End Game

by Emily Goodwin

  “You are such a nerd, Quinn,” he laughs. “Is that your biggest confession?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Do you think of me differently now?”

  “Oh, definitely. This changes everything, and I don’t know if I can go on dating you.”

  “Fine,” I say with a laugh. “My life might be a little dull.”

  “There is nothing wrong with dull, babe.” He kisses me again, and that push-and-pull feeling is gone. Maybe it’s not too soon to fall for him.

  Someone knocks on the door and I immediately jump. Archer holds me, and I instantly feel safe.

  “I think it’s my parents,” he says. “They were on their way over.”

  “I’m meeting them now?” I whisper-yell, feeling like I’m not ready. I madly try to smooth out my hair.

  “You look fine, babe.”

  “Fine? Just fine?”

  “Pretty. Sexy. Hot. Beautiful.”

  I playfully push him away and climb off his lap. “Listing off adjectives isn’t helping. You’re sure they’ll be excited about the baby?”

  “Yes. They need some good news right now considering everything else going on. And my mom’s one of those people who loves babies. All babies.” He makes a face and I laugh.

  “That makes me feel better.”

  He goes to the door, looking out the peephole before opening it. I’m not sure why I’m nervous to meet Archer’s parents all of the sudden. I’ve met them before, but it’s different now. Meeting your boyfriend’s parents is always a big deal, but meeting them and then telling them they’re going to be grandparents is even bigger.

  Archer’s mom hugs him as soon as she’s in the door. By the way she’s gushing over him, I assume it’s been a while since she’s seen him in person. She gives him another hug and then sees me.

  “Quinn!” she exclaims. “Look at you! You’ve grown up.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Jones,” I say with a smile. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Call me Sheila,” she says and comes in for a hug. So Mrs. Jones is a hugger, and she smells overwhelmingly like the perfume my grandmother wears.

  “Dad, do you remember Quinn?” Archer steps back, slipping his arm around me.

  “I do, and it’s nice to see you again. I always thought Archer had a thing for you,” he says with a wink. Archer got his dark hair and brown eyes from his father but is a few inches taller and many pounds lighter than his dad.

  “It’s a little early,” Archer starts. “But is anyone hungry? We can do brunch instead of lunch.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I say.

  “I’ll gladly go out.” Mr. Jones pats his stomach. “The breakfast at the hotel was terrible.”

  “There’s a cute little Mexican restaurant down on the corner.” Mrs. Jones motions behind her. “I could really use a margarita right now.” She nudges me. “Maybe we could split a pitcher.”

  “Uh…yeah.” I look at Archer, who grabs his phone and wallet from the coffee table. I pull my purse up over my shoulder and go to the door, waiting for Archer.

  “Oh, honey,” Mrs. Jones—Sheila—says, looking at my wrist. “Archer told me what happened. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s, uh, okay.” I force a smile. This isn’t awkward at all. Archer takes my hand and leads me out, locking the door behind him. The four of us head down the hall and get into the elevator. No one says anything, and the silence makes the already awkwardness even worse.

  “That’s a pretty purse.” Sheila breaks the silence, looking at my bag. “Is that Gucci?”

  “Yeah, and thanks.”

  The elevator comes to a stop at the lobby, and we get out. Archer holds my hand and we continue our awkward-as-fuck walk down the block. My family is loud. Between the seven of us, someone is always talking. I wonder how things are with the Joneses, and if the lack of conversation has to do with the fact Bobby showed up, obviously high on something, hurt me, and is MIA.

  Yeah, that adds a bit of tension to my first sit-down meal with my boyfriend’s parents. Since it’s not quite eleven a.m., the lunch crowd hasn’t yet moved in and we get a table right away. Normally, I love tacos. I considered them one of the basic food groups while in college. And nothing tested my self-control more than a bowl of chips and salsa in front of me.

  But right now the smell of taco seasoning in the air is making me gag. Archer notices and rubs my thigh, and I order a Sprite to try to help.

  “So, what do you do, Quinn?” Mr. Jones asks. “I think you were still a college student the last time we saw you.”

  “I design and program software,” I say, keeping things simple. Usually, there’s no point in explaining further than that. Most people don’t understand what I do.

  “Sounds interesting. And complicated.”

  “She’s being modest.” Archer gives my thigh a squeeze. “She invented and sold an app to Apple and now she manages one of the most up-and-coming software companies in the country.”

  “Wow,” Sheila says, eyes widening. “That’s amazing. What’s the app called? I might have it.”

  Mr. Jones winks. “If it’s one of those candy smashing games, she does.”

  The waiter brings our drinks and I sip at my Sprite. “It’s not an app like that. It’s more like an app for apps that helps with the way they process and store data, making them more efficient while taking up less space.”

  “You lost me.” Mr. Jones shakes his head and laughs.

  “I don’t even get it,” Archer says, turning to look at me. “But it’s impressive.”

  The waiter comes back to take our orders, and I go with a taco and a burrito, hoping I can stomach at least a few bites of each. I glare at the bowl of salsa. It looks so good but smells so bad right now.

  Being pregnant is weird.

  Archer talks to his parents about work for a while, and when our food comes, I can’t ignore how sick I feel anymore. I take one bite of my taco and feel betrayed. I set it back down on my plate and grab a napkin, needing to cover my nose and block out the smell before I puke.

  “Feeling sick again, babe?” Archer asks quietly, and I nod. “Did you bring the Zofran?”

  “No. I can’t take another yet.” I reach for my Sprite. “I’ll be okay.”

  Sheila’s eyes dart from me to Archer and back again. “Are you all right dear? Do you think it’s food poisoning?”

  “Mom. Dad,” Archer starts and scoots his chair a little closer to mine. His hand lands on top of mine. “Quinn’s pregnant.”

  “We’re going to be grandparents?” his dad asks after a few seconds of silence, almost as if he’s afraid Archer is going to tell him it’s all a joke.

  “Yes.” Archer gives my hand a squeeze. “In March. The official due date is the eighteenth.”

  “The day after your birthday!” his mom exclaims. “Oh, what a wonderful present!” She brings her hands to her face, tears in her eyes. If only my family reacted this way…

  “I have ultrasound pictures, if you want to see them,” I offer, reaching into my purse with my left hand. The small movement hurts my wrist, and I try hard not to let anyone see. This is a nice moment. I don’t want to mess it up by reminding everyone of Bobby.

  “Of course! Of course! How far along are you? You said the due date, but I can’t think right now.”

  “She’s around eight weeks,” Archer says. “We wanted to tell you in person, and with all that was going on…”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” Sheila takes the ultrasound pictures from me and ohhs and awws over them, and then asks about how the pregnancy has been going and what we have planned, which is nothing.

  Unlike my parents, however, they don’t seem too concerned. I guess next to Bobby, Archer having an unplanned baby is smooth sailing. He’s smart. Responsible. He’ll figure it out one way or another, and I know without a doubt he’ll be an amazing father…even if we’re not together.

  Unable to finish my food, I get it boxed up to take back to Archer’s. Maybe I’ll eat it later. />
  “You should rest,” Sheila says as the waiter clears the last of the dishes from the table. “I know what it’s like having morning sickness. I had it bad with both my pregnancies. And we should start our search for Bobby.”

  “Can I help?” Archer asks.

  “No,” his dad says right away. “Take care of Quinn and that baby. We’ll start looking at the usual places and will call you if we find him.”

  Archer nods, grabbing the check the waiter just dropped off before anyone has a chance to object. “You’re still coming over for dinner?”

  “Yes.” Shelia smiles. “We’ll see you tonight. Have a safe flight, Quinn. And I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again soon.”

  We go our separate ways, and I hold Archer’s hand, slowly walking back to his apartment.

  “What are the usual places?” I ask as we cross the street.

  Archer glances down at me. “To look for Bobby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jail.” He shakes his head, trying not to get angry. “Homeless shelters and free clinics. He tries to go and get pain pills. He never gets any, but he keeps trying. And if he’s not there, then he’s either at a bar somewhere or passed out in a motel bathroom.”

  “I’m so sorry, Archer.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.” He sighs. “I don’t want you to waste any time or energy on him.”

  I have no idea what to say back. So I just squeeze Archer’s hand tighter and nod. I wish I could talk to Dean about this, to get his advice on how to handle this situation. He’s been through it before, many times I’m guessing, and will know the best way to go about this. I don’t want to push Archer, but Bobby is his brother. He’s family and will always be in Archer’s life…and now mine.

  6

  Archer

  “I’ll call you when I get home.” Quinn slides her hands up my back. She’s already pressed up against my chest, but I pull her in even tighter. I knew her leaving would be hard, but I didn’t expect it to be as hard as it is. This long distance thing fucking sucks, and is made worse with her being pregnant.

  Not only do I miss her so much it hurts, I hate leaving her alone to deal with the symptoms brought on by our baby. I want to be there for her, bringing her water after she gets sick in the morning, running out to get whatever food she’s craving, and helping her with just everyday living since I know she’s exhausted.

  Having her here with me the last few days felt so natural. We’re supposed to be together, and it’s crazy to think I was right all those years ago when I first saw her. I wanted her then solely based on her appearance, but the more I got to know her, the more she worked her way into my heart.

  I spent years denying it. If I had said something back then, after she turned eighteen of course, would something have happened? Would we be married with children already? Or is it presumptuous to assume Quinn would even have wanted me back then?

  Pressing my forehead against hers, I close my eyes for a beat, wishing we were back in my bed. “Hopefully you can sleep on the plane.”

  “I’ve never been able to sleep on planes. Or in cars. I’m jealous of anyone who can,” she says with a laugh. “At least it’s a short flight.”

  “True.” We’re at the airport, and she has to get on the plane in fifteen minutes.

  “I don’t want to go,” she says softly, turning her head up to kiss me.

  “I wish you didn’t have to.” There’s so much unsaid right now, and bringing it up might sour our otherwise passionate departure. She shouldn’t have to leave. We kiss again, and I walk her farther into the airport. We’re at a smaller one, full of private jets owned by rich businessmen. Quinn, wearing pink leggings, an oversized t-shirt, and pulling a Chewbacca suitcase, looks out of place, but she’s every bit as smart, successful, and well-off as anyone in here.

  “And I’ll let you know as soon as I find out about that blood work from my OB,” she says, slowing her gait. We’re nearing the hangar, and her departure is nearing. “Hopefully I can get it as soon as possible. I really want to know what we’re having.”

  “Me too.”

  “And then we can start talking about names. It’s not too early to get some lists going.”

  I smile. The more we talk about the baby like this, the more I feel like we’re a family. “I’d like that.”

  We’re by the plane now, and the pilot is waiting. We kiss again, and I have to practically peel myself off Quinn so she can get in the plane and head home. I wave and go back to my car, feeling like a part of me left along with her.

  And I think it actually did. Quinn has had part of my heart for years.

  Someone knocks on the door, bringing me out of the dream I was having. About Quinn, not surprisingly. I run my hand over my face and sit up. I dozed off on the couch after getting back from the airport. My parents are coming over for dinner, but they shouldn’t be here for another hour and a half.

  If they found Bobby, they’d call. Unless they found him at the morgue and are coming to tell me he finally overdosed, that his abused body couldn’t take it any longer. My stomach knots up and my chest tightens. I can’t fucking stand Bobby, but he’s my brother. I want him to get better. I want him to be an uncle to my child and be in our lives again.

  I’m a doctor. A realist. People like Bobby don’t recover just because their loved ones want them to. Getting up, I go to the door. Thinking it’s my parents, I open it without looking. It’s not my parents.

  It’s Bobby.

  My fingers curl into fists. Anger surges through me, and I grab Bobby by the collar and yank him inside.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand as Bobby staggers, trying to catch his balance. All I can think about is my fist hitting his face. He holds up his hands, and I notice the scratches on his knuckles.

  And the bruises on his face.

  Someone already beat the shit out of him, and as angry as I am for him hurting Quinn, a small voice in the back of my mind reminds me he’s sick. Addiction is a disease. I lower my fist, still pissed as fuck.

  “What are you doing here?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  I let out a snort of laughter. Bobby has apologized a hundred times. Half of those times he doesn’t remember saying he’s sorry, and the other half were meaningless words said in hopes we’d be stupid enough to think he was better so he could get more booze or drugs.

  “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  I close the door and round on Bobby. “How do you know she’s pregnant?”

  Bobby twitches. “She put her hands over her stomach.” He brings his hands in, fingers trembling. He’s coming down from whatever he took. I need to take him to the hospital and get him checked out. Withdrawal can be dangerous.

  “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s mine,” I snap, then realize all Bobby knows is some girl answered the door wearing a Duke University shirt. Putting two and two together leads you to the conclusion Quinn is my pregnant girlfriend, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Did you tell Mom?”

  “Yeah. I did this morning. They’re here in Indy looking for you, you know.”

  Bobby smiles. His teeth are decaying, which is a fucking shame. We used to look a lot alike. Now he looks like a cleaned-up model on a ‘many faces of meth’ poster. “Was she excited? Mom’s always loved babies.”

  “Yeah. She was pretty excited.”

  Bobby swallows hard, still not sure if I’m going to clock him in the jaw or not. “You didn’t get hitched, did you? I’ve been clean long enough I think I’d remember.” He’s trying to be funny, and while he almost is, his words just make me sad.

  “No, we didn’t. So yes, before you ask, this baby wasn’t planned.”

  Bobby shrugs. “The good things in life never are.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Who’s the chick? She’s pretty, but you always did have good-looking girls on
your arm.”

  I ignore the subtle insult. “Her name is Quinn.”

  “You two been together long?”

  “We’ve known each other a long time but didn’t start dating until recently.”

  Bobby cocks an eyebrow. “Until you got her pregnant, you mean?”

  “Pretty much.” Other than Sam, no one knows the nature of Quinn’s and my relationship.

  Bobby laughs. “And I thought you were the smart one. How long have you known her?”

  “Do you remember Dean Dawson?”

  He blinks, face twitching as he tries to think. I wonder what a scan of his brain would look like. He’s done considerable damage, I’m sure.

  “Your roommate in college?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bobby nods. “You spent a lot of time there. Mom and Dad talk about the Dawsons like they’re the fucking Kardashians.”

  I laugh. “They’re much better.”

  “They sound like good people.”

  “They are. All of them.” I can’t find fault in any of the Dawsons, not even Logan and Owen, whose main reason for opening a bar was to have one-night stands with female patrons.

  “Dean’s okay with you dating his sister?” His eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Fucking fuck. You knocked up your best friend’s little sister,” he says with a laugh.

  I bring my hand to the back of my neck, laughing. “No, he’s not okay with it at all.” And in that moment, it hits me hard right in the chest how much I miss my brother. We were close once. I looked up to Bobby. He was everything an older brother should have been. And then he wasn’t, and suddenly I didn’t matter anymore.

  Fuck, I wish things were different. It’s weird to think about, actually. Sitting down with a beer, talking to my brother about how dramatic and stupid Dean is being. Confessing how I’m upset over losing a friend but even angrier about how Dean’s childish behavior is upsetting Quinn.

  I’d tell him how I’ve had the hots for Quinn since the first time I saw her when she was only fourteen but looked much older in that tight black dress she was wearing. Fifteen years of friendship and brotherhood is gone, and we’ll never get it back. And I wish with all my heart Bobby could recover. That he could go to rehab and stick with it.