“Amanda, what do you really want?” I say to myself, as my phone buzzes, “what makes you tick?”
Second first date? a message from Paul reads. Did one of the fake boardwalk magicians hypnotize you into being unable to form a coherent sentence?
I smile and text back, It’s a first date because I haven’t seen her in a long time. I don’t even know if she really remembers me. It’s a second date because we’ve already spent time with each other. Also, you say fake magician like a real magician is a thing.
I knew what you meant, Mike’s text reads. Keep it simple. Unless you’re taking her someplace fancy. Which I know you aren’t.
He’s got a good point. I’m not taking her anywhere fancy, at least I don’t think so. I’ve lived here for a long time, but aside from some of the higher-end restaurants in the hotels here, I don’t know what’s good in terms of cuisine. But the point isn’t whether I’m taking her someplace fancy. The point is I don’t know where the hell I am taking her, which is a decision far more important than what the hell I am going to wear, isn’t it?
But wait - I do know where I’ll take her. I don’t even have to think about it before deciding on a place. I’m taking her to the boardwalk. I’m taking her to the ocean. I’m taking her to the little amusement park on the pier outside my shop. I’m not taking her to the shop to hang out; no, I’m taking her to see the lights over the ocean and I’m gonna make her go on the rickety old piece of shit roller coaster that I’ve been riding my whole life. It’s exciting but safe. It’s what I want to show her. We will have more time for bigger and better adventures in the future, after I mend my broken heart and show her the real me.
But for now, I’m gonna keep it simple.
I grab my phone to text Mandy.
Do you like roller coasters? I shoot over to her, and she replies almost immediately.
I don’t know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on one, the text reads.
How do you not know if you’ve ever been on one? I text back, unable to keep myself from smiling.
You’ll just have to jog my memory, she texts back right away.
Memory is a funny thing. I wonder if she remembers me at all. I wonder if she’s touched herself thinking of me. I’ve done it while thinking of her. Is that fucking creepy? I don’t think it is. Do I feel drawn to her, possessive even though I have no claim to her, even though any promise of that claim came crashing down around me the second I saw that goddamn text on her phone?
I wish I hadn’t looked. I wish I’d never learned the truth. But now, I don’t know what the truth is anymore. And I don’t care. Not asking her what the hell that text meant has been a regret I’ve held with me.
So jog her memory I will. I’ll make her remember more than just whether she’s been on a roller coaster before. I’ll make her remember everything I gave her. I’ll make her crave me like she’s never wanted anything before.
Because I’ve found her. The fucked up part is that she was right here all along. And I know she still wants me. I heard it in her voice.
And the way I was able to find her is so fucking bittersweet. Like the sassy little princess she is, she put herself out there for me to find. For me to call. She flashed her phone number on the screen of my TV and compelled me to call her.
But if she thinks she can just play games with me, she is wrong. She told me if I was just screwing around that I should hang up.
But I’m not screwing around. Not today. Not ever. Not with her.
But I need to be absolutely fucking clear where both of us stand first.
10
Amanda
I wipe the corner of Jacob’s mouth with a wet paper towel, cleaning away some of the mashed-up banana he’s unsuccessfully attempted to get into his mouth on his own.
“You’ve got to use your spoon, booboo,” I hear Sarah coo as she comes up behind me.
Sarah squeezes past me and carefully takes the spoon from the tabletop of the high chair, smiling warmly at Jacob.
“I don’t know if making our own baby food was worth it,” I say, grabbing a jar of the homemade concoction from the counter. The three of us have spent the morning together making some mush for Jacob. “Too messy.”
“You were smiling with glee when you were whipping up the bananas and peas in the blender,” Sarah says, glancing at me with a kind smile. “I thought you were ready to quit your job and go work in a baby food factory instead.
“I guess letting the blender rip was fun, but look at this mess now.”
I survey the damage. Two dozen small glass jars with assorted lids line the counter, and peas, carrots, sweet potatoes and bananas, mashed up and deposited in teaspoon-sized amounts, are glopped into the jars.
“He doesn’t even seem to like it,” I add.
It’s just something I had an idea for after reading an article about it in one of the baby magazines. Fresh baby food is good for little ones, it said, and you can control exactly what goes in, you can be sure that you’re using the freshest ingredients, and the kiddos like to help mom and dad. No need to cut up the bananas before sticking them in the blender; just have the little guy peel the bananas, the article had said.
“I think it’ll just take some getting used to,” Sarah says, picking Jacob up under his arms and putting him on her hip. “Don’t you have to start getting ready for, you know…”
“Don’t call it that,” I say, rinsing my hands in the big double sink I just had installed. “It’s not a date.”
“How isn’t it a date?” she asks.
“Because I don’t know if I’m interested in him yet,” I reply plainly. “Honestly, I barely even remember him. It was a long time ago.”
“Not that long ago,” Sarah says gently, wiping the corners of Jacob’s mouth. “It’s been less than two years. How much can really change in that time?”
I smile and shake my head, turning around to Sarah and Jacob. As I take him from her, she smirks.
“Right,” I say, “but it’s not like he has a kid, right?”
“Well no, it’s not like he could have physically given birth,” she says, “but sure, he could have a kid.”
I feel a chill inside my belly at her words. Of course he could have had a kid in this time. And then I suddenly realize he could have had a kid back when I met him a year ago. And why the hell am I suddenly so concerned about this - more importantly, why wasn’t I concerned with it before?
I already know the answer. It’s because I don’t want to know the truth. The truth is that he might already have a child - a child he doesn’t know about.
That day in Dr. Belmore’s office, when she told me I was pregnant, I didn’t learn the whole truth. I couldn’t have. There was no paternity test. There couldn’t have been.
I think I’m more afraid that the baby could be Eric’s than I am that the baby could be Dylan’s.
“I guess you guys have a lot to talk about,” Sarah says. “Does he know you have a son?”
Jacob coos in my arms and pokes his little pointer fingers into my cheeks. I pucker up my lips, hollowing my cheeks, and he giggles as he digs his fingers into my dimples.
“No,” I say, “he doesn’t know.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know if I have to tell him right away,” I reply, “I mean, who knows what’s going to happen with him, anyway? I don’t want to look like I’m oversharing right away with details from my personal life. Plus, the way we said goodbye was pretty...I don’t know.”
Messed up.
“That’s why you’re refusing to call this a date,” Sarah says, shaking her head. She begins to wipe up, carefully assembling the jars against the wall on the counter.
“I guess so,” I reply. “I just need to see what he has to say first. He said he wanted to come here and take me out to talk. That’s not a date, right?”
“Oh, no,” Sarah says sarcastically, “it’s not like that’s the definition of date. Not at all.”
“Okay, okay,” I concede, “it’s a date. But it’s just one date.”
“Speaking of this date that you finally admitted is a date, don’t you have to go get ready?”
Sarah points to the time on the microwave.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, stopping myself from blurting it out in front of Jacob as I hand him to Sarah. “Yeah. He’s gonna be here soon.”
I put a kiss on Jacob’s cheek and turn to go to my bedroom. I don’t have a lot of options for clothing these days. Aside from the navy blue and black suits I have hanging in my closet so I can look like an actual lawyer when speaking with clients and appearing in court, I don’t have any going-out clothes or really any casual clothes, either. I mostly just come home right after work and change right into sweatpants and a t-shirt.
After perusing my closet, I decide on a black sundress. It’s simple and innocuous and won’t make me look like I’m trying too hard.
I sigh deeply as I strip my jeans and t-shirt off. My head and my heart are swirling with confusion. I don’t know what he wants from me, if I’m honest with myself. I don’t know if he wants to impress me or doesn’t give a shit about me and just wants to get in my pants again. I can’t blame him if that is what he wants - that night was pretty damn mind-blowing.
I decide to shake off all expectations as I slip into my black sundress. It’s hard for me, because I am usually all about expectations. I am all about planning things out far in advance, playing out the possible outcomes in my head, and getting all of my ducks in a row before I act. I have to do it for work, and I have to do it when it comes to decisions involving Jacob. And all of this requires me to have expectations: expectations for what might be, what could be, and what I want and need.
I’m not wishy-washy, but right now I know I have to go into this with no expectations. I don’t know what I want. There’s no way for me to know, because I am going into this with incomplete information.
Expectations can only make you disappointed in situations like this. That’s what I keep telling myself as I run a brush through my hair and pin the sides back.
Expectations can only make you wonder what the hell happened. I think back to that morning after the night I spent with Dylan, to the way he smacked my butt softly as he told me to go get my ass into the shower. How he had told me to leave the bathroom door open after I got in there and started to shut the door behind me. He’d said he wanted to watch the shower door as it steamed up and made me disappear behind it. I thought it was a little fantastical at the time to have this impossibly sexy one-night-stand still be looking at me in the morning the same way he had the night before, in a lust-filled, no-holds-barred daze that made me dizzy and made me do and say things that weren’t like me at all.
And I’d expected it to stay sweet like that. Then his mood shifted abruptly, and I don’t know why. Maybe he fully woke up and realized it was just one night, that I’d have to go home. Maybe he was just jerking me around and wanted to use me for sex; sadly, the more time has gone on, the more I realize that was probably the truth at the time, and I feel silly for not having gone in with open eyes and a guarded heart.
The toast had meant nothing. The breakfast had meant nothing.
Nothing. I swallow thickly and shake my head as I look at my reflection in the mirror.
Nothing. He was nothing. Still is nothing.
Except a lot can change. A lot can change in nine months.
A lot can change in just one night.
I’m pulled out of my daydream of that night and the bittersweetness that surrounds it when I hear my doorbell ringing from down the hall. I haven’t dated in a long time, from when I’d started dating Eric that a guy will usually call you when he’s outside.
I check my phone. No missed call. I hear the staticky voice monitor from my front door, a strong male voice coming through it when Sarah asks who it is. But she already knows who it is.
Shit, he cannot come up here. I am not prepared to share my whole damn life with this near-stranger. He can’t see Jacob.
So I sprint out into the hallway and down it, hurrying to the front door.
“I’ve got it,” I say to Sarah, crowding her near the door. “Um, I’ll meet you down there, Dylan!”
“I’m waiting,” he says, his silky smooth voice coming through the monitor.
I unclick the call button and step away from the monitor, suddenly uneasy on my feet.
“Thank you,” I say to Sarah, taking her hands in mine, “and remember our secret code.”
Sarah laughs and rolls her eyes.
“If you text me that he’s taking you to the zoo, that means I should call 911 and tell them you’re in danger.”
“Right,” I say, “and if I text you and say he’s a great guy, that means I’m about to be abducted. If you don’t hear from me at all, I’ve already been abducted.”
“And if I don’t hear from you all night, I’ll assume you’re having a great time. Now go. Stop stalling. Stop pretending you don’t know him.”
I take a deep breath, the air entering my lungs shakily, and say goodbye.
Walking toward the elevator, my legs feel like jelly. My belly is full of butterflies. I don’t know what to expect. Then I remind myself to turn off the part of my brain that has expectations. The analytical part. The part that starts doing the mental calculations and tries to figure out how the hell Dylan could possibly fit into my life.
The part that wonders whether there’s already an empty part with his name etched on it, a part only he can fill.
I finally make it down to the lobby. I see Dylan’s silhouette through the glass door to the parking lot. His back is to me, and the orange and yellow sun is spilling around him, casting a long black shadow across the sidewalk.
And everything comes spilling back to me like a dream. A sweet, sinful dream. It’s like the outline of something real. I can’t tell if my heart is racing or standing perfectly still; time around me slows down, but I’m still moving through it.
Dylan turns around. The sweet air of the evening envelopes us, pulling me to him. His fine-cut jaw tenses and moves as his lips pull up into a smile that just slays me. I suck a big breath of air into my lungs.
“Hey, princess.”
His voice is gravelly but smooth, little ridges all over it hitting my brain like a drug. His scent is intoxicating, masculine and earthy.
“Hey, Dylan,” I say, my voice coming out in a little sound moving through the air. I hold back a little whimper as I watch him looking at me again for the first time.
But I stay away from him, just a bit. Do I want to throw my arms around his big shoulders and feel his hands move around the small of my back, pull me up to him while he puts a decadent kiss on my lips? Yeah, of course. Do I expect it? Almost, from the way his eyes are dark and deep and the way they drag from my eyes down to my lips and up again.
Expectations, though, those are only gonna get me in trouble. Those are only gonna get me into trouble again.
“Don’t I get a hug, Mandy?” he says, taking a small but confident step toward me.
I only realize I’m holding my breath when I let it out, exhaling and nodding my head in affirmation, a confused smile beginning to pull at the corners of my lips.
“There she is,” he says, slipping his arms around my back just like I’d wanted but refused to allow myself to expect.
“Hey,” I breath into him, putting my arms around his shoulders.
Now that I have myself against him, I never want to let him go. I breathe him in deeply - there’s something familiar there, but also something intoxicating and new. The familiarity becomes complicated as I graze my hands down the strong muscles in his arms, imagining him using those muscles to do something very naughty to me. Then the familiarity gives way entirely to newness. The hint of familiarity evaporates when I feel his fingers dig into the flesh at my waist, his broad, big hands holding me there. It’s the newness of touch, the freshness of a new spark.
In some ways, I never let that spark go. I refused. I allowed myself to think of him in the darkness of my room at night, and I allowed myself to do more than just think of him sometimes, too. But I never felt right about it. It was bittersweet. It was complicated. I felt guilty. The pleasure of him is delicious, but the guilt is acrid.
“Good to see you,” Dylan says, pulling away from me, his hands now on my shoulders. “You look absolutely incredible.”
“It’s good to see you too,” I reply. “I have to tell you I didn’t know what seeing you again would be like.”
“So what’s it like?” he asks, squeezing my shoulders slightly.
“I still don’t know.”
“Let me show you what it’s gonna be like, then. Let me remind you what it’s like to be with me, Mandy.”
11
Dylan
Our conversation on the way to the shore flows naturally, but it’s superficial. I ask her all the shit I should be asking on a first date. First date, second date, it doesn’t really matter, though.
She should be on her back right now with her legs wrapped around my shoulders.
But there’s a question in the air between us still, one that I don’t know how to broach.
“Do you work at lot of hours at the law firm?” I ask, grazing my hands along the steering wheel, asking her what feels like the millionth question on this fucking car ride, after random shit like what’s your favorite food? and seen any good movies lately? Like this is the kind of shit that allows you to get to really know someone. But I already know a few things about Mandy. I know what she looks like when she cums. I know she likes to have a finger in her mouth when she has her pussy licked.
Bad Boy's Baby_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance Page 8
