“He wouldn’t,” Harlan said. ‘He liked when she was pregnant. I think it …” He blew out a breath. “It made him feel like you said. Like she’d stay.”
“So why did he say it at all?” she said. “Why was it on his mind? Did that happen before?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “With me. Sad story of his life.”
“Ah.” She sat back and started to eat her stew again. “It’s not that I’m not emotionally invested in your story,” she told him. “It’s just that I’m really hungry.”
He smiled himself, just briefly, but he started to eat again, too. She said, “Let me guess. He felt trapped.”
“You got it. He played football in college, but when my mom got pregnant with me, they got married. His folks made a big deal of it. Insisted. They’re the hard-line type. Ultra-religious, in that really cheerless way. And he couldn’t keep up with school and a job and football. So he quit the team. He was sure he had a shot to go big. Blamed her forever.”
“Her,” Jennifer said, “and you. You’re his big second chance, obviously. Did he even see you? I mean, who you were?”
Harlan stopped eating and said, “I never thought about it.”
She’d bet she knew the answer. She asked, “Did he have a shot?”
“Hell, no,” Harlan said. “Do you know how many college players make it to the NFL? One-point-six percent, that’s how many. And even if you’re drafted, unless you’re taken in the first round, the odds aren’t great from there, either. Anywhere from ten to forty percent of those guys make it five years. A whole lot of them don’t make it two years.”
“And he wasn’t one of them.”
“This game takes more than talent,” Harlan said. “More than skill. More than hard work, even. Takes knowing how to suck it up and own your mistakes. Everything’s easy when you’re winning. The test is what you do when you lose. And that’s a test he’ll never pass.”
36
Doing the Mom Thing
She had dinner—spaghetti Bolognese, because she’d never win the “most innovative home chef” award—simmering on the stove, and she was on the phone. Harlan’s sisters were at their hotel, but coming over for dinner later, and Harlan had gone to the park with Annabelle to practice her batting, which was exactly right, in Jennifer’s opinion. The ball, bat, and mitt were almost the first things Annabelle had grabbed yesterday when they’d been packing, proving that athletic passion ran in the family.
She’d already emailed her boss to say she’d be out for a day, an action that had filled her with terror. She never missed work. Not when she wasn’t at death’s door, anyway. Never. But here she was doing it anyway.
Which was what she was trying to explain to her grandpa now.
“I’m sure you’re a real big help,” he said. “About the best person you could get for the job, probably. You might be getting in over your head with this thing, though.”
She stirred her sauce and turned the heat on under the big pot for the spaghetti, ignored the faint swirl of mingled hunger and nausea that rose in her at the smell of ground beef and tomatoes, and laughed. “I’m so far over my head, it’s not even funny. How do you not be over your head in a situation like this? Who would know how to do this? But you should see Harlan, Grandpa. You should see how this is tearing him up. Poor Annabelle, too. How can I not help?”
“Doesn’t the guy have any friends?” Oscar sounded grumpy now.
“I’m sure he has lots of friends. But this is a rough one.”
“Yeah, I get that. Just not sure why you’re nominated. How’d he do when you told him about the baby?”
“Kind of …” She needed another can of tomato sauce in there. “He was surprised,” she said cautiously.
Oscar snorted and said, “I bet,” and she had to smile.
“But he’s been so sweet to me since then,” she said. “Looking out for me, making sure I eat, that I’m not too tired. To his sisters, too, but even to me. Even though he doesn’t know whether the baby’s his.”
“Uh-huh,” Oscar said. “Yep. Sounds like you’re doing real good at not getting involved.”
“Grandpa.” She dumped the tomato sauce into the pan, managed to splatter a few drops on her new sweater, and thought, At least it’s purple. “I’m realistic, OK?”
“Uh-huh,” Oscar said again. “So when are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. I have to get back to work, and anyway, Harlan and Annabelle are leaving then. But there’s the bail hearing, and I’m not sure if he wants to go to that. He’ll drop me off with the jet, though, on the way back to Portland.”
“He’ll drop you off with the jet,” Oscar said. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Well, good,” Jennifer said.
“Seems to me you’ve been hurt enough, is all. Time to find a man who wants to put you first, I’d say.”
“Hey. I thought you weren’t saying anything. Besides, you loved Mark.”
“I was making the best of it. Seeing as how you were determined not to find somebody who’d treat you better.”
“Well, I’m safe from all those legions of caring, attentive men knocking down my door now,” Jennifer said. “Since I’m pregnant. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? And put Dyma on, would you?”
“That’s going to go well,” Oscar said. “Hang on.”
She tasted the sauce and added more basil, carefully not splashing herself, pulled out the loaf of sort-of-Italian bread she’d bought (North Dakota was even more deficient on the artisan-bread front than Idaho, which was hard to achieve), and started mincing garlic. There wasn’t much you couldn’t improve with garlic butter.
Dyma’s voice, then, over the phone’s speaker. “Mom? What’s going on? Where are you?”
She explained, and Dyma said, “Wow. That’s … wow, that’s about the worst. How are they doing? How’s Annabelle?”
Jennifer said, “First—I love that you said that.”
“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? Give me marginal points for basic humanity. Seriously, though. How is she?”
“Doing all right, I think, or as well as you could expect. Harlan’s out with her now, helping her with batting practice. Giving her something normal to do. He’s taking her back to Portland to live with him. He’s been very protective. Very sweet.”
“Oh, no,” Dyma said. “Very sweet? You’re kidding. Mom. Wait. Why were you with him yesterday in the first place? When you said you were going to Portland, I figured it had to do with a job. Something with Blake. You went to visit Harlan, though. Why? After you keep telling me not to get too excited. Owen’s been here, at least. He took me to prom. I thought you were all about your future now.”
“I wasn’t …” She was still mincing garlic. “It was different.”
“Uh-huh. Here’s the thing about casual sex. It’s supposed to be casual.”