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Ziggy

Not the damn club again.

But yes, the damn club again.

It’s where everyone brunches on a Saturday morning, so here we are.

Brunching before house-hunting.

We’re at a window table overlooking the lake and the golf course, which is, naturally, one of the best seats in the dining room.

It’s also where everyone else sees you.

And this is the first time everyone has seen us—me—since Mom told Abby Nora and Niki that I’m pregnant.

Since Eli Harrison connected the dots on the somm who puked on him outside the bathroom.

I don’t see Abby Nora. I don’t see her parents. I don’t see her in-laws .

Have to wonder if Mom called ahead to verify they wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t put it past her.

She’s learned to navigate Dad’s world pretty well since we moved to this part of the city.

But I’m still acutely aware of every glance and every lowered voice around us.

Francesca was right. I should’ve shoved Holt in a suitcase and taken him with me back to Europe when I realized he was one of Dad’s players.

“Why can’t anyone tell me if this baby’s a boy or a girl?” Dad asks as he studies the ultrasound picture after we’ve ordered.

“Can’t see yet,” I reply. “And I don’t want to know. I want to be surprised.”

“I love that,” Miranda says. “This is the one time in Tater Tot’s life that they won’t be put in a box. They should get to enjoy it.”

“I hardly think the baby’s aware that it’s enjoying a time of not having expectations put on it,” Mom murmurs.

“But we know, and that matters.”

“I’m also getting worried we won’t find a permanent place for Ziggy and the baby before Baby’s born,” Mom says. “Honey, I know your landlord is being flexible now, but we really need to get you settled. Maybe we should consider some apartments if you won’t move in with us. Something temporary until the house of your dreams comes on the market.”

This?

This is called progress.

And it’s time for me to make some of my own. “Goldie offered to show me the building she used to live in,” I say. “Fletcher likes it too. ”

As expected, Dad’s focus narrows in on me like a lightning bolt. “Fletcher? Huxley? My player? You were talking to him?”

“Dad, he’s engaged to Goldie,” Miranda says. “You want Ziggy to have friends but not acknowledge the existence of their significant others?”

“He was fired from his last team for being inappropriate with the coach’s daughter.”

“He was fired from his last team because the coach’s daughter had a crush on him and he didn’t know it,” Miranda retorts. “He didn’t do anything wrong, and there’s ample evidence to support the fact that he was completely blindsided. And he’s engaged to Goldie . Ziggy’s high school friend. He’s not gonna be trying to hit this ass on the side.”

“Miranda,” Mom murmurs. “Language.”

“Well, he’s not,” she says, quieter, and I realize the people at the next table are watching us.

Awesome.

Just love being that single pregnant failure who had to run home to Mom and Dad, got fired for assaulting Eli Harrison with body fluids, and now wants to get involved in a threesome with one of Dad’s players.

Not that they know it would be a threesome, but I’m sure they’re enjoying thinking their version of the worst of me.

I sip my ginger soda. “Did I ever tell you about the time on the ship that a guy’s best friend—who was a woman—was traveling with him and his girlfriend and they almost broke up because the girlfriend was jealous of the platonic friend, who was helping plan the most epic proposal I’ve ever seen? It involved a hot air balloon and a flash mob that had half of a symphony orchestra participating.”

“Aww, how sweet,” Miranda says. “Did they get married? ”

“The wedding happened at an Italian castle. I saw it on their socials about a year later.”

She sighs dreamily. “I want to get married at an Italian castle. But then I’d have to date someone. And ew . Half the guys I’ve met in the last year are either unhinged in the bad way somehow or they want to move way too fast to the I love you stuff.”

I’m moving fast.

I’m probably moving too fast.

But it’s so easy to be with Holt right now. Natural. Like he’s the real reason I came home.

So that I could meet him.

His lonely, grieving soul complements my lonely, grieving soul.

And we’re both on a mission to find the joy in life again.

To find the trust in life again. To be willing to take risks again.

On new friends. New family.

Believing in hope again.

“You have all the time in the world, sweetheart,” Dad says to her. “Unlike Ziggy. Who needs to find a place to settle, and soon.”

It’s so hard not to squirm, especially knowing the people around us are listening in. “I’m getting there.”

“What if we asked your landlord to sell us his house since you seem to like it so much?” Mom says. “Surely someone who’d leave for a month at a time could find a better place to live. What does he do? I don’t recall you mentioning his job.”

“High school track coach,” I blurt.

Miranda makes a strangled noise.

Shit.

Shit .

Does Dad know every high school track coach? There are like ten public high schools in Copper Valley. At least. Surely he doesn’t know all of them.

Does he?

And when is track season?

Oh my god .

Did I just make up a lie that’s so very obviously a lie because a high school track coach actually works summers?

“Which high school?” he asks.

Crap. Is my face turning red? “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“He a rugby fan?” Dad asks. “I could sweeten the deal. Season tickets. Concession stand coupons. Let him meet the team.”

“I don’t really talk about the team with him.” Lie lie lie . “I mean, we each do our own things.”

Like, he does things with his penis.

I do things with my vagina.

Way, totally different.

Also, I do most of the cooking, and he does most of the entertaining me while I cook.

I give him blow jobs when he does dishes.

He fingers me while I do the dishes.

Completely different.

Mom and Dad are both frowning at me.

“I’m in bed almost the whole time I’m home,” I babble.

Miranda chokes on her mimosa.

I am drowning in absolute mortification. This isn’t going well.

Not at all.

“Because I’m tired all the time,” I add.

“My goodness, my dear, are you okay?” Mom pats Miranda on the back .

“Wrong pipe,” she gasps.

Divert. Divert! “That happened to me once when I was doing a wine presentation on my first cruise, except it wasn’t a mimosa, it was a fly that flew into my throat.”

“I should talk to your landlord,” Dad says. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“It was his dead grandmother’s house.” The lies are coming out of my mouth in direct proportion to the sweat sliding down my back. “She was his favorite person on the planet. She baked him chocolate chip cookies in that kitchen and she read him good night stories in his bedroom and she mortgaged her house to pay for his college. You can’t ask a man to leave a house that means so much to him.”

My mom stares at me over her mimosa.

Dad’s mouth does that thing where he doesn’t like that he can’t get something, and he subtly cracks a single knuckle.

Miranda is still coughing, but quieter and less frequently.

“It’s a nice house because it has a nice homey story to it,” I say. “I lived in cabins on a ship for seven years. I can find an equally nice two-bedroom condo and the baby and I can use community gardens and parks and we’ll be fine.”

I don’t want a condo. I don’t want an apartment. I don’t want a house.

I just want everything to stay as it is with Holt right now, except I want to not be spewing lies to my parents about who he is.

“Goldie said her friends can help me find an apartment,” I add. “I’m probably seeing her again tomorrow.”

Dad eyes me. “Be very, very careful if you’re around Huxley.”

Huxley. Fletcher. Same guy. Last name, first name. Right. “He’s the one who’s always in the home office? ”

“The social media team love-hates him,” Miranda says. “His socials are fire. He sells a lot of tickets. But sometimes he wants us to do really crazy things.”

“Still can’t believe Collins’s daughter is dating him. Wouldn’t be my first choice,” Dad mutters. “He’s a good player, but he’s not good enough for her.”

“But they’re so happy together,” Miranda says. “Isn’t happy better than not happy?”

Dad grunts.

“ And his son plays rugby. So his son is good enough to play a sport but his daughter is too good to date men who also play the same sport?” she presses.

“Yes,” Dad says.

Miranda cocks her head and watches him.

He grunts again and keeps eating.

Yay, double-standard land is alive and well. It’s truly no wonder I haven’t dated much. There’s always this voice of my stepdad sitting on my shoulder grunting, this one’s not good enough for you .

“So I heard one of the players twisted an ankle or something a few weeks ago?” I say in the continued silence. “Is that…bad for the team next year?”

“Webster,” Dad says. “Team captain. Broke his foot. He’ll be back. Good guy. He wouldn’t have made a pass at Goldie, and he knows not to look at my daughters.”

Fuck.

Just fuck .

Mom pats his hand. “None of your players are looking at our girls. Now, Ziggy. Show me those baby pictures again. What names are you thinking of? It’s so nice that you don’t have to compromise with anyone about your favorite names. Unless you’re thinking Robert for a boy. I’ve known too many Roberts and Bobs and Robs and Bobbys who were just absolute terrors, and I don’t want to put that kind of bad energy around my grandbaby.”

“I doubt Ziggy’s thinking of Robert for her baby,” Miranda says. “But I kinda like the name Fletcher.”

“Over my dead body,” Dad declares.

Miranda smirks. “Crew? Silas? Zander? Tatum?”

“Oh, stop tormenting him,” Mom chides. “We know Ziggy’s not naming her baby after any of the players either.”

“Out of curiosity, if I randomly met the CEO of one of your companies and we hit it off, and he didn’t care that I was pregnant, and he made me feel loved and cherished and worshipped me like a goddess, would that also be a bad thing?” I ask.

“Yes.”

At least he’s consistent.

“You own half the city.”

“And that means I get to vet the men my daughters date, and none of them are good enough for you.”

“Canada,” Miranda whispers. “We can both run away to Canada.”

“Roland, you’re being slightly ridiculous. It’s not fair to the girls. If they want to date an accomplished man who has a good job and doesn’t have any skeletons in his closet and who makes them happy, then they should have some flexibility here.”

“That’s a very low bar,” Dad replies.

“Is it? I don’t see either one of the girls settling for someone who doesn’t make them happy. It was the critical element when I fell in love.”

He grunts.

“Glad you agree,” she says, “because I actually wanted to introduce Ziggy to that nice young man from the Environmental Engineering Club that we had lunch with earlier this week.”

“ Mom . No.” I shake my head. “If I meet someone, and it’s natural and we click and he can handle dating a single mom, then I meet someone. But I don’t want to get set up on dates. I don’t want that obligation. I’d rather meet him by accident.”

Dad eyes me. “So long as he can take care of you and isn’t traveling all the time and doesn’t put you second behind anything. And I do mean anything .”

That should be a good statement.

But it’s not.

I know it’s not.

Miranda knows it’s not.

And I suddenly understand better what Dad’s issue is with either of us dating one of his rugby players.

It’s their life , Goldie said to me the other day while she and I had lunch and Holt and Fletcher were at the gym.

Not because Holt was working out, but because he wanted to soak in the atmosphere until he can get back to working out.

When you’re dating an athlete, you accept that they possibly love their sport more than they love you. But they love you with everything they have available to love you, and given the extra-big size of their hearts, it’s more than enough .

I told her she was crazy, that Fletcher seemed like he’d sacrifice the world for her, to include rugby, and she agreed.

She said he’s special. And that he did try to quit rugby for her once.

But Dad might not know that.

All he knows is that he asks his players for everything they have .

Which doesn’t leave anything for the rest of their lives.

And what will happen when Holt can get back to the gym?

What if I am just a distraction to pass the time while he’s injured?

Dammit.

Dammit .

A plate of breakfast potatoes and a side of biscuits appear in front of me, and I do what’s expected.

I pick up my fork and chat with my family about the baby and about the banquet I’m planning and about what Miranda has been up to and about Mom’s shifting social life now that she’s cut out Abby Nora’s family too.

But inside, I’m having a minor freak-out.

I like Holt.

I know he likes me.

But what if it’s not enough?

What happens then?

And now that Holt’s off the crutches, how soon is then coming?

I sneak a subtle peek at my phone under the table, wanting a quick message, or even to read our last messages, just to reassure myself, but my phone doesn’t turn on.

Dammit .

Because the battery died because I forgot to charge it last night after doing the dishes with Holt.

But this is okay.

It’s all okay.

I’ll be home soon, and I’ll see him soon, and everything will be okay.