Chapter 45
ANDERSON
When I asked Ava how she wanted to tell our friends about the pregnancy, wanting to leave it up to her, I should’ve known she’d want to do it just like our wedding—no muss, no fuss.
We’re all getting together at Lenny’s for a few drinks, so she decided tonight was the night.
Now that we’ve heard the heartbeat, she’s ready to share the news.
We also know the gender.
I knew Ava wouldn’t want it to be a surprise, and I thought we’d have to wait until further along. Turns out, we had the option to do a blood test at our initial appointment.
Georgie had just gotten dropped off by one of the moms in the carpool we joined for soccer practices, and we were waiting for dinner to finish cooking in the oven when we found out it’s a girl.
I had oven mitts on; Georgie was still in her sweaty practice clothes, her cleats still on, and Ava was in a towel, her wet hair dripping on her shoulders when she got the email, hopping out of the shower and screaming, “It’s a girl!” throughout the entire house.
It was perfect.
Imperfectly perfect.
“You still haven’t told me exactly how you plan on telling everyone the news,” I tell to Ava as I grab her hand, stepping just in front of her to open the door to Lenny’s. Her hair is blown into big waves framing her face, her chest on display in her low-cut sweater, her skin making my mouth water.
I hold the door open for her, slapping my hand lightly against her ass and letting my hand linger before placing it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“I figured I’d use my words, maybe some hand gestures, if needed,” she deadpans, and I squeeze her ass in my palm, her sass going straight to my dick.
“Damn, wish I thought of that,” I reply, pressing a kiss to her temple just as she spots our friends tucked into a booth toward the back of the bar.
It’s pretty packed, even for a Friday night. The Cross My Heart tour is heading to Chicago from Minneapolis, but the band wanted to stop in their hometown during their few days off—at least that’s what we heard from Emerson.
Word must have gotten out that the band was in town, and everyone knows that Lenny’s is always going to be one of their stops since it’s part of their band’s history, since they used to practice next door before it became Hey Honey’s.
Looking around, I spot a few familiar faces—Eddie Ramirez, Cross My Heart’s drummer, and his wife.
They’re each holding one of their twin daughters as they talk to the big, tattooed guy who owns Lenny’s.
The owners of Hey Honey’s are here, too, talking to a woman with wine-red hair and two toddlers, a boy and a girl, at her feet.
Just a few feet away, Mateo Lane, the lead singer, is talking to the two other band members as he holds a sleeping kid in his arms—a boy a year or two older than Evee.
The crowd at Lenny’s is giving a wide berth to the group, but you can see the slight head nods and smiles in their direction, like people are deciding when it would be appropriate to interrupt to talk to the band.
“Glad you guys got a spot,” Ava says as she slides into the booth next to Emerson, and I sit down next to her, across from Jack.
“How’s it feel to be in your old stomping grounds?” Emerson asks Ava.
“Fine,” she says with a dry chuckle. “It’s not like I worked here for that long.”
“I’m going to go grab a drink,” I chime in, knowing that Ava doesn’t like talking about that part of her past, especially because it’s so closely tied to her jackass of an ex. “Does anyone need anything?”
“Shots!” Emerson exclaims, slapping her hand down on the bar.
“I should’ve known,” I say with a laugh as I head over to the bar. I hear the conversation changing to drama with the band that Emerson fills the girls in on, Jack pretending not to listen, but we all know he is just as invested as the girls.
Ordering a beer for me, a soda for Ava, and a round of shots for those of us drinking from one of the bartenders, I look around the space.
The lights are dim, and the place is only lit by the neon signs lining the walls.
The bar top takes up most of the space with booths lining the outside and high-top tables throughout.
It's gotten even more crowded since we got here.
I notice small bowls along the bar, pulling one closer to me to find matchboxes with the Lenny’s logo. I pocket one, knowing Ava probably already has one, but wanting to give her one anyway to add to her collection.
“Here you go, man,” the bartender says, placing the drinks I ordered on the bar in front of me, along with the four shots I ordered.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching into my back pocket to give him my card to start a tab.
Handing it to him, I feel someone bump into me, causing me to fall to my left, catching myself on one of the bar chairs.
“What the hell?” I say, trying to keep my patience, but that wasn’t just an accidental tap. It felt like someone was trying to push me over.
When I turn back around, I see some guy grabbing the shots I just paid for.
“Excuse me,” I say, giving the guy the benefit of the doubt. “Those are mine.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” the guy laughs, handing two of the shots to one of his buddies. “They’re ours now.”
I shake my head, wondering if I was just catapulted into a cheesy 80’s high school movie and cast as the target of the big, bad bully.
The guy’s letterman jacket and receding hairline have me feeling secondhand embarrassment, but not enough to let this asshole get away with whatever power trip he’s on.
I look around to see if anyone else is seeing what I’m seeing, but the bartender is already helping another customer, and everyone else is carrying on with their conversations.
“Is this a fucking joke?” I let out a dry laugh, but the guy doesn’t even look at me, his body up against the bar with his head turned in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” I say a little louder, lightly swatting at his shoulder, and he finally turns to look at me. “This isn’t high school, big guy.”
The guy gives me a once-over, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. He’s a few inches shorter, but he’s got some pounds on me. He’s probably about my age and gives off that vibe that he goes around pushing people’s buttons for fun.
And I’m not in the mood.
“Give me my shots back,” I say, my voice even, still trying to be civil.
The guy smiles, and I immediately understand why women carry pepper spray wherever they go.
It’s because of men like this.
“Nah,” he says, bringing one of the shots to his mouth and gulping it down. I don’t know if he’s baiting me or trying to get me to do something, but it’s not worth it. I don’t have time for pricks that do this for fun.
It’s embarrassing.
“Whatever, man,” I say, shaking my head as I grab my beer and Ava’s soda from the bar and head back to our table.
“What, no shots?” Emerson complains when I come back over, sliding Ava’s drink in front of her.
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. My body is buzzing, my fists clenched in my lap.
I hate guys like that.
“What happened?” Ava asks, and I look up to see all eyes on me.
“Some guy pushed me and then grabbed the shots I ordered.”
Ava’s brows furrow, and I hear her voice turn lethal, even among the music and conversations in the crowded bar. “What?” she grits through her teeth.
I settle my hand on her thigh, finding myself calming down, my frustration with the situation melting into something else, something much more pleasant, at the way Ava gets so mad on my behalf.
“It’s fine, love. Don’t worry about it.”
“Who was it?” Rumi asks, her and Jack looking over at the bar.
“See the super cool Northshore High School jacket?” I ask, not even having to look over in the direction.
Emerson snorts, and I know she spots the guy. “What a winner,” she says, taking a sip of her beer.
“Wish I was that cool,” Ava echoes, taking a sip of her soda, her full, pink lips wrapping around the straw. She sets her glass down and turns to me. “Excuse me,” she says to me.
“What?” I ask, but she’s already trying to scoot out of the booth. “You’re not going over there.”
She raises a brow at me, and I know she’s about to say she can do whatever she wants, but she surprises me when she says, “I’m going to go say hi to Luke and Annie.
” She blinks those hazel eyes up at me, her lashes long enough to blow me away.
My mind short-circuits, immediately under her spell and willing to do whatever she wants—just from those goddamn eyes.
“Fine,” I say. I’m about to tell her I’ll go with her, but my phone buzzes in my pocket, distracting me.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, lifting on her toes to press a kiss to my lips.
“Me too,” I say, more to the table of our friends than to her, when I see it’s my mom calling. I head toward the front door of Lenny’s, needing some quiet to take the call.
I haven’t heard from my mom—or my brothers, for that matter—aside from some occasional texts asking for the password to a streaming service we share or some other random question they could easily figure out themselves.
I think that’s what has my anxiety spiking, immediately wondering what could be wrong for her to be calling me.
I don’t mind answering their texts. My therapist has helped me realize that it’s okay for boundaries to not be so rigid, and that you’re allowed to mend and adjust them as needed.
And spending a minute or two replying to one of them helps with the guilt I feel for not calling or visiting for the last four months.
I haven’t been home since January.
Maybe because it’s not really my home anymore.
Ava and Georgie.
The baby.
They’re my home.
“Hello?” I say into my phone, greeting my mom.
“Hi, honey,” my mom says into the phone, and my nervous system immediately calms. There’s no urgency in her voice, no need to be worried. Maybe she’s just calling to check in. I haven’t told her about Ava’s pregnancy, so this might be a good chance, too.
“What’s up?” I ask her, a small smile on my face growing with the excitement of sharing the news with my mom.
“I hate to bother you,” she starts, and my smile drops.
I’m sent back to all the different times she’s started a phone call or conversation in the same way.
She’s calling for a favor, to ask me to do something.
“I don’t know if Auggie told you,” she says, going on to explain some issue with her insurance and how she received a bill for her last visit with her doctor about her arthritis, and it was bigger than usual.
The words go in one ear and out the other, waiting for her to finish, so I can remind her that I am two hours away while her three other sons are all within a two-mile radius.
“Mom, I can’t really help with this since I haven’t been there. I know you recently switched doctors, but I don’t know the new doctor or anything about it. You’ll have to talk to Auggie.” I keep my voice even and polite, not wanting to upset her, but I really don’t know what else to say.
“But Auggie can’t—” she starts, but I don’t let her go on.
“You can’t keep making excuses for him, Mom. He’s an adult, and it’s your responsibility to either teach him or trust him with your medical stuff, or ask Alex or Archie.” The words come out easily, much more so than I thought they would. “I’ve got people waiting for me. I got to go, okay?”
“Well,” she says, and the one word cuts me with the way she says it. “I guess I’ll just figure it out on my own.”
My head falls back as I let out a harsh exhale.
“Mom,” I start, and the guilt I thought was dissolving threatens to come back, but I don’t let it.
“You and I both know that I’ve spent the better part of my life helping you with anything you needed.
” I pause, but she doesn’t say anything.
“But it’s time for me to put all that time and effort into my own life.
I have a wife and a daughter and another one on the way. ”
“What?” my mom says, and I barely make out the word as her voice softens to a whisper. “I didn’t know you had a daughter, or that your wife was pregnant.”
I sigh. “Because, Mom, when we talk, it’s usually about you or the boys.”
The line is silent, and I pull it from my ear to make sure the call is still connected.
“I don’t really know what to say,” she admits, but instead of feeling discouraged, I take this as the start of a necessary change in our relationship.
“Let’s leave it here for now. Maybe we can talk sometime next week. Call me when you have some time to chat, okay?” I don’t ignore the way our roles have become so reversed that I talk to her like I’m the parent and she’s the child. Or that she lets me.
“Okay, honey. Have a good rest of your night. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Goodnight, Mom,” I say, ignoring the way she tries to slip in the guilt trip.
Turning around to head back into Lenny’s, I feel lighter. The conversation was heavy in some ways, and it’s only the beginning of what I think needs to be a much bigger conversation—one that I don’t even know if my mom will be willing to have—but it’s a start.
As I open the door to the bar, I’m immediately met with chaos.
And my wife is right in the middle of it.