This Means War

Chapter 20

Lydia

THAT NIGHT COLE and I sit at his kitchen island eating cereal straight from the box, both of us unable to go to the trouble of pouring it into a bowl, because our brains are too overloaded by this news. Twins. Two babies. It was so funny when I thought I could pull one over on Cole, make him feel the panic that has now seeped its way into every crevice of my body. Now that it’s true, the humor has vanished. Twins!

I look at my stomach. It’s still flat. Well, at least as flat as it usually is. So, flat-ish. My arms swing up encircling my navel, experimentally I move them out, imagining just how big I’m going to get. I stop when my hands hit the island, scooting my chair back to give my imaginary bump more room. Cole watches, his fistful of Fruit Hoops frozen halfway to his mouth. I move my gaze to his in an unspoken question. Cole extends his free hand and moves my hands out another inch. I glower at him, and let my hands fall to my sides .

“Hey,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender, “you’re the one who said your uterus was going to grow to 500 times its normal size for just one baby. It follows that for two, it’ll grow to 1,000 times its size.”

I’m not proud of the fact that I hurl a handful of my own cereal, Crunch Squares, straight at his face, but I am proud of the fact that when he retaliates with a handful of Fruit Hoops, I dodge out of the way so fast, not one of them hits me.

“Ha! Too slow,” I taunt, tossing another few squares of cereal at him.

Competitiveness sparks in his eyes, and a second later he’s up and chasing me around the island, the whole box of Fruit Hoops in his hands, poised to dump over my head. I squeal, hearing cereal crunch under my feet and not caring. I fling cereal behind me as I run, hoping some hits him. He turns trying to cut me off by going in the opposite direction and I stop, my legs tensed as I try to predict his movements.

“You know I’m a track coach, right?” I smirk. “And I ran the 200-meter dash in college.”

“Too bad it wasn’t the hurdles,” he retorts.

“What?” I ask in confusion, but he doesn’t answer, just quick as a flash throws down the two stools so they block one path, then dashes the other way to reach me. In blind panic I rush towards the stools, but they’re sprawled across the floor in such a way that I have to maneuver carefully around them so that I don’t fall. Cole catches me in no time, grabbing me by the waist then proceeding to dump the entire contents of his box on my head.

It’s weird, having Fruit Hoops rain down over me, their dust landing on my eyelashes and making my eyes blink rapidly, the sugary smell filling my nostrils. The strangest part, though, is what being pressed up against Cole is doing to my heart. It’s racing in my chest and shivers are running through me from my spine down to my very toes. His brown eyes find mine, and I wonder if he’s at all affected by me, but then I remember I’m covered in Fruit Hoops. He’s used to the put together beauty of Ashley Allen, not the dusty, frizzy ponytail-wearing mess that I am.

Still holding me in place with one arm, Cole reaches up and brushes a Fruit Hoop off the top of my head. The triumphant expression slides from his face at the contact, and my breath catches in my throat. Is he going to–

“Yoo-hoo!” A voice from the front of the house makes us jump apart. Cole bangs his foot on one of the stools and lets out a curse just as an older couple walks into the kitchen, suitcases in their wake. It takes me a second, but then I recognize them as Cole’s parents. Joel and Felicia. Or Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson, as I was always supposed to call them. What will I call them now? I eye Mr. Jacobson, whose face always seems stuck in a disapproving frown, and can’t imagine calling him Dad.

“Mom, Dad.” Cole looks completely taken aback. “What are you doing here? ”

“What are we doing here?” his mom repeats; her eyes taking in the messy kitchen before fixing on me. Self-consciously I brush Fruit Hoop dust off my tank top. “Honey, we’re here for that retirement party for your father’s college roommate. You knew that; we just talked about it a few weeks ago.” She frowns, displeased.

“Right…Dave Granger, I remember now.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “Just been a lot going on here; must’ve lost track of the date.”

“Apparently so.” She frowns, her eyes still fixed on me. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh.” Cole looks at me, and I can read the panic in his eyes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson,” I step forward, extending my hand, unsure why I’m showing Cole mercy right now, “it’s me, Lydia Hamlin, Josh’s little sister.”

“Lydia, oh!” Mrs. Jacobson exclaims in recognition, accepting my hand. Mr. Jacobson still hasn’t said a word. “Look at you all grown up!”

“That I am,” I say with forced cheerfulness.

“And what,” Mr. Jacobson finally breaks his silence, “is the grown-up Lydia Hamlin doing in your kitchen, Cole?”

I’m scrambling around for some excuse other than, I just came over for a food fight, when Cole surprises me. “Actually Dad, Mom,” he pulls me to his side, “I kind of have some big news. Lydia and I got married.”

Silence, complete silence. Cole doesn’t have a wall clock, so there’s not even ticking to interfere with the deafening silence that follows this pronouncement.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Jacobson finally speaks. “How can you be married? There was no wedding.”

“They eloped, Felicia,” his father growls. “The question is why? What’s your game here, son?”

I’m starting to actually feel comradery and admiration for Cole. He told his parents the truth, and he’s not even cowering under his father’s glare. That’s my man , the unbridled thought gallops across my mind, startling me.

“And what happened to Ashley?” his mom adds, and any affection I was feeling for Cole vanishes.

“Mom,” Cole’s exasperation is clear in his voice, “Ashley and I broke up months ago.”

“Yes, but I never understood why,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest and once again scanning the chaos of the room. Her gaze settles on me, and I swear her lip curls as she says the next words. “She was such a lovely young woman, and so...put together.”

I would like to interject and say that I usually don’t have Fruit Hoops stuck to my pants, but somehow, I think this goes beyond the cereal mess. The underlying message of their words is loud and clear: Ashley is far better suited to be a politician’s wife. Sadly, I’m pretty sure they’re right.

“Mom,” Cole’s voice is steel, “Lydia is my wife. You are in our house. You’re not going to stand there and insult her.”

My head moves around so fast I twinge a muscle in my neck. Cole just stood up for me. To his mother. To say I’m shocked is an understatement. Mrs. Jacobson’s eyebrows shoot together and twin pink spots stain her cheeks. It’s Cole’s dad who responds, though.

“Now, now Cole,” his tone is oddly jovial all of the sudden, “no need to get worked up. Your mother didn’t mean to insult anyone. We’re just a little surprised is all, right, Felicia?”

Though her face is still tight with irritation, she nods. “That’s right. Just surprised.”

Okay, what is happening? I can feel tension emanating from all three of them, and yet Mrs. Jacobson is moving towards me, arms opening for a hug.

“Welcome to the family, Lydia,” she intones, as if reading off a script.

“Listen, Lydia,” Cole jumps back in. “Why don’t you go freshen up in our bathroom, my parents can get settled in their guest room, I’ll clean up here, and we’ll all reconvene in the living room for drinks. How does that sound?”

The meaning behind his words is not lost on me, thanks to his strong emphasis on pronouns and the rooms they correspond with. His parents are staying in the frog room; he expects me to stay in the master suite while they’re here.

“Oh sure,” I agree, but only because he just defended me to them. And also, I figure he and I can sort out the sleeping arrangements later. I have no intention of sleeping with my husband. I made that mistake once before, and look where it got me. Twins. Two babies. Two!

I race out of there, glad to be away from their distaste. My suitcase is still in the hallway where I abandoned it after finding that hideous frog stuffed animal. I wheel it the rest of the way down the hall to Cole’s room, then sink against the wall, allowing myself a much-needed breather.

Cole’s parents are here! They’re here and very obviously displeased about the news of our marriage. I wonder what they’ll say when they find out that I’m pregnant. Maybe it’ll be another volcanic conversation. One where everything looks calm and peaceful on the outside, but inside there’s lava heating up, preparing to explode out and take everyone down with it. His parents’ lava hasn’t exploded yet, but it has to, right? They can’t just be upset and not say anything about it, can they? My family loves to talk about how upset they are. Sometimes it’s all we talk about.

Oh, Lydia, if you had only applied yourself more you could’ve gotten into law school.

Lydia, do you have to tell people you’re a middle school running coach? Tell them, you’re applying to grad school or just change the subject if you have to for goodness’ sake.

Lydia, why don’t you just move home. You’ll be able to get a more stable job out here with our help.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, Cole’s parents seem bent in the opposite direction. Suppress, suppress, suppress. I don’t always like my parents’ bluntness, but at least I know where they stand. Am I going to spend my marriage to Cole trying to interpret the thinly veiled expressions of Joel and Felicia Jacobson’s faces?

Pushing myself off the wall I strip off my Fruit Hoop covered tank top and yoga pants, then head towards Cole’s bathroom to take a quick shower so I can get all the cereal dust out of my hair and pores.

After my shower, not wanting to keep everyone waiting too long, I French braid my wet hair and slip into a cheetah-print pencil skirt paired with a tucked in red blouse. It’s almost eight; normally I’d have been in pajamas for at least an hour by now, but I grew up next to the Jacobsons, and I never saw Felicia in anything less formal than a pantsuit. I don’t even own a pantsuit .

A skirt will have to do.

I head back out into the main section of the house, expecting them all to be in the living room as Cole had suggested, but I hear their voices still in the kitchen. I pause hidden around the corner as I hear Cole’s father’s angry words.

“Whose harebrained idea was this, Cole? That idiot campaign manager of yours, I suppose?” He doesn’t wait for Cole’s answer, just barrels on, “You’re so stubborn that you can’t see the mistakes you’re making. You only care about doing it your way. Do you even want to win this election, Cole? Because the choices you’re making don’t line up with those of a person who wants to win. Jacobsons win, Cole. We win. What’s my candidate win rate, Cole? Say it.”

“Ninety-two percent,” Cole mumbles.

“That’s right. And yet you thought you could do this without me. Now you’re seven months away from this election and you’ve married a woman who sure, may be a lot of fun, but has no idea what it takes to be a politician’s wife. Maybe you think it’s nice that the two of you are able to have impromptu food fights, but does that sound like the actions of a mayoral candidate? You’re already young for the job, Cole.” His dad’s anger ebbs into exasperation. “You have to compensate for your age with your actions. Ashley was a mature, stable woman; one up for the challenges that come with being married to a politician.”

“Dad,” Cole starts, but Mrs. Jacobson interjects.

“The shower’s been off for a while,” she says. “I’m sure Lydia will be back out any minute.”

“Fine,” Mr. Jacobson sighs. “We’ll have to table this conversation for another time. When we can guarantee our privacy.”

Ah, I see now. The Jacobson family doesn’t suppress their angry emotions, they just hide them from the world. They are a political family through and through. And now Cole has gone and saddled himself with me, a woman who has never been able to hide much from anyone.

“Dad,” Cole tries again, ignoring his suggestion that they end the conversation, “you don’t even know Lydia.”

“I know enough. We may not have been able to make it to Josh’s wedding, but we’re still in touch with the Hamlins. Lydia might be fun and she’s certainly pretty, but her life is a mess, Cole. She couldn’t even get into her parents’ alma mater for law school. And they make regular generous financial contributions there.”

Even though they can’t see me, humiliation burns my face preventing me from bursting in there and telling them off. I can’t believe my parents are telling people about that. Hurt intermingles with my embarrassment.

“I just don’t understand what happened to Ashley,” his mom speaks again. “She was so perfect for you. A successful lawyer. Beautiful. Polished .” She emphasizes this last word.

I wait for Cole to speak, oddly desperate for him to rebuff his mother’s words. He defended me against her insults once before, will he do it again?

“Lydia’s pregnant,” I hear him say instead, and my heart sinks at the desperation in his voice. “We got married because Lydia is pregnant.” Apparently, Cole is just like his parents. Putting on a show for the people. Defending me only when he knows I’m there to take notice of it.

“Pregnant?” Mrs. Jacobson gasps the word.

“Are you sure it’s yours?” his dad demands gruffly, making me bristle with indignation.

“Dad, what kind of question is that?” Cole sputters .

“It’s a perfectly reasonable question,” Mr. Jacobson retorts. “You think there aren’t opportunistic women out there? Women who would take advantage of your wealth and status to get ahead. There are, Cole. So, I repeat. Do. You. Know. For. Sure. That. It’s. Yours?” He spaces out the words, giving them each the weight of a full sentence.

Cole’s lengthy silence sickens me. How could he think I would lie to him about this? Sure, we’ve only been reacquainted for a short time, but we grew up together. Doesn’t that count for anything?

“I’m just saying,” his dad picks back up when Cole remains silent, “at least do a DNA test. Make sure of it before you throw everything away for her. If it’s not, maybe you can get an annulment. I can work with Tom on that. See how we can spin the whole thing in your favor. I’m sure there’s a way.”

I don’t wait to hear more; I back up and hightail it back to Cole’s bedroom where I stand against the door, my heart racing. Is Cole going to ask me to do a DNA test? I’ll be honest, I never saw my life taking this type of Jerry Springer turn.

I shimmy out of my skirt and blouse, replacing them with my pajamas. I am not going back out there; I don’t have the energy. Instead, I head for Cole’s bed. It’s decorated with a bunch of throw pillows, and I use them to stack a line down the middle of the bed, then climb in on one side and stare at the ceiling.

My mind flits back to that moment in the kitchen when one of his hands rested on my hip and the other smoothed a Fruit Hoop out of my hair. How my stomach flipped at his touch, and I thought for just a second, that maybe this crazy marriage of ours stood a chance of becoming something real. So stupid. Cole has always been a charmer, I can’t trust anything he says. I’m just a pawn in his political game.

I’m suddenly so angry; I can’t just lay here anymore. I throw the blanket off my body and stalk to the bathroom, banging around in the cupboards until I find what I’m looking for: Q-tips. I pull them out and stick one in my mouth, rubbing it along my cheek like they do on TV. Cole has a dixie cup dispenser on his counter. I pull out a cup and place the wet Q-tip inside it. I grab my phone and my toiletry case and march back out to the kitchen, Q-tip in hand.

His parents are gone, but Cole is still in there, sweeping up cereal. I clear my throat, and he turns to face me, a wary expression on his face. Anger still fueling me, I step forward and shove the cup into his hand.

“There you go,” I try to sound calm, but my voice shakes. “Do your DNA test if you want. I’m going back to Jamie’s. Call me when you’ve pulled your head out of your butt.” Without waiting for his reply, I rush out of the kitchen.

“Lydia!” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I get in my car and back out of the driveway, pulling out onto his street, half-blinded by tears.

It’s only when I get on the highway that I realize what I’ve done. I gave him my DNA. Obviously, these babies are mine. A second round of humiliation hits me. I acted impetuously, like I always do, and now I look like a complete idiot.

It’s fine, I try to assure myself; he’ll get that I was just trying to make a statement, show him what I think of his dad’s allegations.

My phone starts ringing from its spot on the passenger seat. I spot Cole’s name and ignore it. He calls back two more times, but I continue to ignore him. Lights flash in my rearview mirror, and a honk sounds. Confused, I look back and make-out a truck that looks like Cole’s behind me. He came after me?

My phone rings again, and this time I answer.

“Lydia, I’m behind you. Can you pull over?”

I eye the green sign that tells me the next exit is a mile ahead. “Why?”

“Because, I want to talk to you. I want you to come home.”

My heart stutters in my chest. Home.

“Lydia?”

“I’m here,” I gulp, indecision clawing at me.

“Will you stop?”

The exit is getting closer. I have to make a decision. “Fine,” I relent. I merge into the exit lane and slow the car as I follow the loop around to a light. There’s a gas station right there, and I pull into it. Cole parks his truck next to mine, then hops out. He walks around to my door and stands there gazing down at me, something fierce in his eyes.

Shakily, I roll down my window, needing the separation of the door between us. “You wanted to talk,” I say.

Cole shakes his head, then in one motion, puts his hand in the window, flips up the locks, opens my door, and pulls me out. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he says his next words.

“Lydia, I’m not doing a DNA test. I believe you.” He squeezes my hands. “Of course, I believe you.”

Tears shine in my eyes. “Really?”

“Lydia, do you really think I would’ve married you if I didn’t know for sure that I was the father of those babies you’re carrying? Do you really think Tom didn’t ask me the same questions my dad asked?”

I stare at him in wonder. He trusts me. “Then why did you hesitate when he told you to get a test done?”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t hesitate, I was just so livid at first that I couldn’t get the words out. When I finally got control of myself, I told them to leave.”

“You what?” I gasp.

“I told them to leave,” Cole says with a shrug.

“I can’t believe it. They must be so angry.”

“Probably,” Cole agrees. “But they’ll never do anything about it. They care too much about maintaining their happy family image. Besides,” he gives me a wicked grin, “I couldn’t have them spending the night in the room I specially designed for you.”

I slug him in the shoulder. “Funny.” I studiously ignore the part of me that feels disappointed I won’t be sharing Cole’s bed with him tonight. It’s for the best, I tell myself. Don’t be weird.

“So you’ll come home?” he asks .

I nod. “I’ll come home.”

We hop back in our cars, and Cole follows me back to the house.

He holds the door for me to go inside, and I feel a swell of affection for him. He really came through for me today. I lead the way through the house, flipping on the hallway lights as we go.

At my door I turn. “Thank you, Cole,” I meet his gaze, “for standing up for me tonight.”

His eyes search mine, and for the second time that day I wonder if he might kiss me. Instead, he just nods. “You’re the mother of my babies, how could I not stand up for you?”

Right. My heart sinks. Of course, tonight was never about me, it was about the twins. Cole only cares about me in that capacity. I stuff down the feelings for him that have been rising inside me. I need to put my defenses back up.

“Well, good night then.” I swivel and go inside my room. The frogs are all still staring at me. I shudder, then try to focus on my annoyance with Cole for designing my room this way. Annoyance is better than a growing crush, that’s for sure. You can’t have a crush on someone you’re at war with.

I stomp to the wall and start removing all the frog pictures, setting them face down on the dresser. Soon it’s just me and the peace-sign tree frog. I think I’ll call him Enemy Number 2. It’ll be so satisfying to stuff him in the trash. I lift my hands up, grasp the sides of the painting and yank. Nothing. It doesn’t even budge. I yank harder. Still Nothing. I keep trying, tugging every corner until my arms start to hurt from holding them over my head so long. He must’ve superglued it or something.

Oh, I’m going to get him for this. The only question is how? I’m too tired to do anything tonight, so I resign myself to going to bed. Pulling the quilt back, I get in the bed and snuggle under it, drumming my fingers along the top edge as I think.

The frustrating thing is that he has money to spend on this war of ours. These frog decorations didn’t just materialize, and his house—his beautiful ranch with the enormous backyard and nearby shaded trails—certainly didn’t come cheap. I have very little money, and certainly can’t spend hundreds of dollars just to strike a blow at him. Basically, I’m colonial America and he’s England. No, I’m David and he’s Goliath. Something sparks in my brain. David. Goliath. That’s it. I smile to myself and settle back into my pillow already imagining my success.