The jake ryan complex, p.24
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 24
He grins at my barrage of questions. “She called me this morning—like an hour before the wedding—apparently got my cell number from the front desk. I gave it to them when I checked in yesterday.”
I blink hard. Hotels don’t usually give out personal information. That means there’s probably a front-desk clerk balled up crying in the fetal position right now . . . “And what’d she say?”
“First, she apologized, and then she just talked about how wonderful you are and how I’d be an idiot to let you go.”
“My mom said that? Are you sure you weren’t being crank called?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m sure. She was great, Mac. She reminded me that we all have things in our past we might not want the people we love to know about, but that if we don’t share with them, they’ll never get to know who we really are, and the relationship will suffer because of it.”
My heart warms at the thought of her saying those words, and not just because they speak to my relationship with him, but also to my relationship with her . . .
“We both did stupid things before we met that came out at really inopportune moments,” he goes on, “but it’s all out there now—all of the embarrassing ugliness is out there, and we can move on and start building a life together. And that’s what I want, more than anything, Mac.” He reaches for my hand. “I want to build a life with you. I want to take your old dog to the park, and pay the bills, and get groceries, and raise another woman’s child with you—”
I burst out laughing, my heart overflowing with love for everything he’s professing. “I want those things too,” I say, sniffling back my tears. “I do. I want to do all those things with you too.”
He cradles my face with his hand and leans forward to kiss me. It’s a loving and tender and deliciously familiar sensation that somehow erases all the upset and replaces it with reassurance that what he’s saying is true: J.T. and I are going to build a life together: a beautiful life filled with ordinary things and other women’s children. The kind of life I’ve been dreaming of. The kind of life they make movies about . . .
Three months later . . .
“Uh, Mac. I need you down here . . .”
The confusion in Andy’s tone matches the expression on his face. Given the circumstances, both are a little concerning. I leave my post at Caroline’s left side and hustle down to the end of the bed, where he and Nurse Becky are tending to the screaming newborn.
“What’s wrong?” Caroline growls, her demonic active-labor voice still in full effect. “Let me see him! I want to see my baby!”
“Is something wrong?” J.T. asks from Caroline’s right side, eyes wide with concern.
“Not exactly,” Andy mumbles under his breath.
Offering me a befuddled shrug, he quickly steps out of the way, allowing me a good look at the—
“Ohmygod.” I blink hard.
“Right?” Nurse Becky mutters from behind me.
“What?” Caroline screams. “What’s wrong?”
“Are, um—is there—uhhh . . .”
I’m too shocked to formulate an entire thought. By all accounts I’m looking at a healthy, beautiful baby boy. It’s just . . . well . . .
“Any chance you have African American heritage?” Andy asks hopefully.
“What?” Caroline snaps.
“Or maybe there’s a history of hyperpigmentation in your family?” he continues. “Where the skin might take on a slightly darker color than the parents’?”
“What? No! What the fuck are you talking about?” She grabs the bed rail and starts hoisting herself up to see the baby, while Andy turns his attention to J.T. and asks him the same questions.
J.T. shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”
Okay.
Andy and I exchange a knowing glance just as Caroline’s gaze makes its way to the end of the bed and she gets a good look at her son for the first time.
She gasps. “Holy fuck. He’s black.”
I nod. Yes, he is. He most certainly is.
“What?” J.T. steps in for a look.
“Is there any possibility you were with a black man around the same time you were with J.T.?” Andy asks her.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
She shakes her head and starts to say no again, but before the word actually crosses her lips, she pauses, and her sweaty brow starts to wrinkle in consideration. “Oh . . . wait . . .” An icky, wry grin starts to tug on her lips. “Reggie. Holy shit, I forgot about him.” She licks her lips, clearly lost in thought. “Damn, he was a tasty morsel. . .”
“Oh my god.” I glance up at J.T. just in time to see the color drain from his face, along with all the excitement that’s been building inside him for the last four months. It wasn’t an immediate process, but he’s grown to love the idea of becoming a dad. He casts me a tortured look, then storms out of the room.
“Ah shit,” Caroline mutters. “Now he’s pissed.”
“You think?” Nurse Becky mutters.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “He’ll be fine. Just enjoy your baby.”
I give my hands a quick scrub, then take off to find him. After a few minutes of searching, I track him down on the other side of the building, standing in front of the nursery’s window, looking at all the babies.
I sidle up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my chin on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
He sighs while absently dragging his thumb over my engagement band. He does that a lot. “Not really.”
“You’re disappointed . . .”
He nods.
“The idea of being a dad sort of settled in on you, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I know something that might cheer you up . . .”
I didn’t plan on telling him this way, but all things considered, I think it’s the perfect time.
I ease my grip on him and slowly reposition myself so that I’m now standing with my back to him. I wrap his arms around my waist and press his palms flat against my stomach, holding them in place with my hands. With my gaze fixed on the beautiful little bundles squirming in the bassinets in front of us, I say, “In about seven months, you’ll be looking at our little one through this window . . .”
He stays completely silent—and completely unmoving—for a long beat, before he finally says, “Are you serious?”
I raise my attention higher so I can see his expression in the window’s reflection when I answer his question. “Yes. We’re going to have a baby.”
A prideful grin starts to spread across his face, and as if John Hughes scripted it himself, his top teeth settle in on that plump lower lip of his. My insides flutter with delight as he gently grazes his fingers across my belly.
“Oh yeah. That definitely cheers me up.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Endless gratitude to:
My husband, Terry, who will always wait for the movie version but still listens to my scenes (even the kissy ones) without complaint.
My kiddos: Grace, who reminds me that pursuing a passion—no matter how exhausting—is always worth the effort, and Becca, who silently assures me that even the slowest-blooming rose smells just as sweet.
My sisters and parents for always believing in my talents, no matter how many times I painted the angel.
Anita Howard, faithful bestie and incomparable critique partner, for joining me on the ledge so I don’t have to jump alone.
Amy Moore-Benson, the dream agent I don’t deserve, whose wisdom and encouragement make me a better, more confident writer.
My exceptional editorial team, Maria Gomez and Selina McLemore, for making me laugh in the midst of the chaos and providing brilliant insights that turned this story into a masterpiece.
Angela Cook and Mary Frame, who keep my stories—and love scenes—moving at the right speed.
The Heathers (Hernandez and King) for braving the early-draft waters.
The Goat Posse for boundless love, support, and tin can humor.
Rebekah Crane, Tonya Kuper, Kerri Maniscalco, and Amy Rolland for perfectly timed text messages that always lift my mood.
My fourth-floor hens—past and present—for keeping my snark on point and the spotted dick in supply.
The real Mac Huntress for lending me his exquisite name.
The incomparable John Hughes for providing a lifetime of entertainment and an education on storytelling no classroom could offer.
And most importantly to my Heavenly Father, who sees me for the unruly, ragged mess I am—and loves me anyway.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Stacy Bostrom
Bethany Crandell, author of the young adult novel Summer on the Short Bus, lives in San Diego with her husband, teenage daughters, and two destructive puppies. The Jake Ryan Complex is her first adult novel, though it still carries the heart and humor of teenage exuberance. For more information, visit Bethany online at www.bethanycrandell.com and www.facebook.com/AuthorBethanyCrandell, and @bethanycrandell on Twitter.
Crandell, Bethany, The Jake Ryan Complex
