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Ziggy

What’s the word for when you like someone so much that your heart beats a little faster every time you see them, you find yourself smiling for no reason in the middle of the day, and you catch yourself picking up the heart-shaped pasta instead of the regular spaghetti noodles when you make an impromptu menu plan change merely because you want to use heart-shaped pasta?

It’s not love.

I haven’t known Holt long enough for this to be love.

It’s more than like though.

Enchantment?

The puppy love stage?

Obsession?

Whatever it is, it’s what I have after a couple weeks of lying to my family about who my landlord is and why he’s letting me stay after he’s back, all while spending every night in his bed.

The people around me are starting to notice my glow.

Thankfully, they still attribute it to pregnancy.

Mostly.

Miranda isn’t fooled though, though she was absolutely bought off with the cherry hand pies.

The same cherry hand pies that got me—let’s call it rewarded for good kitchen behavior .

I might have made them again this past weekend too.

And I saved a few for Miranda again. I think she knows what I got out of them at home, though she didn’t do anything beyond smirk at me when I said I had a craving.

She swings into my office shortly after I get in for the day about two weeks after the incident with Jessica in the lobby. I’m late today, but with good reason.

I had my first appointment with my new doctor.

“Heads up—Dad’s in today,” she murmurs.

He’s not in every day. Holt wasn’t wrong when he pointed out that the cost of the rugby team is in the noise for Roland Keating. He sits on the board of at least three big engineering firms around the city, plus he’s built and sold at least four other businesses himself. He’s not fully self-made—his parents were comfortable enough to give him seed money for his first business—but he’s worked hard to grow what he started with.

He keeps busy with his hands in a lot of different interests and has for as long as I’ve known him. Mom occasionally drops the retirement word, but it’s more wishful thinking than a true possibility.

Dad wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he had too much free time on his hands. He’s not built for sitting still .

“So I should work harder and prove my value?” I murmur back. We’re a couple weeks out from my first big event for the team—a postseason awards banquet celebrating their finals run. Holt says they basically finished third. Fletcher says not winning it all is the same as finishing last.

They’re hilarious. It’s been fantastic getting to watch Holt interact with his friends and making friends with Goldie too.

“Half the team’s in too,” Miranda adds. “Something about planning a surprise for the coach. Just—watch the way you light up when someone walks past your office, okay?”

“Fletcher makes me happy.”

She cracks up.

We both know Holt’s only in the office if he’s in with Fletcher, who’s pretending he doesn’t know he’s a decoy, and it’s safer to like Fletcher since he can’t go three sentences without talking about Goldie.

And Fletcher’s in the office all the time.

Apparently his life mission is growing US rugby to be as big as US football is, and you can’t tell him he’s fighting an impossible battle.

That just makes him more determined. Or so Goldie tells me.

When Miranda finally gets her snickers under control, she looks at me and doubles over again. “Fletcher—makes you—happy,” she gasps through gales of laughter.

“Is this like saying that guy who does that annoying local TV commercial for his furniture store is my favorite?” I ask her.

“Worse,” she chortles.

“Well, I think of Goldie every time I see Fletcher. Did you know she told me she saw Abby Nora at a Pounders match late last year and Abby Nora completely snubbed her? Who does that ? And to Goldie ? And don’t tell me Abby Nora doesn’t know who Goldie is. Goldie’s basically famous around here. How did I not see how insecure Abby Nora always was? And how she judged people based on what they could do for her?”

I’ve gotten through the biggest part of my sadness over my friendship breakup, and I’m on to the petty phase where I’m mad that I didn’t realize she wasn’t the person I thought she was. I’m also hoping that she’s not getting a lot of sleep these days, which I shouldn’t wish on someone given my own circumstances, but I’m only human.

I’m a little embarrassed that I didn’t realize how much emphasis Abby Nora put on people’s perceived class in life too, how I feel like I was a charity case in high school now, her way of making herself feel good for doing something for someone so far beneath her, but I’m working through that.

When you only see what someone wants you to see over text and socials, and then don’t see them in person regularly, it’s apparently not uncommon to miss the red flags.

“She’s sad people,” Miranda says. “Sad people that you shouldn’t waste—what’s that?”

She points to a black-and-white image on my desk.

I touch it gingerly at the edges. “This?”

“ Ziggy !”

Deep voices drift down the hallway as she lunges for the ultrasound picture. “Oh my god, is this the baby?”

My eyes get hot. “That’s the baby.”

“Look at her. Him. Them. What are we calling the baby?”

“Tater Tot.”

She squeals. “Is that their little elbow?”

I grin as I lean over the picture too. “It’s like they’re chilling in a hammock. ”

“They think Mommy should’ve worked the tropics instead of the Med.”

“They wouldn’t be happening if Mommy worked the tropics instead of the Med.”

The voices outside get closer, and a full-body shiver works its way from my neck to my toes as I recognize Holt’s in the mix.

“Hey, Ziggy,” Crew calls. “Oh, Miranda. You too. Hey.”

Silas Collins stops in the doorway and stares at Miranda. “Is that an ultrasound picture?”

Right.

He has a daughter.

Goldie talks about her a lot.

He’d recognize baby stuff.

Miranda waves the image at the growing group of rugby players gathering in my doorway. “It’s Ziggy’s baby.”

Crew’s eyes go wide. Porter’s mouth forms an O.

Silas stares for one more beat, then shrugs. “Cool.”

For all of the gossip I know Mom’s keeping from me about what people in her circles are saying as news of my pregnancy—and my puking on Eli Harrison—spreads, the office and the team have had no idea.

“ Cool ?” Tatum says. “Dude. We’re gonna be uncles , and all you can say is cool ?”

Fletcher rubs the younger guy’s head. “He sucks. What did you expect?”

Only Holt is staying silent, his gaze flickering between me and the picture Miranda is carrying to the doorway to show off.

He knew I was going to the doctor.

I hadn’t had a chance to sit down and email him pictures yet .

I smile at him, trying to make it look normal and natural and no more intense than I’d smile at anyone else.

His gaze softens, and he almost smiles back.

My heart flips.

And then I squeak and cover it with a cough.

He’s not on his crutches.

He’s walking.

I can’t see his legs though. Is he still in the boot? Or is he good -good?

Can I ask?

Would it be obvious I pay attention if I ask?

Or would it be rude not to when I’ve seen him in the office several times over the past couple weeks?

It’s polite to say something.

Right?

One corner of his mouth hitches up.

It does that anytime I start rambling. Overthinking again, Zig. You’re good .

“Look at the baby!” Miranda says, interrupting my internal panic as she shows off my picture to the guys on the team. “Doesn’t he—she—they look like a total beach bum? I’m in love. We’re calling them Tater Tot . How cute is that?”

Most of the guys murmur the appropriate aww s.

Fletcher coughs.

Holt purses his lips together like he’s trying not to beam with pride about his nickname for the baby.

“When are you due?” Silas asks me.

“Early February.”

“Nice. Baby with a new season.”

“My goodness, gentlemen, what is going on here?” Mom says over the crowd.

“Ziggy got her ultrasound,” Miranda says .

“What? Where?”

The men part, and Mom bustles in. “ Ziggy . Oh my word, is that my grandbaby?”

“It is,” I confirm.

Mom takes one look at the picture and bursts into tears.

“Mom—” I start.

“Deedee—” Miranda adds, getting to her first for a hug.

“My baby’s having a baby ,” Mom wails.

“Happens to a lot of women,” I say as I reach her and wrap my arms around both of them, turning this into a group hug.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on here?” I hear Dad say out in the hallway.

“We’re celebrating that we’re gonna be uncles, sir,” Crew says.

Holt and Fletcher share a look.

Holt limps back further against the opposite wall.

Still in the boot if he’s limping.

I think.

Dammit.

Poor guy. The boot sucks.

Fletcher angles in front of him.

“Better be all that’s going on,” Dad says, making my shoulders tighten. “Why’s my wife crying?”

“She’s happy,” I report.

“Are we gonna have to throw a baby shower?” Tatum says to Porter. “I don’t know how to throw a baby shower.”

“I’m planning the baby shower,” Miranda says.

“Brittany had three baby showers for Hallie,” Silas says.

Miranda smiles at him. “Three’s better than one when it comes to showing a baby and their mama how much they’re loved. ”

He stares back at her, then steps back to join Fletcher and Holt.

Dad angles into the doorway too. He’s a big guy, tall and broad all around, with sixty-five years’ worth of cheese, wine, and desserts lending itself to his waistline. His dark hair is dotted with silver, and his face is clean-shaven, as always.

Miranda hands him the picture.

He smiles, and then blinks quickly like he, too, might want to cry. “Looks like a rugby player,” he declares.

“Lady rugby players are badasses,” Miranda says. “But sorry, Dad, this one’s gonna be a beach bum.”

“Can we just let the baby be whoever the baby wants to be?” I ask.

“They’re going to be perfect,” Mom wails.

“Move, Porter,” Fletcher says. “Surprise for Coach won’t surprise itself. We have work to do. And they have to do all that mushy family shit.”

I meet Holt’s eyes one more time.

He doesn’t react at all, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.

I can feel it in the way my belly’s fluttering.

The rest of the day crawls by. Mom and Dad want to take Miranda and me out to dinner to celebrate the ultrasound pictures. I plead exhaustion, and they let me off, but only if I promise them brunch tomorrow.

Brunch and looking at more houses.

Am I stalling on finding a house because I don’t want to leave Holt’s place?

Yes.

Is this going to bite me in the ass?

One way or another .

But we’ve made it two weeks without my parents having any clue, and I’ve started mentioning hanging out with Goldie. Mom and Dad both love her, and I’ve made sure to point out that we went to high school together so that it’s not suspicious.

So this plan to warm them up to the idea of me being friends with the guys on the team is almost coming along.

Almost.

I’ll work on it more tomorrow.

After this interminable day ends, which it finally, eventually does.

It’s time to go home.

And honestly?

I am tired.

Tired from the baby zapping my energy. Tired of hiding that I like Holt. Tired of going over the same particulars about the awards banquet with the same people both in and out of the office who want to make sure we get every detail perfect .

Holt and Fletcher have both told me that so long as the food is edible, the team will think it’s a success.

The mics could fail and the slide show could get replaced with a pornographic cartoon and the awards could be giant dicks and we’d be happy , Holt keeps saying. You can’t screw this up. We’re an easy bunch . Especially if no one’s facial hair gets burned off .

Having just seen more of the team in the office here and there, I believe him, though I have questions about why there would have to be burning facial hair disclaimers.

Also, I miss being a sommelier.

Even if I’m overall happy in Copper Valley, and excited about the baby, I still miss what I had before .

Goldie tells me it’s okay to feel all of those things, because humans are complicated and we’re allowed to be conflicted.

I pull into the driveway and smile at the sight of the house.

I like this house.

It’s cozy and comfortable.

The bedroom I’d been staying in has been completely redone in the past two weeks, with proper ventilation so that the paint fumes don’t bother me, and we’re moving into it so that Holt’s bedroom can get finished.

Then the third bedroom on the main floor—the one that no one uses because it was Caden’s room—will get some sprucing up, and the basement, and then the house is complete, though Holt doesn’t have immediate plans for either.

I stride up the front steps in the waning heat of the day, and when I push into the living room, there’s no sign waiting like there was just about two weeks ago, but there’s something better.

Holt moving around the kitchen without his crutches.

“You ditched the sticks?” I say as I wrap my arms around him and go up on tiptoes to kiss his chin.

“I’m two-legged again.” He pulls me tight and kisses me, and my heart does a full Olympic vault routine, leaping and twisting and flying, but it doesn’t land.

It’s too busy soaring.

I still have so much work to do to convince my parents that Holt and I are two grown adults who can date without it interfering with the rest of our lives.

But right now, it doesn’t matter.

Not when I feel like I’m home .