Page 7 of The Complication with the Best Man

And there’s definitely a timeline issue this time. First, there will be signs of the pregnancy when my stomach grows. Then I can’t just show up to a family dinner with a baby in a carrier and say surprise. Well, I could actually see myself doing that. Oh, who am I kidding, my family would figure it out before my pregnancy ever got that far. They’re all like FBI agents when it comes to anyone keeping a secret.

When Saturday comes around, I run a few errands and swing by my parents’ house. It was my grandparents’ house that my dad inherited and raised my brother and me in. I always feel a mix of nostalgia and comfort when I walk in, something I’m in desperate need of right now. It’s as though I woke up this morning and the little boy or girl inside of me said, I’m done with being ignored. Go figure, it’s part me after all.

I open the door without knocking. “Hello…” When no one answers, I head through the family room toward the kitchen. “Mom?” I search out the window to see if they’re on the deck. “Dad?”

I step just inside the kitchen. “Oh god!”

My dad is furiously tucking his golf shirt into his pants, and my mom is washing her hands at the sink, trying to appear as if they weren’t just fooling around during the day. I thought they were in their, like, once-a-year-on-their-anniversary fucking. Not broad-daylight-in-the-kitchen fucking.

My dad shrugs, his cheeks not even pinkening. “A call would have been nice.”

“This is my house.” I avoid all eye contact, heading over to the fridge to grab a pop. “Tell me I missed your anniversary.”

“What? No.” Dad kisses Mom on the cheek.

A girl can hope, can’t she?

“You should be happy you have parents who still can’t keep their hands off one another,” Mom says.

A strangled cry erupts out of me as I pop open the can. “Let me live in my bubble please.” I still for a moment, the baby pressing on my stomach, asking to be remembered again.

Crap, is pop bad for a baby? I glance up, and my mom is giving me a quizzical look. She probably knows, but I can’t ask her, so I set the can on the counter without taking a sip, hoping my parents are so much in their afterglow they don’t notice.

I promise, little one, I’ll do more research.

“What brings you by, Harp?” my dad asks, sitting at the table with his tablet in front of him. He holds it up toward me. “Did you see Sportsverse did an article on your brother?”

Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter as my mom dries her hands with a towel.

“I guess I missed that one,” I say.

I love my brother. I do. But all my life, it’s been him and his baseball career and how successful he is. While I’m here toying with the idea of telling them I got knocked up at Palmer’s wedding by the best man I’d just met. My brother and I are on different playing fields—literally—when it comes to my parents.

I shrug. “Just thought I’d swing by for a visit. No reason.”

My mom studies me, and I see her mommy detective skills go on high alert, like little antennae popping out of her red hair. I attempt to give off an unaffected, casual air.

I must succeed because she just says, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Man, I’m really getting better at this whole omission thing.

“No, that’s okay. Thanks though.”

“Did you watch your brother’s game last night?” my dad asks.

I pick up my can of pop and join him at the table. Truth is, I totally forgot about Easton’s game last night. He’s the shortstop for the Chicago Colts, and I usually try to watch at least part of his games, or at the very least the next day’s recap.

“No, I missed it. Did he knock one out of the park?”

He shrugs. “No. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better too.”

My dad missed out on his chance to go to the pros when he had to leave college to return to Alaska in order to raise his siblings with Aunt Savannah after their parents died unexpectedly. He said he’s never had any regrets, but I think sometimes he likes that his son got to where he wanted to be too.

“There’s always a next game,” I say.

My mom sets down a bowl with my favorite trail mix and takes a seat beside me. On any other day, I’d already have my hand in the bowl, but this constant nausea is really putting a thorn in my habit of snacking more than eating a meal. But if I don’t have any, those little antennae will slowly come back up.

“Thanks.” I take a small amount and eat it. “Is East planning to come home when the season is done?” He usually does, for a while anyway, but I keep forgetting to ask him when we talk.

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