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Gram raises a challenging brow. “Yeah. I know you’ve got a man. You got that look.”
“What look, Gram?”
“The one that says your man knows what he’s doin’ in the sheets, and he does it often.”
I burst out laughing. “Gram!” She has become more loose-lipped as she’s gotten older. “Who says I haveaman?”
“More than one? Hell yeah. Get it while the getting’s good. That’s what I always say.”
Her face radiates happiness, a stark contrast to her previous state. It means the world to me to see her aware and healthy. After my grandfather died and she had a stroke, I didn’t think she’d get out of bed, walk, or speak again. She lost all motivation.
Between her excitement over the baby and the new assisted living facility, she has made significant improvements. She receives physical or occupational therapy daily and sees the doctor once a week, not to mention all the social activities the staff provides.
I recline in my chair. “When do you say that? I’ve never heard it.”
She gives a dismissive wave. “Pfft. All the time. Now, show me some pictures. A girl’s gotta eat.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.” I shake my head with a chuckle. “You’re quite feisty today. What new meds are you taking?”
“Aurora Belle Embers, my princess.” She lays her cards on the table and folds her arms over her chest. “Stop avoidin’ me. Tell me about your men if you don’t want to show me.”
Yup, I was named after cartoon princesses. Not at all humiliating, especially when you’re awkward.
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. “I have no pictures of the baby’s father, but we’re seeing each other.”
She tilts her head and purses her lips.
“You know what? I’ll Google him. He coaches the LA hockey team.”
I go for my phone, stomach full of butterflies. I never allowed myself to search for Ethan, never intended to contact him and was too afraid I’d find him living the perfect life with a wife and a bunch of kids.
I pull up Google and type in “Ethan Blackwood hockey coach.”
As I suspected, I’m bombarded with various articles and pictures of his former life in Boston and his transition to LA. Several photos show Ethan with his ex-wife, a flawless blonde by societal standards.
Hockey Barbie. She’s beautiful, successful, and part owner of the Boston team.
Seriously? Why can’t she be a hag or even a puck bunny?
A daunting sense of inadequacy curdles in my gut. He told me she was having an affair, but that provides little consolation. If she hadn’t cheated, would he have left?
His ex-wife is in a league far above me. She’s generationally wealthy and independent while I’m inexperienced, insecure, and to be honest, a hot mess.
I glance down at Jackson’s hoodie I’ve been wearing for the past week. Despite having loads of lingerie from modeling, I still sleep in his oversized T-shirt. Lately, it’s whichever one he wore that day. What can I say? His scent brings me comfort.
My go-to style is Converse and leggings, and my hair is typically in a ponytail or messy bun.
And I have panic attacks.
Jesus, I’m a wreck.
“Give me that!” Gram snatches the phone and scrutinizes the picture of Ethan and his ex-wife. “He divorced?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Then stop being a sourpuss. He’s attractive. Doesn’t seem to smile much.”
“He does with me.” Wow, that was super defensive, even to my own ears.