The day our nephew was born was so clear in my mind. But in our strange little family tree, he felt like our little brother. Logan and Paige had been married for a year when she got pregnant, and even though Logan had been the legal guardian to four girls, adding a fifth into the mix felt as natural as breathing. We anticipated the birth of their baby like it was the freaking second coming or something.
Claire and I were thirteen at the time, Isabel fifteen, and Molly was seventeen. The four of us stood in that hospital hallway, ears pressed against the door, waiting for the beautiful wailing sound of what we just knew would be another girl. We’d spoil her rotten, the fifth Ward girl, and it was going to be a glorious addition to our girl gang.
Except he didn’t emit a wild, loud wail when he was born. He came out clear-eyed and calm. The most peaceful baby that ever existed. When Logan opened the door to let us in, we crowded around Paige—sweat-soaked and wild-haired and holding a tiny little bundle—only to hear the words, “It’s a boy.”
I looked up at my big brother, and said, “Oh bullshit, it is not.”
But the moment I held him, that perfect, scrunched-up, red-faced baby boy, I fell head over heels in love. We all did. He was our baby boy, and the most loved child in existence.
“Remember how we used to fight over who got to hold him?”
Claire smiled. “I got so mad at Isabel that one time she tricked me into setting him down. Didn’t she tell me that someone caught sight of Justin Bieber in our neighborhood?”
I laughed, feeling strangely calm. Probably denial, but whatever. “What a bitch.”
“She had him for hours that day too. Ate dinner one-handed so no one could take him.” Claire fell quiet, and her eyes were heavy on me. “Why the trip down memory lane?”
Have you ever felt like someone shoved a ball of yarn down your throat? That was the closest thing it felt like when I tried to swallow.
“I’m twenty-two with a big, loving family, and a healthy savings account.”
“That’s all very true.”
“I’m going to keep it,” I said quietly. There was time to figure everything else out. But if anyone could count on their family to help them through something like this, it was us. Each one of them would walk through fire for me. Just like I’d do for them.
Her eyes filled. “Okay.”
“But I still have to talk to Jude.”
Claire wiped at her face. “Yeah, you probably do.”
“And,” I said slowly, “I need to tell Logan. And Paige. Oh my gosh, Paige is gonna fly here like, tomorrow, isn’t she?”
My sister smiled. “She might.”
Fingers drumming on my leg, I made a split-second decision. “Can I ask you a massive, horrible favor where you don’t say a word to any of them?”
“Lia,” she said in a warning tone. “You have to tell them.
“I will! Just let me talk to Jude first. I can’t handle them all freaking out and asking me what I need and what I’m going to do. I won’t have answers to any of their questions.”
She conceded with a reluctant nod.
“Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you too.” She sighed. “Do you want to keep talking?”
“No. I should text him and see if he can get together in the next couple of days.”
We said our goodbyes shortly after, and I remained sitting on my bathroom floor for a few minutes longer. How did you even properly try to absorb the magnitude of that discovery?
In one moment, all the choices in my life had shifted, like the clicking letters on a train station arrival board.
My life would quite literally never be the same after this.
Neither would Jude’s. I didn’t even know if he had any other kids. Or a hidden girlfriend. Or maybe he was crazy. Regardless, he should know. If he chose not to step up, then I gave him the option, and the responsibility was on him.
Funny how being abandoned voluntarily by one of your birth parents colored your judgment on stuff like that. With that thought … my thumbs flew across the screen.
Me: I’m actually open the next two evenings if you are. I’d love to see your neck of the woods.
Jude responded almost immediately.
Jude: What a very American phrase, but tomorrow evening is free in my ‘neck of the woods’. If you’re good with eating dinner at my place, I can send you the address.
Me: Send away.
JUDE
I never usually gave much thought to what someone thought of my house. Usually being the operative word. My housekeeper, Mrs. Atkinson (whose first name was Rebecca, but I never dared called her that), tutted at me all day while I hovered around her, cleaning behind where she’d just done.
“Bloody footballer,” she muttered, swatting at me with a dusting thing/weapon. “Go kick something and let me do my job.”
“She’s never been here, and I like this one. I told you that, right?”
She rolled her eyes. Yes. I’d told her.
If fans of Shepperton FC, the mighty Shorthorns, had any idea that their midfielder’s only friend was his fifty-five-year-old housekeeper, they’d piss themselves.
“If you’re so concerned with what the young lady thinks,” Rebecca said with the patience of a saint and the advice of a bloody therapist, “go to the market and get her some flowers or buy her some chocolates.”
While she dusted the rest of the family room, I sat on the large gray couch. “You don’t think that’s too clich??”
“If a man bought me flowers and chocolates, I’d spend the night flat on my back without blinking.”
Groaning, I covered my face. “Mrs. A, have pity.”
She cackled. “Get out of here while I finish, young man. You should go do drills in the garden. The way you were handling the ball on Monday was a tragedy. You’re slipping in your old age.”
“Et tu?” I asked dryly, standing from the couch. “If I’m old, what does that make you?”
“Well-seasoned and incredibly smart.” She eyed me over the edge of her glasses. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I glanced down at my white T-shirt and black trousers. “What?”
“You look like you’re going to serve her coffee, not romance her.” Rebecca set down the dusting wand. “And that reminds me, are you inviting this nice American girl over here for a quickie?”
I whistled. “Awfully judgy of you, Mrs. Atkinson. Maybe that’s why she wants to come.” I pointed a finger at her. “Plus, you have no idea. She’s nice.”
“Oh, she’s nice if you’ve invited her to your home.” The dusting resumed. “I’ve seen some of the tarts you’ve wandered off with over the years.”
“Yes, when I was nineteen and stupid and let my first year of playing go to my head. You know I haven’t done that in years.” My phone rang, and Lewis’s number appeared. I sent it to VM but lifted the screen for her to see. “I’m too busy trying not to lose my bloody job to other big-headed nineteen-year-olds to sleep around anymore. Besides, those tarts don’t care as much about you when you’re old and your money’s gone.”
“I know how much you make, young man. It’s nowhere near gone.”
She was right. Even though I was in the last year of my current contract with Shepperton, my payslip had a lot of zeros on it, and I had every reason to believe that I’d get a renewal for at least a year or two, even if it meant they’d transfer me to another interested team. As long as we could stay in the top tier, at least. Our last two wins helped, moving us a bit higher up the table.
I fucking hated disappearing in the middle.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.