The Best We've Been

by Beth K. Vogt

  And I hated olives.

  Now I had a half-full jar of olives in my refrigerator because, apparently, this baby didn’t want any more. But I didn’t dare throw them away in case, weeks from now, the baby changed its mind in the middle of the night.

  My only hope was that I’d be back in charge of what I ate once the baby was born.

  Lisa, one of the teen girls managing the register, interrupted my thoughts. “I’m so sorry, but we mixed up your take-out order. One of the waitresses gave it to someone else. We’re having to remake it.”

  I gripped the strap of my purse. How simple was it to keep orders straight? “Gave it to someone else . . .”

  “It seems someone else ordered it for here and they overlooked the to-go order. They’ve already started remaking your order.”

  “Fine. I can’t go home without what the baby wants.” The statement popped out of my mouth before I realized it.

  Lisa’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?”

  There was no sense in denying it. “Yes, and right now the baby wants Thai food.”

  “I’m sorry we mixed up your order. We won’t charge you.”

  “I appreciate it.” As I settled on the cushioned bench near the cash register, an all-too-familiar laugh rose above the general din of conversation in the dining room—the laughter of someone who loved the pineapple curry as much as I did. I stood, peering over the half wall separating the foyer and the dining room. It took less than a minute to locate Beckett where he sat with a small group of men and women, gathered around a table laden with a variety of Thai dishes.

  Beckett was probably eating my dinner.

  I smothered a gasp, backing up against the wall, trying to make myself shorter. To disappear.

  But my attempt to avoid attention did the exact opposite as I bumped into a group of businessmen waiting to be seated.

  “Hey, honey. Want to join us?” Raucous laughter filled the crowded waiting area.

  “I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” There was nowhere to turn, to move. And of course, the loud burst of laughter attracted Beckett’s attention—as well as most everyone else’s in the restaurant.

  This was like when I had to do one of those ridiculous team-building exercises and they asked, “If you could have a superpower, what would it be?” I could never pick one. I always went with the default of flying because, well, why not? Didn’t all superheroes fly? But now, if I could choose, I’d pick invisibility. Instantly disappear.

  But I couldn’t.

  And it wasn’t like one of those ridiculous movie scenes where all the sound faded when the man and woman destined to fall in love saw each other across a crowded room. I could still hear the men’s suggestive laughter. The conversations flowing around me. The phone ringing—probably another take-out order being called in.

  If I couldn’t disappear, I needed to look away.

  No. If anyone blinked first, it would be Beckett.

  Which meant I saw every single move he made as he pushed his chair back, rose, and crossed the room toward me. He might have blinked, but my eyes stung from my forcing them to remain open.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Beckett sighed. “I’m sorry. That has to be the lamest way to start a conversation.”

  “We’re not having a conversation.” I blinked and focused on the cashier. Contest won.

  “We can’t even be civil with each other?”

  “There’s no reason to be civil. We haven’t seen each other in months. I prefer we keep things like that. Not seeing each other. Not talking to each other.”

  “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about me once in all that time?”

  “Oh, I bet your ego would love to think I have—to think I’ve missed you.” I gave him the briefest of glances. “You think too highly of yourself, Beckett.”

  “I’ve missed you, Johanna.”

  “I haven’t missed you.” The words stiffened my resolve. I was fine. No, I was more than fine. I was better off without Beckett. “Why don’t you go back to your friends and finish your dinner. I’m sure your girlfriend is waiting for you.”

  “Arlene is not my girlfriend—”

  “I don’t care.”

  I shouldn’t have said anything about the dark-haired woman he’d been sitting next to—who’d been watching us ever since Beckett had come over to talk to me. She wasn’t Iris—I remembered her face all too well. But Arlene had the air of someone who had every right to come over and interrupt our conversation. To introduce herself and ask, “And you are?”

  My stomach churned. If I talked with Beckett much longer, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my Thai food.

  Time to retreat before I cried.

  “Miss Johanna, your order is ready now.” Lisa appeared with a brown paper bag. “Again, we’re sorry about the mix-up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I added some spring rolls—just because.” Lisa smiled. “And congratulations about the baby.”

  “Thank you.” I grasped the bag, causing it to crinkle in my grip. Turned. Walked away without a word to Beckett. Maybe, with all the noise, he hadn’t heard what Lisa said. He couldn’t have.

  I pushed open the glass door, lowered my head, and moved past a trio of teens about to enter the restaurant. Fast-walked to my car parked several spaces away from the door.

  “Johanna.”

  I pretended not to hear Beckett call my name.

  “Johanna!”

  I was mere feet from my car when he grasped my arm, turning me to face him. “What did she mean, congratulations about the baby?”

  I yanked my arm free, but that only made things worse, revealing the baby bump.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it?” I unlocked my car door, positioning it between us.

  “When were you going to tell me?” He ran his hand along his jaw.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Beckett.”

  “Are you saying I’m not the father of this baby?”

  “I’m not the one who slept around when we were engaged—well, during our entire time together.” His wince didn’t affect me at all. “Of course you’re the baby’s father.”

  “Then this does concern me.”

  “No. It doesn’t. We are not together anymore. I’m raising this baby myself.”

  “Johanna, you don’t get to decide—”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. You cheated on me. Our relationship is over. I gave you back the ring. I’m the one who’s pregnant. Not you.”

  Beckett started to say something, but I slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Started the car, put it in reverse. Backed up. The man was wise enough to jump onto the sidewalk.

  I was caught in yet another movie scene, thanks to Beckett. But this one had ended better. I had ended it better. I was stronger. He had the ring . . . and I had the baby. Not some sort of even trade, but now he also knew I had made my decision, without him. I didn’t need him. I was going on with my life. My choices, as unexpected as they were.

  The aroma of Thai food filled the car.

  The baby better enjoy every single bite, because I was never eating it again.

  And there was Beckett in my rearview mirror. Standing on the sidewalk. Watching me drive away.

  Why didn’t he go inside? Go back to his friends. His date.

  I was going on with my life—and apparently so was he.

  I focused on the road ahead. Tonight’s unexpected meeting had been awkward, but it was also good to know I could see my ex-fiancé and not want him back. Not miss him that way anymore.

  What an odd epilogue to our relationship. Maybe years from now, we’d see each other again. And it’d be easier because of tonight. Of course, I’d have to talk to my child about Beckett someday. But that was years and years from now.

  I sniffed. Once. Twice.

  There was no need for me to cry.

  I wasn’t sad.

  Pregnancy hormones. What an inconvenience.


  At least the baby was satisfied.

  The craving was satiated by the time I’d finished half the pineapple curry. Now I sat on the couch, my plate beside me. I might not be sitting at the dining room table, but I certainly wasn’t going to eat dinner out of the white to-go box. Or eat in my bed.

  Beckett used to try to convince me to eat meals in bed, but I was not going to do that, no matter how much he wheedled and whined. Too messy. My bedroom was for . . . not eating meals in.

  And so was my living room. But I’d blame this bit of slacking off on hormones, too. I never knew how often a woman could play the pregnancy card. Now I understood all the “I didn’t want the (fill in the blank with some kind of indulgent food)—the baby wanted it” jokes that one of my pharmacy technicians had laughed about during her pregnancy.

  I was all of twenty weeks pregnant and I was allowing myself to become a stereotype. Losing my grip on my personality. I’d always insisted I was a strong, independent woman. Someone who knew who she was and what she wanted.

  But now I’d eaten less than half the Thai food—and I didn’t want it.

  The baby didn’t want it.

  Cravings were capricious.

  And I’d fought against memories of all the times Beckett and I had eaten at the restaurant. The first time, we’d been dating for just over a year. I’d found the restaurant online and chosen it because it had a long list of rave reviews. It had been a good night.

  “Yet another sign we’re meant to be together.” Beckett savored a bite of chicken pad Thai.

  “What is?”

  “We both like Thai food.”

  “A lot of people like Thai food.”

  “But we—” he motioned to the dishes on the table that included pineapple curry—“like the same thing.”

  “True.”

  “And we both like black-and-white photography.” He took another bite of his meal, pausing to think. “We both like Fast and Furious movies.”

  “Correction. You like Fast and Furious movies. I’m getting used to them.”

  “Fine. But give me points for watching the Oscar contenders with you when the nominations came out—that was something new for me.”

  “Only because you happened to be in town.”

  “True—but it was fun.” He leaned across the table and kissed me—one of his trademark lingering kisses, as if he didn’t care that people were watching us. “Admit it, Johanna, we’re good together.”

  For some reason, it had seemed important that I agree with him. That I make a verbal commitment taking us to some next level, there in the Thai restaurant.

  And for a moment, I heard the echo of my voice agreeing with him. Saw the faint memory of Beckett’s smile that almost seemed self-satisfied.

  Had he won and I lost, even then?

  There was no way to know if Beckett had been cheating on me that early in our relationship. But he probably had been.

  I could sit on this couch all night—me and a plate of curry. But if I did that, I’d wake up cold sometime in the middle of the night. Stiff. And sorry.

  I forced myself to go to the kitchen and toss the remnants of Thai food in the trash. I wouldn’t be going to that restaurant again. I could always find another favorite restaurant. There were plenty to choose from.

  And when . . . if I decided I was ready for another relationship, there were other men who could be a father to my child. The choice was mine and mine alone.

  I could choose what I told my baby about its father, too. When I told it anything about its father.

  Now I could at least say he’d known about the baby, but that I’d made the decision to be a single mother because our relationship was over when I found out I was pregnant. It was better this way—just the two of us.

  There. My child might not like it, but it was the truth. I’d start this Thatcher, boy or girl, off with the truth.

  Something faint, tiny, fluttered inside me.

  I froze in the middle of my kitchen.

  Was that . . . ? No, I had to be mistaken. But if I wasn’t, then that was my baby moving.

  I needed to tell someone . . . call someone . . .

  I couldn’t call Mom. She didn’t even know yet. It’d been easier to stay away from the family dinners on Sundays, but that would end the day after tomorrow.

  Jill. I could call my sister . . .

  I picked my phone up from the side table by the couch, ready to dial Jillian. Stopped. Would Jillian still celebrate this moment with me after what had happened between us? She’d always been there for me, even if it was hard for her. And I’d been there for her. I’d cut my hair for her, donating it to Locks of Love the first Christmas after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. Not that I was doing it for show. I did it because I loved her, not even thinking how much I loved my hair. Well, only a little.

  Jillian loved me as much as I loved her—probably more, being Jillian.

  She’d understand. She’d listen.

  I autodialed her number. Waited. One ring. Two. Three. Then my call went to her voice mail message.

  It wasn’t like Jill was busy. She could have answered.

  My sister had ignored my phone call.

  The message had gone to blank air, waiting for me to say something. But this . . . this wasn’t the kind of thing you told someone in a recorded message.

  I disconnected.

  Jillian might as well have answered my call, said hello, and then hung up on me.

  I tossed my phone aside. Sat for a moment. And then I abandoned the couch again.

  I wasn’t going to sit around, waiting for something to happen. For my baby to move again—if it had moved at all. For Jillian to call me back.

  I needed to do something.

  And I knew just what to do. It was time to stop staring at the blank walls where Beckett’s photos had been. To replace them with something else. Why I hadn’t done so before now, I had no idea.

  I didn’t miss any of them. The one of the Washington Monument that he’d given me on our first anniversary to commemorate how we met in Washington, D.C.

  Or the one of Big Ben, taken during one of Beckett’s trips overseas.

  Or the one of me relaxing in a gondola in Venice, a grinning gondolier behind me, from one of our more expensive vacations.

  They were just black-and-white proof that I’d been made a fool of. Replacing them would be proof that I was fine without Beckett in my life.

  Because I was.

  11

  MY PARENTS’ HOUSE always smelled good on Sunday afternoons, with the aroma of the family meal filling the house. One week it might be steaks fresh off the grill, another week a favorite family soup like clam chowder or chili that we’d load down with cheese and onions and taco chips. Today, the scent of roasted chicken and potatoes made my mouth water. Most likely there was a salad to go with it, to satisfy Payton’s dietary choice.

  Even with the tempting smell of dinner, I wasn’t sure how much I’d eat today, not with what I had planned. Of course, I could always eat first and confess later.

  Confess. It was as if I’d committed some sort of crime.

  I had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I was thirty-six years old. I had a good-paying job. A mortgage. But showing up at Mom and Dad’s and telling them that I was pregnant? It was as if I was all of eighteen years old, coming home from college, confessing I’d slept with my boyfriend.

  Not that I’d ever told them that back then. And not that they’d ever asked. We didn’t talk about the whole “Did we or didn’t we?” kind of thing. I doubt my parents even knew when I’d had my first kiss. Confiding in my mother about anything ended once the twins were born.

  I’d arrived later than usual today. My way of assuring everyone would be there, most likely engrossed in a board game or a movie, and that Mom wouldn’t answer the door and see my announcement before I was ready. I’d worn a loose top and carried the biggest purse I owned for added camouflage, but Mom had be
en pregnant three times, including carrying twins. If anyone was going to notice that I was showing, she would.

  Laughter floated upstairs from the family room. Voices blended in conversation. I tiptoed over to the top of the stairs, and there they were—Mom. Dad. Payton. Zach.

  Wait. Jillian and Geoff were missing. No Winston yipping like a white furry early warning system.

  Good thing.

  I positioned my purse in front of my stomach. I could have giggled—almost—as I intruded on the family game of Codenames.

  “Hello, everyone.”

  “Johanna!” Mom smiled over her shoulder. “I was beginning to wonder if you were still coming today.”

  “I decided to do my grocery shopping. Wanted to get that out of the way before the workweek started.”

  “Do you have groceries in your car?” Mom met me as I was halfway down the stairs, initiating an awkward hug with the purse between us.

  “No. I took them home first.” I slipped past her. “Who’s winning?”

  “It’s guys versus girls. Mom and I just beat Dad and Zach.” Payton raised her hand in victory—and then waved. “Again.”

  “Nice. Very nice.” I positioned myself behind Dad’s lounge chair. This was some sort of game of hide-and-go-seek—and I most definitely did not want to be found. Not yet. Not before I was ready.

  Payton tilted her head in a silent “Well?” but I ignored her unspoken question.

  All in good time, Sister. All in good time.

  “Where are Jillian and Geoff? I thought they’d be here, too.”

  Mom sat next to Dad again. “This was the weekend of Geoff’s conference, remember? The one where he was teaching a workshop.”

  “That explains why she didn’t answer when I called her yesterday.”

  Payton’s comment unfurled some of the tightness in my chest. At least Jillian wasn’t ignoring me. She was enjoying some time away with her husband. “She must have turned off her phone or something. She didn’t answer my call on Friday, either.”