Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance (15 page)

I
'm sitting
in my living room, and I can't ever remember being this scared before. I've tried calling Cory for the past two hours, ever since getting home, but his phone keeps kicking straight to voicemail, and he's not even answering his text messages.

What if he is ditching me? What if . . . what if he wants to just cut and run, like Brad did? It's even worse this time, not because of my age. I'm more financially secure than I've been in my entire life, and I know if I had to ask, Whit and Troy would help out, but it's worse because I actually love Cory.

When I got pregnant with Whitney, I
thought
I loved Brad White, but what does one really know at that age?

This is different. Every minute with Cory since we really got together has been a paradise to me, and even just chatting with him on the phone makes the worst days better. A simple text message can bring a smile to my face.

And now he's not returning any of them. I'm pregnant with his baby, and I can't get in touch with him. This isn't something I can send via email either. It's too big.

Finally, I give up and dial a new number. The phone rings in my ear, but this time, it's picked up. “Mom?”

“Oh, Whitney,” I reply, nearly breaking down in tears. “Whitney, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s going on, Mom?” Whitney says, her voice breaking up slightly. “Actually, I was going to surprise you. We're in the a . . . right n . . .”

“Whitney?” I call into the phone before the call comes back in. “You're where?”

“In the air,” Whitney says warmly. “Remember, Troy's playing in Seattle Sunday? He talked with the team, and the three of us are catching an early flight to Seattle so Laurie and I can spend the weekend with you.”

“That's . . . that's great,” I say, my voice catching. “Whitney . . . still, can you talk now?”

“Sure Mo . . . Mom,” Whitney says. “Sorry, the plane's connection isn't great and we're in a thunderstorm. Chicago's going to hate the first game of the season if this keeps . . .”

“Whitney?”

The call comes back in, and it sounds like Whitney's put me on speaker. “There. Mom, I've got Troy with me, and a pissed off flight attendant giving me dirty looks, but I don't really care. What's going on?”

“Honey, I went to the doctor today.”

“What? Did you say doctor?” Whitney asks.

“Yes! The doctor!” I yell, even though I doubt that'll help. Maybe I'm just old fashioned enough to remember when everyone still used landlines and computers weren't running everything. “Doctor Baker!”

“Is everything okay, Patricia?” Troy asks, his voice clear at least.

“Well, I've been feeling strange for a few days, and he ran some tests. Uh, well, Whit . . . you've got a little brother or sister coming soon.”

The silence on the other end makes me worry that they didn't hear me, so I repeat myself. “Whitney? Did you hear? I'm pregnant.”

“Mom, we heard you,” Whitney says, and in her voice, I can hear concern, but at the same time, excitement. “This is so awesome!”

“Awesome?” I ask, momentarily struck dumb. “Did you say awesome?”

“Yes!” Whitney giggles. “Mom, you'll be great. Have you told Cory yet?”

“No . . . I can't get a hold of him,” I reply, my worry coming back. Still, the support in Whitney's voice helps me, and I take a deep breath. “I've been trying, since I got back from the church, but he's not answering.”

“What?” Whitney and Troy both say, and I realize at least part of my message was missed.

“I said that I can't get a hold of Cory!” I yell again, my frustration and upset venting at least a little before I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “After talking to Doc Baker, I went to the church, where I had a blowup with Bill Moss. He kicked me out of the Sunday School program, by the way, but I stormed out, ticked off. Dumping on me with that load of guilt . . . anyway, I get home, and I've been trying to reach Cory, but he's not picking up right now. I was scared, but you guys helped. I just really want Cory to know too, you know?”

There's a bunch of popcorn static again, and a computer squeal, then Whitney's voice coming back, distant like she's talking down a hallway. “Cory kicked what?”

“Huh?” I ask, then realize the static's getting worse. “Not Cory, Bill! I'm out of the church! I just felt that the church abandoned me!”

“Mom, how could he . . .” Whitney says, then there's a big squeal of static, and the call drops permanently. I look at my phone, then shrug. Okay, so there was some miscommunication, but she knows I'm pregnant now, and they're both supportive of it. That helps me a lot. Besides, Whitney will try and call back if she has any questions, or at the latest, when she gets on the ground in Seattle.

I sit back and try Cory's phone again. It kicks over to voicemail immediately, and I leave a message. “Cory, it's Patricia. When you get this . . . please call. There's something very important, and very wonderful, that we need to talk about.”

I hang up and set my phone on the table, lying down on my couch. I yawn and realize that maybe it's because of the pregnancy, maybe the hormone shifts, or maybe just stress, but I'm exhausted. I close my eyes. It's Friday night anyway, and I decide that maybe a little nap before a late dinner would be nice.

* * *

I
wake
up to the sound of my phone ringing, and I blink, wondering how long I've been out. It's pitch black outside, so with this being summer, it's definitely after nine o'clock. I must have been out for two hours or more. Rolling up, I hope that it's Cory, but instead, it's Whitney. They must have landed at SeaTac already. “Hello, Whitney?”

“Mom . . . I'm glad we're on the ground. Tell me exactly what happened between you and Cory,” Whitney says, her voice serious and with a hint of anger underneath. “What did he do to you?”

I blink, perplexed. “What do you mean, what did he do? I mean, he got me pregnant, but that part you got.”

“Mom, what about him ditching you?” Whitney asks, and I'm thunderstruck. “You said he abandoned you.”

Oh no. Stupid lightning storms. “Whitney, relax. That was the storm. What I said was that Bill Moss found out, and he kicked me out of the Sunday School program. I quit New Harvest because I felt like the church abandoned me. Not Cory. I've been trying to get ahold of him, but his phone keeps kicking to voicemail. I guess I was a bit panicked about that when I first called you, but it's okay. I'm better now.”

“No . . . oh, shit,” Whitney groans, then takes the phone away to talk. “Laurie, can you go get me a Coke from the shop? Yes, I'm sending you away because I have something I don't want you overhearing. Fine, you can get a chocolate bar too.”

“What's wrong?” I ask, new worry creeping in. “What's happened?”

“Mom, the static screwed up the call. We thought you'd said that Cory abandoned you, that he broke up with you when he heard about the pregnancy. Troy got pissed, and as soon as we landed at SeaTac, he grabbed another flight to San Francisco. I took Laurie with me to come and see you, but Troy's super pissed, Mom. My phone battery was dead after we talked, and I kept trying to get back in touch with you, and my charger was in my luggage. It took me a while to get the cord out. Mom, Troy's headed to San Francisco to kick Cory's ass.”

“Well, call him!” I half-shout. “Kick his ass? Troy could kill him! Cory doesn't even know. I can't get a hold of him yet!”

“Okay. Let me try and call him now. I think his plane's in the air already though. It's just a commuter jet, so there won't be a phone on there, but he'll get the text or something when he lands. Just a minute.”

The call ends, and I stare at my phone, hoping and praying that Whitney's quick enough. Fewer than two minutes later, she calls back, and I hit the pickup button before the first ring even finishes. “Did you get in touch?”

“No,” Whitney says, her voice filled with dread. “Troy's phone was in Laurie's backpack. She'd asked him if she could borrow it to play a game during the flight. She must have put it back in there.”

“So . . . so we can't get in touch with Troy?”

“I don't think so,” Whitney says, groaning. “I'll get our rental. We'll be at your house as soon as we can.”

“Hurry, sweetheart,” I whisper, scared even more than I was when the evening began. Not knowing if Cory wants to be a father is one thing. Knowing that Troy's after him, and Cory doesn't even know . . . that's another.

I start to pray.

I
t's not
until I get home from the office that I notice that my phone is busted. Great, just great. Thinking back, I slap my forehead when I realize what must have happened.

Today was listed in the firm as casual Friday. Specifically, PacFran wanted everyone to dress up in San Francisco Dons gear since the bank is one of the main sponsors of the team. It's even got a ten-foot-tall logo on the inside scoreboard at Golden Gate Field, the largest logo that stays up year-round.

Of course, there's no way I'd wear Dons gear, not with who my bro is. Instead, I came into work wearing an authentic Jacksonville Wildcats home jersey, number fifty-one, Troy Wood. Maybe a few people will get a kick out of it.

Still, with wearing jeans and a jersey instead of a suit, I'd done my normal thing, which was to put my phone in my back pocket. Unfortunately for me, I sat down without taking my phone out of my pocket. I hadn't heard a crack, but now, back at home, I'm looking at a side to side full split and a phone that won't turn on. Gorilla Glass, meet Buns of Steel. Guess I shouldn't have worn my tighter jeans today. But I kept thinking about Patricia and how she'd like me in them, and so on they went before I hopped on my bicycle to ride to work. Thinking about it, I'm lucky I didn't lose my phone from my back pocket on the ride.

I sigh again and set my now broken phone on the counter, upset mostly because I wanted to be able to give Patricia a call. Her boss has kept her busy, and she's not always home until later.

Still, I turn on my home laptop and pull up Skype. Maybe she’ll be on later. In the meantime, I change clothes, wanting to have something to do with all the energy that I have today. Maybe I'm just nervous because of the weird situation involving Dylan and Xander, or maybe it's because of Patricia and her seemingly distant reaction in our phone call yesterday. In any case, I change into my bike shorts and a tank top and go over to my bike again. I don't ride the specialized ten-speed road bike as much as I used to in college, but I still try to get in rides three times a week, usually on the weekends. It's great for the legs, and I love the burn.

I toss my wallet, keys and a bottle of water into a small backpack I wear for my training rides and take the elevator down to the street, where I start off. I'm not really looking at trying to light my quads up today, so I keep it to one of the flatter routes that I've mapped out around my apartment area, a three-mile shot to a park that rises and falls gently as I stay mostly parallel to the bay. The only drawback is the traffic. The route to the park is along some pretty busy streets, but the park itself has dedicated bike lanes. I ride loops of the park until the sun starts to go down and then head back, arriving home just after eight thirty.

Going upstairs, I see that Patricia hasn't tried to contact my Skype or my email, and I remind myself to get my damn phone replaced tomorrow. I have to call her and tell her how I feel, no matter what. I wish I could do it in person, but if I have to, I'll do it over the phone.

A long, hot shower helps not only scrub away the sweat of my ride but also my tension and nervousness. Sure, Patricia was distracted yesterday. I'd called her at work, after all. And she told me that her boss has been a total jerk the past few weeks. I must have just gotten in touch with her at the wrong time.

I finish my shower and change into a looser pair of normal exercise shorts and a fresh tank top, ready to make my evening, and just as I’m about to sit down and eat some leftovers, there's a pounding knock on the door. Whoever the hell it is, they really want to get my attention.

“Hold on, hold on,” I call when the knock comes again, my front door actually rattling in its frame. Jesus. I check the peephole and I'm surprised. Troy? I unlock my door and open the door, a smile coming to my face. “Troy! What are you—”

His shove catches me in the chest, and I go flying. It's been six and a half years since I last played football. Since then, I've stayed in shape in decidedly non-contact ways, and Troy's got fifty pounds of muscle on me. I can actually see him step forward. I'm in the air so long before I land, thankfully semi- on my feet, rolling backward and over my shoulders, ending up on my knees.

“Troy!” I yell, scrambling to my feet. He's already stepped inside my apartment, closing the door behind him, and I see murder on his face. I've never seen such a dark, deadly expression on his face before . . . except for a few weeks right after Whitney went to Europe. We still had the playoffs in high school, and during those weeks, watching Troy Wood play quarterback and linebacker for Silver Lake High was like watching a demon in blue and silver. For the four weeks until we lost at the state semi-finals, he destroyed everything in his way, and even in the game we lost, he was a one-man wrecking crew.

But that was football, and Troy was pouring his pain out against our enemies. This Troy is angrier, stronger, and more dangerous than that version. “Troy . . . What the fuck? What's going on?”

“I warned you,” Troy says, his voice silky, almost contemplative as he comes toward me, his hands bunching into fists, the knuckle pops sounding like pistol shots in the air. “I warned you, back in the Bahamas. I thought you'd understood that it didn't mean just then.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, backing away. I'm in San Francisco, which means that I don't have a gun, and the way Troy looks right now, that'd be about the only thing that would save me if he gets his hands on me. But more importantly, I don't want to get either of us hurt. He's got a game Sunday, he's my best friend, and honestly, I'd like to keep living.

“I told you, if you were in it for just a fuck and dump, I'd end you,” Troy says again, and I remember. “How could you, Cory?”

“How could I what? I haven't dumped anyone, certainly not Patricia!” I reply, circling still. Normally, I'd be able to do this for a long time. My legs usually still have plenty of bounce and athletic ability, but I just got done with a forty-five-minute bike ride, and after a morning workout at the gym, I'm exhausted. And Troy's still pissed. He's not hearing me.

“Troy, stop. I'm telling you, I have no idea what you're talking about. What's this about Patricia?”

I'm so focused on trying to talk and walk that I don't see my backpack on the floor, and I trip, stumbling. It's not much, but it's enough for him to grab my shirt and jack me against the wall, his eyes still steely hard and angry. “Don't lie to me,” Troy yells, bouncing my body off the wall. My head bounces too, and fireworks go off in front of my eyes, white and sparkly.
Pretty fireworks . . .
“How the fuck could you, after what she told you?”

“Told me? Troy, my phone's broken. I haven't been able to talk to anyone since Thursday!” I yell back as his words pierce the roaring in my head, grabbing his wrists. It's like grabbing two high-tension cables. There's no give at all, and unless I can convince him of the truth, I'm fucked. “Look, it's on the table!”

Troy bounces me again, not as hard this time, and I let go of his hands. “I'm telling you the truth. I don't know how you got the idea that I want to break up with Patricia, but that's the exact opposite of the truth. Just look at my phone.”

Troy's eyes consider me for a moment before he slowly relaxes, letting me off the wall. He keeps his hands on my shirt as he turns his head and looks at my phone, which is sitting on my coffee table, clearly broken, clearly not working. Troy looks back at me, his voice lowering more toward its normal tone. “You didn't break up with her today?”

I shake my head slowly, putting my hands on his wrists again and pulling my shirt free. Still, I don't move and instead, stay right where I am against the wall. “The last time I talked to Patricia was yesterday morning. I called her to tell her that I got a promotion at work. She was a little distant, said she didn't feel too well, and when I offered to come up to town to take care of her, she turned me down. I figured we'd catch up tonight or over the weekend, but when I got home, I realized my phone was broken, it's probably been that way since this morning. Work was a bitch. I didn't check it all day.”

Troy nods, then his eyes go wide with wonder and surprise. “So . . . so you don't know?”

“Know what?” I ask. “And can you let me off the wall?”

Troy steps back, then gives me a grin. “You . . . you really don't know. This is too good!”

“What?” I ask, feeling like I'm back playing football and just took a hit to the head, where everything is sort of wonky, and I feel like I'm missing something. It's not even the ache in the back of my head right now—that's fading. I just don't understand what the fuck Troy's going off about. Has he taken one too many hits to the head? “What the hell is going on?”

Troy grins and shakes his head. “Here, you can talk to Patricia yourself and find out.”

He reaches for his pocket, then pats it, his head drooping as he laughs. “Great, just great . . . now I left my phone behind too.”

“Troy, just tell me what the hell’s going on,” I say, frustration taking over for my confusion. I've just been jacked against the wall twice in my own apartment by my best friend, who's now laughing and acting like this is the funniest joke of all time, and it all has something to do with Patricia. “You're making me freak out, and with the shit I've been through the past two days, I don't need it!”

Troy stops, still smiling. “Congratulations. Welcome to the Daddy Club.”

What? Daddy Club? But that means . . . “You mean Patricia's pregnant?”

Troy nods, and suddenly, I'm hugging him, pounding on his back and laughing. He's laughing too, although his slaps on my back probably feel a lot more painful to me than mine to him. I won't need to see a chiropractor for a month after this, that's for sure. “Wait, then how did you think I broke up with her?”

“There was a phone call. Whit, Laurie and I were flying into Seattle early for the game. We had a surprise we wanted to tell her, and then she called while we were still in the air. There was a thunderstorm, the call quality sucked, and well . . . it doesn't really matter now, does it?”

I shake my head, then look at my phone. “Fuck this, I'm going to Seattle. How are you getting back?”

Troy shakes his head and shrugs. “I don't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead. When I thought you'd dumped Patricia because she told you she was pregnant, I hadn't thought much past kicking your ass.”

I run to my bedroom and grab a sports bag, and I throw some clothes inside before running back out and grabbing my backpack. Troy's still standing there, looking at me perplexed, and I turn at the door, frantic and happy and shocked. “Well, are you coming? Let's haul ass!”

I know I've never pushed my car harder as we make our way to the airport, only to be frustrated when we get there when all the flights to Seattle are done for the night. “Don't you understand?” I beg the ticket agent at the Delta counter, who's been trying for fifteen minutes to get me a seat somewhere. “I need to get up there now!”

“I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing here,” she says, punching at her keyboard. “The first flight isn't until six tomorrow morning. Would you like me to book a seat?”

“Yes, fine . . . but it's not good enough!” I hiss, handing over my card. Thank goodness for a PacFran Platinum Visa, even if it is connected directly to my checking account. “What else can I do?”

“I've got us a flight,” Troy says behind me, rushing up. “Come on.”

I grab my card back from the ticketing agent, who tries to ask some questions as Troy and I run through the terminal. “What flight?”

“Private jet. They can take us right to Silver Field,” Troy says. “Red cap gave me a hint. It's pricey . . .”

“Fuck the price,” I say as we run. We leave the building and jump into a cab, where the driver is surprised when he hears where we want to go.

“You want to go a half-mile?”

“Go, dammit! I've got a plane to catch!” I yell, tossing him twenty bucks from my wallet. “And step on it!”

“Your money, pal,” the cabbie replies, but he lays a streak of black on the pavement as we speed to the small plane terminal, and he tosses us a thanks as we jump out, not worrying about the change.

The plane turns out to be a Gulfstream, and with the short notice and the fact that I'm asking him to fly what is basically a one-way trip, the total comes to over fifteen thousand dollars. I sign the contract without a single worry, putting it on my card. It's half my current checking account, but my only thought as we lift off the ground is that I wish it were possible to rent an F-16. That'd get me there faster.

* * *

I
t's nearly
one in the morning when the taxi drops us outside Patricia's house, and I run up the walkway while Troy hurriedly pays the fare. “Cory, wait!”

I stop, knowing he's right. I can't just go breaking down the door, even if I'm desperate to see her and tell her how I really feel. Instead, I take a deep breath and knock. My hand is barely away from the door when it opens, and I see Whitney . . . and she's pregnant too. “Uh . . . hi, Whit.”

“Cory, you're not who . . . there he is,” she says, pushing past me to hug Troy. “You damn fool, you scared me!”