26. Keeley
JUNE
W e fall into something of a routine, and I guess I don’t hate it.
Graham usually cooks, forcing me to help in small ways that won’t lead to the actual destruction of our meal.
He insists we eat dinner at the table instead of watching TV.
“Meals are when you get your kid to talk about his day,” Graham says, like he’s suddenly The Today Show ’s parenting expert, but he might have a point.
My mom had fond memories of eating on a TV tray with her dad and her sister each night, and so we did it, too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was ideal.
After dinner, we watch TV together and sometimes we read. When I tell him I want Pinkberry or Froot Loops, he’s willing to drive me. And yes, there are nights when I really wish I could just eat Hot Tamales and watch The Bachelor , but there’s something about this too. I’ll miss it when it’s gone.
“What are you reading?” he asks. We are on the couch, my toes tucked beneath his thigh.
I glance at my phone. “‘ Celebrity Kids who Could Stand to Lose Some Weight ’.”
He laughs. “You’re making that up.”
“You clearly have no idea just how lowbrow my taste is.”
He grins. “I got a pretty good idea when you pushed for a movie about a ‘sexy kidnapper.’”
I kick him. “Hey, do you want to check out that class Julie suggested on Saturday?”
I’m now twenty-five-weeks along. That we are at the point where we would take parenting classes makes things feel very real to me. I’m going to be responsible for a real, live baby in a very short period of time, and he won’t be here for it.
He scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, this weekend is a little busy. My great aunt is coming in from Boston.”
There’s something cagey in his manner that alarms me. “She’s not, like, staying with us, is she?”
He shakes his head. “No, she gets in Friday morning. I figured I’d take her to the Getty and—”
I throw a hand to my face dramatically, as if I’m Scarlett O’Hara in a swoon. “The Getty ? God. Tell me you weren’t assuming I’d come along for this.”
He rolls his eyes. “How could I not when you’re such a good sport about everything? And what the hell is wrong with the Getty?”
I push myself upright. “No one really likes museums or art galleries or churches, Graham. It’s just an excuse to get dinner and drinks. You know, ‘ hey, let’s meet at the Getty, and grab a drink afterward . ’ ”
“I’m pretty sure there are people who actually enjoy museums and galleries.”
“Boring people,” I reply, grinning at him. “Okay, maybe this all lines up.”
His gaze rests on me in a way that looks an awful lot like interest , though I can’t imagine why. “I can’t wait to hear what you think I should do with my ninety-year-old great-aunt instead of the Getty, then.”
“Does she drink? I’d start there and see where the wind takes you.”
He sets his phone down and turns toward me. “So my great aunt is flying across the country, and your suggestion is that I take her to a bar. For the day .”
I hitch a shoulder. “Well, she’s Irish and from Boston. I doubt it’ll be the first time she’s spent a day in a bar.”
His mouth moves as if he wants to laugh. “ That’s an offensive stereotype.”
“If I’m wrong it’s only because she was too busy spitting out one baby after the next to get a day in a bar to herself.”
He shakes his head. “Keeley…Jesus. That’s another offensive stereotype.”
“A, I can say these things because I’m Irish. And B, how many kids did she have?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
I laugh. “More than six, then?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Eight. It’s still a stereotype. But anyway…it does involve you a little. She’s flying out for a party at my mom’s house.”
“What does that—”
“The party is so everyone can meet you.”
My jaw falls open. “ Me? ” I repeat, suddenly nervous. Because Graham’s family is huge. Three brothers, two stepsisters, assorted spouses, and significant others. Including my best friend, who knows exactly how much of this is fake. “Graham, what the hell , dude? When were you going to tell me?”
“I just found out.” He wraps a hand around my foot, and I wonder if he’s planning to hold it hostage until I agree. “Right before you got home. Look, I know it’s a lot, and believe me, I hate lying to my mom about all this but…it’s what you wanted.”
I feel the briefest sting of guilt. It is what I wanted, simply because of the grief I’d get from Shannon and the very strong possibility she and Graham’s mom will meet at some point in the future. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to ask.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh, “but only if I can wear the Tulane sweatshirt.”
He glares at me. “One of these days that sweatshirt is going to fucking disappear.”
The funny thing is he sounds jealous. As if he cares about me, regardless of whether or not I’m having his child. He squeezes my foot, now pressed to one of his very muscular thighs, and I wonder what it would be like if that was actually the case.
“They aren’t going to demand we kiss, right?” I ask on Saturday night, preparing for the worst.
He cuts a glance at me from the driver’s seat. “What kind of people would demand we kiss ?”
“It happens in movies all the time. You can’t be in a fake relationship without winding up on a kiss cam or having to kiss because someone’s family has demanded it.”
“That has literally never happened in a single movie I’ve watched, nor in a book I’ve read.”
“If that economics book you’re reading had a fake relationship trope in it, you’d have finished it weeks ago.”
We pull onto the idyllic streets of Newport, which I’m familiar with thanks to abundant reality TV programming, and then arrive at his mother’s house.
I’ve seen it before in photos, but never from the street in all its glory: a massive two story with a Spanish tile roof, a wood door, and a long driveway that is already full of cars. It’s far more impressive in person than it was in photos.
“Your mom should be on Real Housewives . This is incredible. I’d never have thought you came from this.”
His lips press tight. “I didn’t come from this. My mom and Walter moved here a few years ago, after his company took off.”
I’d forgotten they had some lean years after Graham’s father died. Of course they didn’t live in a mansion.
“My mom is…sensitive about a few things,” he continues. “From when we were kids. We try to avoid talking about childhood stuff as much as possible around her.”
There’s something in his face that warns me not to ask what she’s sensitive about. That same something in his face whenever he discusses his mom.
“You know, if we’d just lived a little closer to Newport, your mom might have married my dad instead. We’d have been stepsiblings.”
“I think we dodged a bullet, then,” he says as he opens my door.
“I’d have been a very good little sister,” I argue.
He lifts me from my seat as if I’m as light as a feather, his gaze falling to my face, to my lips, then away. “I wasn’t trying to say you wouldn’t have been. Come on. Let’s get this over with. Pretend you’re in labor if this thing isn’t over within two hours.”
We walk through the wooden door and discover absolute chaos, the kind I longed for as a kid.
A football arcs through the air, followed by a woman shouting, “ no football in the house!” Two of his brothers wrestle over the ball, and his mom gingerly steps past them before throwing her arms around me as if I’m a long-lost friend.
“Keeley, it’s so good to see you again!” she cries.
I worry for the first time about whatever conversations she and I might have had the weekend I drunk-married her son.
I hope none of them were about Six Bailey.
Graham is dragged off by one of his younger brothers, while Jeannie Tate leads me through the house, its walls lined with photos of her boys and Walter’s daughters.
I was hoping to spy baby photos, to get a hint of what our child might look like, but there are none.
Instead, I spy Graham as an awkward teen warily staring down the photographer in a family photo, and a more recent picture where he’s shaking hands with someone and looking devastatingly handsome.
The frame is different than the others and appears to be hand-painted.
“I love that,” I tell his mom, touching it.
“Oh, right, I should take it down.” She blinks, stumbling over her words.
Her discomfort is so obvious that it’s painful, and I can’t imagine why.
It’s not like I was going to ask her to give it to me.
“I just got that at Christmas. Err, as a gift, but, um, anyway, let’s go out back while Walter finishes grilling. ”
I’m led out to the spacious terrace, overlooking a large pool. Walter, Graham’s stepfather, waves from the grill, and I’m pushed into a comfy chair and surrounded by his stepsisters, Gracie and Noah, and his great-aunt and his mom.
“I can’t believe Graham’s going to be a father,” says Gracie. “Are you going to find out what you’re having?”
“We haven’t decided. We had it written down for us and put in an envelope.”
“How can you stand the suspense?” Noah squeals. “I’d have torn that thing open before I was out of the office.”
“Have you thought of a theme for the room?” his mother asks.
“No…” I glance across the lawn to Graham, feeling the first twinges of panic. We should, I guess. We probably need to look at furniture.
“What are you going to do about work?” Gracie asks.
“I—”
“You need to get the room ready, soon,” says his great-aunt. “I knew a girl whose baby came almost three months early, and cribs were all backordered. That poor child slept in a Pack ’n Play for two months after being released from the hospital on a feeding tube.”
I cough. “Three months early?”
“It was a mess.” She leans forward to pat my knee. “Best to be prepared.”
“So you haven’t bought a crib or a car seat yet?” Jeannie asks. “We should check the safety ratings, especially for the crib. If the slats are too far apart, the baby’s head can get stuck.”