“Sure, I won’t stay long. I know you’re busy.” I hung my coat on the hook behind the door.
“Come sit. I’ve been wrapping gifts for everyone and I’m way behind.”
“I can help.”
“That would be great. Eggnog?”
“Sure. With nutmeg?”
“Of course. We’re not heathens.”
I settled on the floor before assorted boxes and wrapping paper, hoping the discomfort would refocus the blood surge to my groin. While she puttered in the kitchen, I took it all in. The place was cozy and festive, Christmas tree dressed to the nines, Nat King Cole crooning about chestnuts roasting. It reminded me of how I grew up, only that was a lie. Dad had already abandoned one kid and was faking it with us. He had a girlfriend in the burbs and while Mom took him back that first time, I had already checked out.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this family business. I tried to take my cues from Theo, the best dad I knew, but was that enough? Was I trying to force this, make a family where none existed?
Franky placed a couple of glasses of nutmeg-dusted eggnog on the coffee table and took a seat. “I’m glad you came over.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not happy with how things went the last time.”
“Well, why would you be? I was a jerk. I’m not used to such strong-willed women. Well, I am. My mother. My family. Lauren. The Chase sisters.”
“But not the women you impregnate?”
The sass was strong with this one.
“Or date. Not that we’re dating, but I guess the dynamic isn’t far off. You occupy that space in my head and I’m used to the women I date—or potentially impregnate—listening to what I have to say.”
“Probably because you tend to date women who have barely graduated?—”
“Uh huh.”
“College,” she said with a grin.
“I do like ’em educated.”
“Sure, yet you don’t like when they talk back. Or decide they have lives independently of you. Or make their own choices.”
I leaned back against the sofa. “I’m not saying I was wrong—I should have some input here—but I did probably go about it in a less-than-subtle fashion.”
“And I should take some responsibility. I blindsided you. I could have been gentler about it.” She looked like she wanted to say something else but held back at the last moment.
I reached for her hand. “I’m just worried about you both.”
She squeezed back. “I know, but I will be okay, and I’ll see you when you come to Boston to play. Now drink your eggnog and tell me how you’ve been.”
It was as easy as that. I filled her in on my travel, the games, Conor’s stupid podcast, or “dick-cast” as I’d labeled it, which had her chuckling. She told me about the hoops she had to jump through to get her article funded, the office Christmas party from hell, and how different her body felt.
“It’s almost ten weeks,” she said. “I can’t believe how the time has flown.”
It hadn’t for me. The last month had been excruciating.
“So, I have an appointment with the OB on January third. I checked your playing schedule?—”
“You want me there?”
She looked shy. “Only if you’d like to be.”
