Getting Played - Emma Chase Page 0,46

couch and Grams pats my knee. “How far along are you?”

“About four and a half months.”

“That’s when things start to get interesting.” Grams pats Dean’s leg with her other hand. “And if the baby grows up to be a hellion like you—you’ll know all the tricks they’ll try before they do.”

“Dean was a hellion?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. But mark my words—they grow up to be the best fathers.”

Grams pours herself another glass of champagne and Dean rubs his hands together. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“You could make your spaghetti sauce,” Grams replies.

I meet Dean’s eyes. “You cook?

“I do. I cook spaghetti sauce. That’s the only thing.”

“But it’s delicious,” Grams adds, proudly.

“It is delicious. She’s not lying. But I can’t cook spaghetti Grams—Lainey has heartburn.”

He remembered. Is it weird that that turns me on? Cause it does. A lot.

“You still jonesing for Boston Market?” he asks me. “I can go pick it up and we can eat back here.”

“Sounds good.”

After we get our orders straight, Grams rises from the couch to the bureau, then hobbles back with a stack of photo albums in her arms.

“Let me show you some pictures of Deany—he was such a precious baby.”

Dean stands, lifting his chin at me. “Lainey—keys?” I take the keyring out of my purse and Dean catches them one-handed. “Hey, Jaybird—you coming or are you going to hang with the girls and look at my bareass bathtub baby pictures?”

Jay scrunches his face. “I’m with you, dude.”

“Good choice.”

And it all feels so effortless. Comfortable. Like we’re just sliding forward into this new, uncharted, crazy stage in life . . . sliding into a family.

No sooner does the front door close behind Dean and Jason than my stomach lurches like an anchorless boat—the apple juice I swallowed bubbling like battery acid.

It happens sometimes, the “morning” sickness comes out of nowhere, hits me hard and fast, and then after I get sick, I feel totally fine. Like my schizophrenic body’s saying—okay, we puked, now what’s for dinner?

Grams must see the look on my face, because she leans in and in her wispy granny voice asks, “Are you going to blow chunks, dear?”

I squint back at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Blow chunks, spew, hurl? They showed Wayne’s World at the center last week—now, that’s a movie. That Garth is an adorable boy.”

I would laugh, but my palms are moist and a cold sheen of sweat breaks out all over my body. Pregnancy sucks so much ass.

Grams gestures down the hall. “The bathroom is just over there.”

I stand on wobbly legs and make it to the bathroom just in time before the apple juice that was swirling in my stomach isn’t in my stomach anymore. I rinse my mouth at the bathroom sink and splash cold water on my pale cheeks.

When I step back into the living room, Grams is waiting with a chilled glass of water.

“Thank you. Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and tucks a pillow behind me on the couch.

“Don’t apologize. They used to tell us the sicker you were, the healthier the pregnancy was. But I think that was a load of crap—something they just say to make you feel better, like rain being good luck on a wedding day.”

Grams drags a photo album onto her lap—and I get a glimpse of Dean Walker: the younger years.

He was a gorgeous baby, and from the look of the pictures, a rambunctious boy, a handsome high schooler. There are photos of Dean playing the drums, scoring touchdowns, being admitted to the National Honors Society, graduating from college summa cum laude. And scattered through all those accomplishments, are photos of Dean with girls.

And then more girls.

Girls to the left of him, girls to the right—at prom, in a car, on a couch, at the lake, in front of a bonfire. There are blondes, redheads, and brunettes—all of them are pretty—but with each turn of the page, none of them are the same. None of them seem to have stuck around for long.

I clear my throat. “Dean had a lot of girlfriends.”

“Oh yes, he was very popular. Quite the ladies man.”

I don’t know what to say about that—how to feel. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel anything at all, so I say nothing.

Grams pats my knee again.

“Cake batter.”

I search my mind for a Wayne’s World quote involving cake batter.

“What do you mean?”

“My grandson is like a bowl of cake batter, Lainey. All the ingredients are there, just waiting for the right flame to come along. Once he’s