Page 10 of Trusting You
4
Locke
As soon as I shut the door behind Carter, I stare at the woodgrain, mouth going dry because I can’t close it.
Fuck this. I go in search of a beer.
Hell, I need a keg. Since my apartment can barely hold a couch and a table, I have to find cool relief elsewhere, so I call my good buddy Ben. We’d grown up together during college, played on the Gators—me as a running back, him as a wide receiver. Only other difference is, his stint with the NFL is still going.
We meet at a bar a few blocks over. Ben’s already there, slurping soda water with lime in preparation for the upcoming season. We smack palms before I take a seat beside him.
“So, what’s up?” he asks. “You sounded pretty shitty on the phone. And not hungover shitty.” He stabs his ice with a straw. Ben can never sit still. In class, at a bar, especially before games. It’s like a fireball lives inside him, and for Ben to maintain the heat, he has to expel the extra energy by using an appendage at any given time.
An excellent talent to employ on the field. A not-so-great trait when in need of a serious conversation.
“Didn’t you bring home whatsherface?” Ben pauses in his stabbing. “The cocktail waitress from the club?”
“Candy. Tara. Yeah. That’s not what’s got me, though.”
“No? Good, ‘cause she was smokin’, man. She show you too much of a good time?”
The bartender comes over, and I order a draught while he assures Ben his nachos are coming. During that exchange, a screech wails out behind us. I turn to see two mothers coming inside with mini-luxury cars that are holding a lifetime’s worth of weight, plus a tiny infant in each, located somewhere within those blanket folds.
That’s the thing about Williamsburg. Even bars host playgroups.
The two moms are laughing as they bump strollers, one gesturing with her cell while the other is rifling through a purse the size of a volcano hanging over one of the stroller’s handle.
One kid lets out a wail, and after looking over and assessing the situation, the other joins in. Music can’t pierce eardrums like that.
“You okay, man? You’re looking a little pale.”
I turn to Ben. No need to peer into the mirror behind the bar, because I can feel how green I look.
“I have one of those,” I say.
Ben’s in the middle of noshing on the nachos that were just plopped in front of him, but he stops mid crunch and says out one side of his mouth, “If you want one, just take one. Don’t ask permission like a sissy.”
For a minute I think he’s talking about kidnapping one of those terror-dolls, but he pushes his plate, so it’s between us.
“I have a baby,” I clarify.
This time, Ben chokes on a pickled jalapeño. I clap him on the back, but it’s a half-assed effort. I’m still listening to the kids’ wails and one of the moms assuring, “He pooped! It’s fine. I’ll change him, then we can order.”
“Did I just hear you right?” Ben asks once he gulps down half his soda. The lime accidentally went in, so he spits it back into the cup. At my silence, he asks, “When did you knock up a chick?”
At last, a beer is slid over to me, and I take a long swig. “You know, I didn’t even think to ask how old the baby was. She might’ve told me, though. Everything’s going a bit gray around the edges.”
Ben nearly chokes again. “How old? The baby’s already here? How do you even know it’s yours?”
I swallow grimly, remembering Carter standing in the middle of my den, her eyes shining brighter than my spit-shined Heisman Trophy. I’m so afraid for that baby.
“I’m pretty sure, in this situation, it’s mine.”
“You need to talk to your sister, man.”
The mere mention of Astor has me searching for my glass again. “No way. I’m not telling her yet.”
“But she can help you. Use her lawyer powers, represent you, make sure this is legit and not some chick looking to score some cash.”