). And, for the record, he made the first move that night.

  Another shrill ringing breaks through my thoughts and my crunching. Grace waits until I’ve wiped my face clean, brushed the crumbs from my lap speedy-quick and answered the call before clearing the room once again.

  “Hi,” I breathe out, taking one more sweep to rid my face and mouth of cracker residue.

  “Yeah, hi, uh, sorry about that,” he responds stiffly, not making eye contact.

  “It’s okay, you did warn me.” I’m feeling a smidge better about things, now that the big news is out.

  “Holly, I-” A hand at his jaw seems to be his go-to move. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yeah, no, I get it.” I pause to take a breath and lick my lips, his eyes like little mind-excavators. “I have no clue what the right thing to do is in this scenario, Dean, I just didn’t want you to be blindsided when you come home.”

  I bite down on my lips before the word vomit comes out, and he’s so attentive, I feel like I need to be extra careful to guard my words (conversational misfit, present and accounted for).

  “Alright, well…” He looks off to the side again, giving me his profile to admire, then turns back to the screen, eye contact fully engaged. “I assume you’re keeping it.”

  “Uh, well, yes-”

  He interrupts me with a biting curse. “How the hell did this even happen? I mean, didn’t we…you know?” He widens his eyes and tips his head my way, silently requesting that I fill in the rest of that sentence on my own.

  My thoughts swirl and I gotta say, I’m a little taken aback. My heart squeezes and there’s a familiar churning happening in my stomach but I rally, because, okay, worst case scenario, he wants nothing to do with the baby and/or me, which is a scenario I’d already prepared myself for, so I take (another) big breath and remind myself who I am.

  “I am keeping the baby. And, yes, we did…” I mimic his look and add a hand gesture in response to his question about using birth control, “mostly...I think.”

  I mumble that last part because, ahem, there’d been more than one time and I wasn’t positive we’d, um, prepared ourselves for each individual occasion. I was mostly sure, but, yeah, not looking to pick apart details with him at the moment and besides, what’s done is done.

  “I just want you to know that I have a good job and a steady income, a home, and health insurance, and I don’t need you.”

  I watch his chin duck down and his eyes narrow at me again.

  “What the fuck?” He says quietly to himself, sounding surprised.

  And wait, no. NO!

  “No, that’s not what I mean!” I shout, grabbing the edges of the laptop screen to bring it closer to my face.

  “You don’t need me, just, what, my sperm?” He says and, gah! I let my guard down for one second in reaction to his words, and now I’m screwing it all up and making him think the thing I was most afraid of him thinking. Oh, god, I should’ve just emailed him.

  “Okay. Just stop, stop. Everybody just stop for a second.” I say, mostly to myself, while moving the laptop back to my lap and holding my hands up to the screen, praying, praying, praying we don’t lose our connection again. “All I meant is that you can choose how involved or uninvolved you want to be. We shared one night together, I’m not expecting a relationship or a ring or anything. I’m just, well, I’m capable of taking care of myself and a baby. I’m not going to be knocking on your door asking for money and I’m not looking to be taken care of.”

  “So, what is it you want? Because, Holly, I don’t really have a whole lot to offer right now, except money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” I rush to reassure him, and I can feel the clip losing its hold on my hair, much like I’m losing hold of my irritation. I’d never taken a handout and I refused to be someone’s obligation.

  I chance a look back at his face, only to find his eyes on mine, assessing. And, have I mentioned Dean has the bluest eyes ever? There’s just a hint of gray; it’s like a bright summer sky with a storm on the horizon. I like them a lot. Stupid, distracting, stormy eyes.

  “I should be back in the next couple of months, three at the most,” he scratches out abruptly. I nod my head, not wanting to say anything more that’ll make him question my state of mind.

  “We’ll talk then?” He asks, without really asking. I wonder if he’s a boss where he is, like a leader of the pack (note to self, learn correct Marine terminology), because if he is, I bet he’s kinda scary.

  Again, I nod my understanding, more than ready to be done with this phone call and in no mood to wait and be dismissed by the big, bad Marine.

  “Can I talk to Grace? Then I gotta go.”

  Without a word, I stand up, tell Grace her brother’s waiting for her, and head down the hall to the bathroom where my two day no-vomit streak comes to a vehement end.

  Chapter 3

  Holly

  17 days! It has been seventeen days since I’d sacrificed a meal to the porcelain gods and I am beyond thrilled. I can eat food, like, real food without fear of bodily repercussion; I’m no longer dizzy when I stand up and I don’t fall asleep at inopportune times (like the day a freshman came to do some research and found me asleep at the computer terminal). I think it’s safe to say I’ve reached the smoother stage of pregnancy.

  Also, word is out. After my super-fun phone call with Dean, I figured why stop the groovy train now, so I went ahead and had a conversation with my principal. It went fine, he congratulated me, asked me how things were going-he has a wife and two children of his own. He also said he’d keep it quiet and leave it up to me how I wanted others to find out because, as mentioned earlier, they would find out. But by the end of the day, I’d already been on the receiving end of three congratulatory hugs.

  The thing is, I’m in education, and like it or not, my behavior
is held to a certain standard (at least, it sure feels like it). So when the high school librarian, who has no husband, no boyfriend, hasn’t even been on a date in months, so therefore, no prospects, turns up preggo…yeah, people start to talk. However, the last thing I ever want my baby to think is that his or her mother is ashamed, so I’m digging real deep within myself and holding my head up high (even when Janice, who works in the office, shoots me her famous look of shame, usually reserved for students who’ve made bad choices).

  And it’s not like I’ve heard from Dean, I didn’t really expect to. In fact, if I let myself think too long on him and the phone call, I feel a familiar rebelling of the stomach, so I’ve decided not to think about him at all-I mean, much, you know, like maybe five minutes a day, tops.

  “Miss O”Brian?” I pop my head from out around the Classics bookshelf, where I’m pulling books to build an Oldies but Goodies display, to see who’s calling me.

  “Oh, Jasmine, hey.” I put down my stack and walk up to where she’s standing by the check-out desk. Jasmine is a junior here and she’s been coming to the library regularly since she was a freshman. She’s quiet, smart, and above all else, loves to read.

  “Hi, so, I was wondering if you had either of these books.” She hands me a paper with the titles of two recently released young adult books.

  “Hmm, I know one of them is checked out for sure, but let me check on the other one.” I know that she knows exactly where she could find these books, so her coming to me is a sign that she has something more on her mind. I’m not typically the person kids come to; there are quite a few very popular teachers that most students would go to first, if not one of the counselors; but I have managed to build strong relationships with a good group of kids, based on our mutual respect and love of learning.