Page 22 of The Quit List

A few years later, when I overheard my father on the phone talking dirty with his secretary (because he’s a walking cliché, so of course it was his secretary), it made more sense why my stepmother was sad so much. Made more sense why my own mother left.

“You have kids?” Jayden’s mom asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. It feels like an odd question to ask a stranger, until she gestures to the kids’ playground nearby, and I realize that the only adults that hang out at such places are parents and creeps.

“No, I was just walking by,” I say. The woman frowns, so I hurriedly add, “but I am going to be a godfather soon.”

I remind myself that I’m supposed to be keeping this a secret, but I decide it’s okay to tell her this because she doesn’t know me or Maddie or Seb. Apparently, pregnancies aren’t usually announced until they’re about twelve weeks along. You learn something new every day.

And I clearly have a lot to learn if I’m going to be a good uncle-slash-godfather to this little creature. Which I obviously plan to be. Because as non-ideally as I first reacted to the news, Seb and Maddie still wanted me for the title.

Of course, I had to accept such an honor. And of course, I’m going to do everything in my power to be there for the kiddo. Be nothing like my own father.

Hell, maybe I can take him—or her—hiking.

Jeez. Her.

What if it’s a freaking girl?! When she’s old enough to date, I’m going to want to kill every single guy that even looks at her.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Jayden’s mom exclaims, and I try to arrange my face into an appropriate expression of wonder. Because now, on top of being scared of dropping a baby that’s not due to be born for months, I’m also terrified of said future baby growing up to date an asshole that I’m going to have to kill.

Wonderful, all round.

Jayden and Rick are now practically wrestling, my dog with his hind paws atop the little boy’s chest as Jayden buries his face in Rick’s fur, still laughing. I have to admit, it’s a heartwarming sight.

The little family of three finally say their goodbyes, and I continue my walk around the park, smiling to myself.

As I look out across the park, I suddenly spot a familiar brunette in the distance. Is that…?

It’s Holly. The not-a-player-but-just-a-terrible-dater. The woman I told, to her face, to literally “do better” a couple weeks ago.

I might feel a little bad about that.

And now, here she is, lurking by herself on a bench and looking like she’s about to murder somebody.

My smile widens—I can’t help but be intrigued by this girl.

And so, while I usually like to mind my own business, this is one thing that I’m going to have to go and investigate further.

9

HOLLY

Emmett and I agree to meet in Piedmont Park at 3:30PM because he has a rec league basketball game later this evening, which is nice, but it also doesn’t give me time to go home and change after work.

Staid cream linen dress and cardigan combo, it is. Hopefully he’s into really vanilla-looking wifey material.

I arrive five minutes early and duck into the pee-scented public bathrooms to fix my lipgloss and brush my hair. Then, I arrange myself on a park bench in what I hope looks like a friendly and approachable manner, with a touch of mystery and je ne sais quoi.

It’s a beautiful afternoon and the air is warm on my face, thick with the grassy scent of early spring. I take off my cardi and stuff it in my purse, leaving me in just the strappy-shouldered dress. Which is cute, I think, if a little dressy for a walking date.

And I wait.

And wait.

And then, I wait some more.

4PM comes. I shoot him a message asking if he’s on his way. No response.

Maybe he’s stuck in traffic and can’t text me? I reason, crossing and uncrossing my legs on the bench again.