“There’s, umm, not a lot of space, but you can put Donovan between us, and you’ll probably get a better night’s sleep for it.”
He actually grumbles about it before huffing again but rolling up onto his feet and getting into bed next to me.
Chapter 17
Blaise
“Can you please tell us what’s going on with you and Tilly?”
I roll my eyes as I slam my locker shut before anyone — particularly Merrick — can see inside. I’ve done my best to hide it, but all the way in the back, on the top shelf, in the darkest spot and usually behind random locker detritus, is a photo of Donovan and me. It’s the one Tilly sent me, the one she took of him sleeping on my chest.
All my baby photos are the professional ones, perfectly staged with me in odd little costumes like I’m actually a pumpkin or a convincing bowl of fruit. There’s nothing casual. Nothing with either of my parents. Not even the hospital ones. So I’ve taken a selfie with Donovan every single day since Tilly took that one on the couch. I have a folder for them, a separateone from all my other photos of him. I want to put together a slideshow sometime of all the selfies. I can watch him grow.
I can watch myself grow, too. I don’t want to say I never wanted to be a dad, but I always imagined it would be a far-off thing, post-NFL, assuming I didn’t end up being one of the super old guys. I’d have to settle down with someone if I were still playing in my mid-30s so I wouldn’t be one of the super oldandpathetic guys, and even then, I’d only want kids if I was sure she’d be able to do everything if it turned out I was as bad as parenting as my parents were.
It makes no sense how I ended up here. This is the most chaotic time in my life, with so much riding on how I do the next couple of months while they hammer out my next contract and with . . . whatever this shit is between me and Tilly. We can’t keep going on like this forever. I can’t believe this shit is still going on in fact. The only thing I’ve got going for me is Tilly must think I’m the biggest idiot in the planet for fathering a kid who isn’t mine who’s actually totally mine.
Yeah, I got the paternity test back from Doc Keltner. He didn’t even question it when I asked him.
“Just digging on the kid,” I say to Merrick because I can’t brag about the test results yet.
He scrutinizes me with heavily furrowed brows. “You banging her?”
“You banging Cora?” I throw back at him to get him off me.
“Yeah, when she’s pissed enough at me to make it worth it. I think she’s starting to get soft on me, though, so . . .” He gestures with his hand that he’s about over her, pairing it with a click of the cheek.
I don’t like that, but that’s how Merrick’s always been. I guess we all have things we do that other people don’t like.And Cora’s never seemed to want anything more than Merrick’s dick, so it works out. She’s a celebrity in her own right; she won some reality fashion competition years ago and now has stuff in a bunch of fancy places and regularly flies around the world for TV spots and fashion shows. So it’s not like anyone’s worried she’s trying to nab him to wring money out of him.
“Well, you moving in with her permanently?” Merrick asks, flipping the bird to Wes Foster because the guy just made a crack about letting Merrick break Cora so he can swoop in and save her.
No one’s going to break Cora. That woman’s solid steel.
Tilly’s not. She’s sensitive and easily broken. In the quiet moments with her, I think I’d be her life raft if I just held her. The problem is I have no idea who the hell she really is, and I don’t think her friends do either.
There’s no secret bank account, not even a savings account, according to Andy’s private investigator. There’s a checking account skating so dangerously close to overdrafting that he asked me to make sure she’s applied for food stamps. He couldn’t find her name on any deeds floating around. She has an older sister with a husband and two kids in Ohio. The records show that their dad lives with her. The mother lives in Seattle, and he’s fairly sure Tilly doesn’t even know that. There’s nothing that shows where the money could have gone.
Andy keeps asking if I’m sure she’s the one blackmailing, and as much as never once has she dropped the ruse that she’s just an innocent woman who has no idea who the father of her child is, nothing else makes sense.
But she burns grilled cheese and seems to think that’s the right way to cook them.
She worked for, like, an hour a day on one of the projects she has lined up at her work station and then pulled an all-nighter when the deadline hit.
She sings horribly off-key in the shower.
She putters around in her apartment with a boob hanging out half the time, just forgetting to tuck it away when she’s done pumping or feeding the baby. She does it so often I’ve forgotten to even be excited in that passive way every guy is when he sees a boob, even if it’s in the middle of not-sexy stuff. The more often she does it, the more I give in and say, “Tilly, your tit,” and the less often she tries to be embarrassed about it.
I guess this is what married life is probably like.
And now that it’s been two months, I’ve spent so much time with her it’s almost impossible to maintain my hatred for her. There’s that niggling in the back of my mind every time I remember I don’t have a car and I don’t have the money to get us a bigger bed — seriously, I finally built Donovan’s crib just to free up a little space — reminding me that it’s her fault, but everything’s gotten so comfortable I don’t want to figure it out anymore.
I just want my son.
“What business is it of yours?” I bristle at Merrick’s inquiry. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t need him calling me out.
“Dude, you’ve got a room at my place that’s just been sitting there. We’re getting a new crew coming in right now. Like,right now. I just need to know if I should be offering any of them your spot.”
I have my own place now. I have a family now. I have a kid and a girl who’s a fucking scammer who’s clearly conning meout of all my money, but at least when I wake up in the middle of the night, her body is pressed against mine.
