MOLLY
I don’t know why it feels this easy with Jeff, but I’m floating on air as we drive the short distance from the high-end grocery store into a really nice neighborhood, and at the end of a quiet street, into an even nicer gated community with bricked streets and luxurious, private landscaping that mostly obscures the homes.
A little tremor ofyou don’t belong hereripples through me as he parks in front of a large, Spanish-style mansion.
It can be our home if you like it.
Who wouldn’t like this? But at the same time, I can’t just move in here. People would talk.
Suddenly, I don’t want to record any more of his day. I don’t want anyone else to know this part of his life, that might be my life too.
He opens my door, then we carry in our groceries together. He disarms the security system,telling me a code I’m not going to remember because my head is spinning taking everything in.
His house is gorgeous but empty enough that our voices echo as he leads me through to the large, open kitchen at the back of the house. Huge windows reveal a backyard big enough to have a putting green on one side, a pool on the other, and beyond that is a lake surrounded by other mansions.
I definitely don’t belong here.
He sets the grocery bag he’s carrying on the pristine granite counter. I follow suit, my hands trembling slightly. The kitchen is beautiful, all stainless-steel appliances and custom cabinetry.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll just unpack, and then give you a tour.”
Putting the groceries away is super easy because his fridge is empty.
“I’ve been gone for ten days,” he says, a dark-red streak appearing at his cheekbones. “It’s not always this pathetic.”
“What? No. Your house is beautiful.” My voice hitches. Darn.
Jeff pulls me close, his hands on my hips. “But?”
He searches my face, those perceptive eyes missing nothing.
“It’s just…” I gesture vaguely at the expanse of luxury around us. “This is a lot.”
“It’s better when Sinclaire and Silas are here.”His vaguely embarrassed expression turns fond, even though he doesn’t like it when I call him Grandpa.
“How often do they visit?”
“They were here a lot over the winter. Now that summer has come to the ranch, I don’t expect to see them until the fall. But we’re on video calls all the time. I’ll want to introduce you to them sooner than later.” His thumbs slide under my t-shirt, rubbing my belly, and I realize what he’s thinking.
This house is a family home, and if we’re going to continue having unprotected sex, at some point soon he’s going to tell his daughter that she’ll have a sibling, and that would probably go better if it’s not also the time he tells her that he accidentally married a woman younger than her.
“This is all very real suddenly,” I whisper. “How about you show me around?”
Relief flashes across his face. He takes my hand and leads me through the first floor—a formal dining room that’s never been used, a home office that looks like it’s used more than I expected, with baseball memorabilia on all the shelves, a large whiteboard covered in notes that feel current, and piles of paperwork littering the desk. Even the computer monitor, which was left on while he was away, has a recent team photo as the screensaver.
On the desk are three World Seriesrings in a display case, gleaming under the soft lighting. I move closer, drawn to them.
“Go ahead,” Jeff says. “You can touch them.”
I pick up the oldest one carefully. It’s heavier than I expected, ostentatious in that very specific championship ring way. I check the year engraved on the side. My stomach does a little flip. I wasn’t even born yet when he won his first World Series.
“That was the year Sinclaire was born,” he says, coming alongside me.
That little flip in my stomach turns into a complete free fall of feelings.
