“I should talk to your landlord,” Dad says. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”
“It was his dead grandmother’s house.” The lies are coming out of my mouth in direct proportion to the sweat sliding down my back. “She was his favorite person on the planet. She baked him chocolate chip cookies in that kitchen and she read him good night stories in his bedroom and she mortgaged her house to pay for his college. You can’t ask a man to leave a house that means so much to him.”
My mom stares at me over her mimosa.
Dad’s mouth does that thing where he doesn’t like that he can’t get something, and he subtly cracks a single knuckle.
Miranda is still coughing, but quieter and less frequently.
“It’s a nice house because it has a nice homey story to it,” I say. “I lived in cabins on a ship for seven years. I can find an equally nice two-bedroom condo and the baby and I can use community gardens and parks and we’ll be fine.”
I don’t want a condo. I don’t want an apartment. I don’t want a house.
I just want everything to stay as it is with Holt right now, except I want to not be spewing lies to my parents about who he is.
“Goldie said her friends can help me find an apartment,” I add. “I’m probably seeing her again tomorrow.”
Dad eyes me. “Be very, very careful if you’re around Huxley.”
Huxley. Fletcher. Same guy. Last name, first name. Right. “He’s the one who’s always in the home office?”
“The social media team love-hates him,” Miranda says. “His socials are fire. He sells alotof tickets. But sometimes he wants us to do really crazy things.”
“Still can’t believe Collins’s daughter is dating him. Wouldn’t be my first choice,” Dad mutters. “He’s a good player, but he’s not good enough for her.”
“But they’re so happy together,” Miranda says. “Isn’t happy better than not happy?”
Dad grunts.
“Andhissonplays rugby. So his son is good enough to play a sport but his daughter is too good to date men who also play the same sport?” she presses.
“Yes,” Dad says.
Miranda cocks her head and watches him.
He grunts again and keeps eating.
Yay, double-standard land is alive and well. It’s truly no wonder I haven’t dated much. There’s always this voice of my stepdad sitting on my shoulder grunting,this one’s not good enough for you.
“So I heard one of the players twisted an ankle or something a few weeks ago?” I say in the continued silence. “Is that…bad for the team next year?”
“Webster,” Dad says. “Team captain. Broke his foot. He’ll be back. Good guy. He wouldn’t have made a pass at Goldie, and he knows not to look at my daughters.”
Fuck.
Justfuck.
Mom pats his hand. “None of your players are looking at our girls. Now, Ziggy. Show me those baby pictures again. What names are you thinking of? It’s so nice that you don’t have to compromise with anyone about your favorite names. Unless you’re thinking Robert for a boy. I’ve known toomany Roberts and Bobs and Robs and Bobbys who were just absolute terrors, and I don’t want to put that kind of bad energy around my grandbaby.”
“I doubt Ziggy’s thinking of Robert for her baby,” Miranda says. “But I kinda like the name Fletcher.”
“Over my dead body,” Dad declares.
Miranda smirks. “Crew? Silas? Zander? Tatum?”
“Oh, stop tormenting him,” Mom chides. “We know Ziggy’s not naming her baby after any of the players either.”
“Out of curiosity, if I randomly met the CEO of one of your companies and we hit it off, and he didn’t care that I was pregnant, and he made me feel loved and cherished and worshipped me like a goddess, would that also be a bad thing?” I ask.
