Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [15]
“Yeah, he’d love to hear that. He loves to be perfect at anything.”
“Tell us how you really feel, Mike.”
“You know how family is.”
Kate’s cell goes off, singing, “Since you’ve been gone . . .” She mutes the phone and tosses it theatrically in her bottom desk drawer. “My ex. His own special ringtone.”
“What now?”
“He thinks I owe him money. He’s thinking of suing me. He thinks he’s God. What else is new? I swear he invented crazy. And I married it. What the hell were we thinking, Mike?”
“Kate, I have to finish this up. I may have to get out of here early today, so—”
“Okay, sorry. Very diligent of you.”
My dad’s voice echoes across the years: What the hell were you thinking?
My mother was sobbing into her hands like I’d just told her I had incurable cancer.
“I hope she’s going to get it taken care of,” my father snapped, pacing in front of the brick fireplace, his shadow slicing across the floor.
My mother gasped. “Henry!”
“Marian, they are not equipped for this. How can he start a family and graduate at the same time? And then support a kid on a starting journalist’s salary? He’ll be lucky to support himself. We’re still paying for his car. And who is this girl, anyway? We’ve never heard of her. What happened to Heather?”
“Another guy happened to Heather. And I told you, her name is Mallory.”
“Mallory, the name tells me nothing. What is she studying? And why in God’s name was she not on the Pill? This is the nineties, you have to be a mental defective to get pregnant accidentally.”
“I will not let you talk about her that way!” My voice came out unnaturally high and reedy. Some big-talking man I was.
“Oh, great, now I suppose you’re in love with her.”
My mother wiped her eyes, her face shiny wet in the firelight. “Are you?”
There was hope in her face. Love would make it okay for her, because then it wasn’t a terrible mistake, it could be welcomed instead of dreaded. I saw it all in her mouth slightly agape, her breath caught.
“I’m very . . . we’re passionate about each other.”
“Too bloody passionate,” interjected my dad, who’d sunk into the club chair near the fire.
“We weren’t thinking—”
“What else is new.”
“Henry! That’s enough.” My mother drew herself up, her five-foot frame looking like a sliver compared to my dad’s hulking form in the chair. “Michael needs our support. And this is a grandchild! Not a problem to be discarded! I’m not happy about the way it came about myself, but what’s done is done.”
My mother wrapped her thin arms around me. I rested my chin on top of her head.
“Mikey. We’ll figure it out. And I think we’d better meet her, don’t you think?”
My phone yanks me back to the present moment, alerting me to a text.
Mallory’s here, no Dylan yet, reports Casey.
Poor Casey, having to fend her off alone. But there’s this story, stupid as it is, and I have to get it done. Then I’ll get home. And everything will be fine.
The words in my notebook swim in my vision. What was I thinking indeed?
But without Mallory, there’s no Angel, no Dylan. And there was very nearly no Jewel because I’d finally packed my bags to go . . .
“Mike.”
When I pull myself out of my thoughts, I notice I’d been tracing my scar.
Kate waves her hand in my direction. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“Just tired,” I tell her, waving her off, forcing myself to stare again at the screen.
She lowers her voice and rolls her chair a little closer. “Is it Casey?”
I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. In an idiot-moment over a lunchtime Reuben, I’d told Kate that Casey is a terrific girl but she didn’t seem up to the stepparenting gig. Kate had covered my hand with hers, and I let myself feel sad, and I let myself be comforted for a moment that stretched a little too long. Since then I’ve had to be vigilant about being professional, friendly, and no more.
Yes, Kate’s gorgeous, and she’s also full of sympathy and sweet, understanding smiles. I also happen to know she’s cunning and calculated, which is one reason she’s such a goddamn good reporter.
“I can’t talk right now,”