Page 61 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

He blinks awake, his eyes flicking from me to Aiden and back, and then he sits upright. “Hey. What’s the verdict?”

“It’s a grade one sprain,” Aiden says. “I can’t play football for a week or two.”

Jamie smiles, nods. “About what I expected. I sprained my ankle like that at least half a dozen times over the years I played football. Just ice it, wrap it, and take it easy. You’ll be playing again before you know it.”

“That’s what the doctor said, too.”

“He told me we should unwrap it and ice it again when we get home, and then wrap it before he goes to bed,” I say. “But I have no idea how to wrap it.”

“Well, luckily for you guys, I have plenty of experience,” Jamie says. “I can show you.”

“You’ve done so much already,” I say.

“I did nothing. I drove him here and sat with him until you got here.” He stands up. “How about this—you head home with Aiden, unwrap his ankle, get some ice on it, and I’ll grab some carryout from José’s and bring it over. One less thing to worry about after a long evening in the hospital.”

“Are you sure? I’m guessing you have other things you could be doing.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

“As long as you’re sure. I don’t want to put you through any more trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I promise.”

“Okay. Well, then, José’s carryout sounds fantastic.”

“Can we get nachos with extra sour cream?” Aiden says, the prospect of restaurant food exciting him—we rarely eat out during the school year, so getting José’s is a treat for him.

“It’s like you read my mind, buddy!” Jamie says. “That’s EXACTLY what I was going to order.”

Jamie and Aiden chatter excitedly about their favorite food all the way out to the parking lot; I trail behind them, watching Aiden hobble on his crutches, glancing up at Jamie now and then, visibly worshipful of everything Jamie says and does.

And…I totally get it.

Without realizing it, I had parked next to Jamie—he drives an older and well-loved gray F-150, rust eating at the edges of the wheel wells, the bed filled with sports equipment, orange cones, lengths of two-by-four, empty water bottles, an unopened case of water bottles, and an old mountain bike. The passenger seat is piled high with papers and folders and binders and a laptop bag sits half-open in the footwell, and an unzipped gym bag with shorts and T-shirts spilling out sits on the backseat bench, along with more empty water bottles and carryout containers—there’s a hastily cleared spot in the backseat where Aiden had sat on the way here.

He indicates his truck with a rueful grin. “I sort of half live out of this thing. It’s got a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it and it’s still going, and I plan on driving it until it gives out completely. So…it’s kind of a mess.”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, take a look at the inside of my car and see if I’m in any position to judge.”

Meaning, there are LEGOs everywhere, Aiden’s books, my books, dishes from our house from the days when we end up having to eat on the fly, carryout containers, at least three empty Tervis coffee thermoses, a few ceramic coffee mugs, reusable water containers, and did I mention LEGOs?

Jamie takes a look, and then barks a laugh. “Yeah, so you do get it.”

“We live on the run during the school year. I don’t have to drive far, but I have to drive to a lot of different places.”

An awkward silence settles over us, his eyes on mine, my lungs not quite expanding all the way, my heart jittering with uneasy and unfamiliar emotions.

Aiden tags my arm. “Mom? Can we go? These crutches are hurting my armpits.”

I blink, and start. “Wha—? Oh. Yeah, sorry, Aiden. Let’s go. You need to rest.”

“And watch a movie?” he suggests hopefully.

I laugh. “You’re gonna milk this injury for all its worth, aren’t you?” I ruffle his hair.

“Yep,” he admits. “It’s called optimism, Mom.”

I snort. “Opportunism is more like it.”