The Ground Rules: Undone

by Roya Carmen

  She straightens up in her seat. “He did not.”

  “Yes, he did. Completely surprised me. He made me a super nice mixed CD too.”

  “You guys didn’t—”

  “No,” I snap. “Of course not. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But almost.”

  She lets out a huge breath. “God, Mirella. What were you thinking?”

  “I know, but I made the right decision. I’m still waiting for Gabe. I know there’s still a chance for us. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me when we last spoke, so tender. I can’t explain.” I pour the lemonade mix in a glass jug. “He told me he was giving me time to figure it all out.”

  “You need to be strong,” she tells me knowingly. “If Gabe is the one then you need to stick to your guns.”

  “I know,” I agree. “But it’s so hard with this whole mess.”

  We all enjoy a lemonade, and pick up our game of Sorry after a sweltering trip to the park. Claire is still behind and I try to not pick on her too much. I hate it when she loses, but she does need to learn you can’t win them all.

  The doorbell rings and my mind jumps instantly to Weston. He better not be showing up here again. However this time, I’m safe. With Gwen and the girls here, he will surely not be able to seduce me. And following my last conversation with Gabe, I’m much stronger now. I know what I want.

  When I open the door, I’m surprised to see a handsome stranger with a big friendly smile. He seems harmless enough, so I unlock the screen door.

  “Hello,” he says with a slight accent. “My name is Emmanuel.”

  I have no idea who this young French man is, dressed in a light khakis and a short-sleeved white shirt. He looks about thirty or so. I catch sight of the logo embroidered on the left side of his shirt: Délices de Provence, and it hits me. I cock a bow and ask him, “Did Weston Hanson send you?”

  He smiles. “Yes. Mr. Hanson sent me to you.” Weston’s name sounds funny on his lips, without the H. “I was told to come here tonight.”

  I frown a little. A phone call would have been nice. “Yes, come in.”

  He offers his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Mrs. Keates. You can call me Manny.”

  I smile up at him. “It’s nice to meet you too, Manny.”

  The man with the boyish face and soft brown eyes stands awkwardly and smiles again. I notice he has a gap-toothed smile like me, but his gap is nowhere as big as mine.

  Gwen and the girls join us in the entry hall. “This is my friend, Gwen,” I tell him, making the introductions. “She kind of lives here. And these are my daughters Chloe and Claire.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Manny,” Gwen says as she offers her hand, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

  He smiles politely at her. “It is nice to meet all of you,” he says, shooting the girls a friendly smile. “I need to get my supplies from the car. I will be back.”

  Gwen stares at me with a cocked brow, delighted confusion written all over her face.

  “That’s the guy Weston was telling me about, the personal chef.”

  She bites a mischievous smile back. “The personal chef is hot,” she whispers.

  I laugh out loud. “You are not ogling my chef. I’ll have to send you home if you don’t behave.”

  “What?” she says. “He’s very handsome, has a sexy accent and cooks too.”

  I smile. “And the last time I checked…you were very married.”

  “Well, didn’t stop you, did it?”

  I smile at her. “Touché.”

  I know she’s kidding. Although Gwen is quite man-crazy and loves to flirt, she’s completely devoted to her man. She’s a beautiful woman who knows what effect she has on the male species, and doesn’t automatically fall to pieces when an attractive man happens to pay her a little attention. No, that seems to be more my modus operandi.

  Manny comes back with a rolling cart and a cooling unit, a crate of sauces and a myriad of other ingredients and spices. He also brings in a box of kitchen tools, some I don’t even recognize, and I do consider myself pretty seasoned when it comes to cooking.

  Gwen follows his every move, her tongue practically hanging. Damn her. I specifically told her not to ogle. She makes chit-chat and he answers all her questions, just to be polite, I’m sure. He tells us we’re having Boeuf Bourignon tonight. “A good source of iron, he says, rolling the R. “Mr. Hanson says you need to keep your iron up.”

  I quietly seethe. Who does Weston think he is? He’s so controlling. I understand this is his child, but come on.

  Gwen sits up straight at the kitchen table, her generous breasts jutting out a little too enthusiastically. “I’m definitely staying for dinner.”

  I smirk at her. “Of course you are.”

  Five nights this week, Manny makes us dinner. Of course, his specialty is French food, which is not my favorite. If I could have had a choice, I would have chosen an Italian chef, but beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. But I must say, he has been mixing it up a bit, introducing some exotic flavors. It’s all very good. He is a truly gifted chef. His menu has been quite varied: roast chicken, quiches, veal scallops, roast pork, and a little too much cabbage for my liking. And sauces. So many sauces. A different one every night. I will get so fat. And every meal consists of the four food groups; a meat, vegetables, and a side of grain; usually quinoa, a whole-grain pasta or rice, or couscous. He serves us ‘amuse-bouches’ in adorable tiny bowls; mousses and sorbets and the like. And indeed, Gwen and the girls seem quite amused.

  The girls are intrigued by this new chef. I tell them a friend has sent him over to help out. Too fascinated to care, they don’t ask too many questions.

  Of course, Gwen has eaten dinner at our house practically every night this week. I think that little tidbit goes without saying. I asked her what Greg has been eating. She tells me Greg is fine. And I start to feel a little guilty for hogging his beautiful sweet wife.

  During the day, I take the girls to the library, and Hanna’s Books & Treasures for story time and ice cream. The memories of my youth I associated with the place have officially been replaced with those of Weston and I pressed against the bookcases and being naughty at the back of the café.

  We also enjoy Gwen’s pool a few times. I ask her why she’s not playing golf, like she usually does. She says she can’t leave me by myself, pregnant and alone with the girls. I almost cry when she tells me this.

  “You don’t have to. I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than you think,” I insist.

  “I know,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it.

  Gwen looks after the girls when I go for my first official ultrasound. The ultrasound technician is a kind woman with a big toothy smile. When I see the shape on the screen and I hear the heart beating, my own heart beats a little faster. She taps away on her system, focused, taking measurements, I assume.

  “Would you like to know the sex?” she asks.

  Her question takes me by surprise. Do I want to know the sex? I hadn’t really thought about it, but for some reason I’ve always pictured a boy. I wonder if this is simply silly superstition, and suddenly I’m itching to know. There have been far too many surprises in my life lately, I don’t need another one.

  “Yes, I would love to know. Can you tell?” I ask, surprised.

  “You said you had two little girls at home, didn’t you?” she says, with a face-splitting grin. “Well, this little guy isn’t too bashful. I can clearly see it’s a boy.”

  My eyes well up and I bite back the tears.

  A boy. A sweet little boy.

  She hands me a printout of a few of the ultrasound photos before I leave. And I’m relieved to see everything seems to be fine.

  I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I make my way back home. As soon as I step into the kitchen, I pull Gwen aside and tell her it’s a boy. She squeezes me tight. “Well, I won’t get to buy tiny adorable dresses, but I’m so happy for you.”

 
; I think of Weston. He deserves to know. I take a snapshot of my favorite photo with my phone, the black and white ultrasound print forever memorialized on my phone. I send it to him with the caption:

  It’s a boy! I like the names Jarvis, Nicholas and Oliver.

  He sends me a message almost instantly.

  :) He’s beautiful. I love the name Oliver.

  As I read his short message and hold the thin piece of white paper between my fingers. The grainy photo stares back at me, and it hits me. We are really doing this…bringing a new life into the world.

  I need to finally own it. I need to tell the girls. I vow to do it within the week. I know it will so hard, so confusing for them. First, I will them I’m having another baby.

  They’ll probably both be beyond thrilled at first. But then, if Gabe doesn’t come back to me, they’ll wonder why he’s not standing by my side to raise this new baby. Do I tell them the baby’s daddy is someone else? How could they even understand this? They know nothing about the birds and the bees. And Weston clearly wants to be part of this child’s life. But in what capacity, I’m not sure. They will see this other man in my life — a man who was supposedly just a family friend. They will know he is their little brother’s father. And they won’t understand.

  I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I can’t even begin to process all this right now.

  Early on Saturday, Gabe comes by to pick up the girls for an over-nighter at their grandparents. They both hug me and give me a tearful goodbye.

  “It’s only for one night,” I tell them. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweeties.”

  My heart is heavy as I watch them walk down the steps, hands intertwined in their father’s. He towers over them and the sight is so sweet. Just as they reach his beast of a truck, he turns back and shoots me a smile.

  I smile back.

  I’m waiting for you, I want to shout out.

  As long as it takes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I am a stupid, stupid kitty.

  I try to make out Gwen’s handwriting as I sit at a red light. She’s written directions and has drawn a little map, but it just looks like gibberish to me. Apparently, this little excursion is supposed to relax me, but so far, it’s doing the exact opposite.

  I finally make out the name of the street.

  I nip through the traffic with ease, round the corner and turn into the plaza. I spot the spa in the distance and manage to find a parking spot nearby. So far, so good.

  When I finally get there, without a minute to spare, I am greeted by a friendly brunette with stylish glasses, standing behind the counter. “Welcome,” she says. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. I have an appointment for a facial. Mirella Keates.”

  She taps on her keyboard. Yes, you are a guest of Gwen Robbins.”

  “Yes. That’s right. She thought I could use a little relaxing.”

  She smiles. “Just take a seat, please. Our esthetician will be right out.”

  I take a seat on the sleek brown leather sofa with the bright orange pillows. I eye the water jug on the table. Cucumbers are floating, looking delicious. I wonder if it is frowned upon to have a glass of water and then eat the cucumber slices. I know they’re for flavor. I wonder if this is one of those places where they use cucumbers on your eyes. I don’t actually think any place does that. I realize it’s been so long since I’ve had a facial. The last time was on Mother’s Day when Gabe treated me to a spa day at Anna’s spa.

  “Hi there,” a young bright eyed blonde says as she offers me her hand. “I’m Krysta. I’ll be your esthetician today.”

  I follow her to a private room.

  The room is dark. A comfy spa table sits at the center of the small room. A myriad of containers and pumps of lotions and creams are lined up on a glass desk, along with all kinds of complicated gadgets. She leaves me to put on my robe. I take off my necklace; the silver chain with the diamond-studded cross, the one Gabe gave me years ago.

  I wait for her, and try desperately to relax.

  She knocks softly and enters, and goes right to work, taking a seat on the stool at the head of the table.

  “Are you ready to get pampered,” she asks, cheerful.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Have you been stressed?”

  Have I been stressed? She has no idea. I wouldn’t even know where to start. “Kids and work…life,” I mumble. “I’m off work now though. I’m a teacher.”

  “Wow. What grade do you teach?”

  “Kindergarten.”

  “Oh well, you definitely need a nice relaxing facial then,” she says as she presses her fingers gently along the curves of my face. She uses some kind of delightfully smelling lotion. It is wonderful.

  I close my eyes and tell her, “I’m pregnant. I’m not sure if you need to know that.”

  “Congratulations,” she says, and I can almost hear the smile on her face. “That’s fantastic.”

  “I’m about fourteen weeks,” I tell her. It feels strange to tell a stranger about the pregnancy. I haven’t spoken about it to anyone other than Gwen.

  “Babies are so sweet,” she goes on as she presses a warm towel compress on my face and wipes off the lotion she has just rubbed on. “Don’t worry. The products we use in this facial are all safe for pregnancy.”

  I sigh softly. This is truly wonderful. I have the best BFF in the world.

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy,” I tell her, a smile curving on my lip.

  “Boys are great,” she says. “I have one of my own. He’s five.”

  “Cute.” I smile as I try to picture her boy. And then, I picture my own little boy again; with his big green eyes and thick dark hair cut in a bowl cut, a rebel lock of hair sticking out at an odd angle. He has the sweetest of smiles and he hugs me tight. He looks just like Weston, a pint-sized version of him.

  She rubs a different lotion on my face, the smell just as wonderful as the last one.

  I sigh as I think about Weston. Thoughts of him make me tense, nervous. Our situation is so complicated. I often ask myself how this all happened. But I know exactly how it happened — I wanted him, I wanted to be loved by him, first in the physical sense, and then more.

  I wonder why I’m like this. Here I was, with two beautiful girls, a wonderful life with my soul mate; a man who loves me. I shouldn’t have wanted more. Perhaps I desperately crave love, the kind of passionate love you read about in romance novels. Being loved wasn’t good enough for me — I needed to be adored. I wonder if I seek adoration, this intense kind of love because I never truly had it.

  I’ve always thought I was fine with my mother’s abandonment but I’m sure it must have done quite the number on me. I’m sure I wouldn’t be in this mess today, if I had had a perfect idyllic childhood filled with home-made cookies, fishing trips and two loving parents. I don’t think I would have this desperate need to be loved.

  “How’s this pressure?” Krysta asks as she massages my shoulders.

  “Wonderful,” I breathe.

  If only a trip to the spa could solve all your problems.

  Claire looks adorable in her pink princess covered water-wings and pink goggles, her little paunch sticking out of her two piece bathing suit.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  I tie my hair in a bun with the help of a large no-tangle elastic. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  Chloe has already jumped; a canon-ball soaking the edges of the pool, the terra-cotta stones a deeper shade of orange.

  Gwen makes herself comfortable on the chaise longue. “So glad to have you girls over again.”

  I smile down at her. “You’re too good to me. Thanks for the massage today and looking after the girls. It was amazing.”

  She adjusts her sun hat, and grins at me. “My pleasure. What are friends for, right?”

  I bite my lip, wishing I could do as much for her as she does for me.

  “That suit look
s amazing on you, by the way,” she says with a playful smile.

  I look down at the black and yellow two-piece she bought me a few months back. The little skirt hides my belly. “Yep, that’s one of the suits you got for me, remember?”

  She sticks out her tongue — a funny habit of hers. “I bet Gabe liked it,” she teases, “and Weston too.”

  I smile at her with wide eyes. I press my finger to my mouth in a shushing motion. She can’t be talking like that about Weston around Chloe and Claire. They still have no clue what’s going on.

  “You never did tell me much about what kind of shenanigans went on that week,” she goes on, a playful twinkle in her eye.

  I laugh. “And I don’t plan to.”

  “Oh, you will, one day…you will,” she teases, a delicious looking appletini in her hand. How I wish I could have a sip.

  “You’re starting to really show,” she whispers, “big time.”

  “I know. I’ve been living in baggy t-shirts. It’s because it’s my third.”

  “The girls haven’t noticed?”

  I worry my lip. “Not yet, but I know they will soon enough.”

  “I’m going in,” Claire calls out and I watch her as she makes her way to the pool steps. Beyoncé’s Single Ladies rings out from the bottom of my beach bag. I keep an eye on Claire as I grab my phone. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mirella.”

  My heart is heavy, and my whole body seems to slouch at the sound of his voice. “Weston.”

  “I know you probably want to be left alone after our last encounter,” he starts off, no small talk, no chit-chat. “But there’s something I need to show you.”

  “What?” I ask, curious. If there’s something about myself I could change, it would be my intense curiosity. I really don’t enjoy the sensation of being kept in suspense.

  “Uh…well, it would be preferable if you could see it.”

  “Oh, that would be preferable, would it?” I scoff, my words coming out snarkier than I had intended.

  “Mirella,” he sighs. “I know you don’t quite trust me. But I promise I won’t lay a hand on you.”