The jake ryan complex, p.9
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 9
“Well, it must be for that volunteer group he works for, right?” Mom offers up, unknowingly saving me from my own demise. “Didn’t you say they travel all over the world?”
“Yes!” I shout so loud Rerun jerks beneath my hand. “That’s exactly what it is, Mom. And they do travel all over the world. Even here in our world—I mean”—I give my head a quick shake—“here in our country. It’s not just trips to Africa anymore. They do a lot of stuff in the States too.”
“Awww, that is so sweet,” Hope says, easily buying into the idea.
“Yeah, he’s really sweet. He’s a really good guy.”
“Well, he certainly sounds like it.” Mom nods with approval, a rarely seen sight. “In fact, from what you’ve told us, he reminds me a bit of your grandfather. He helped out with the Red Cross Disaster Relief group for a long time. Did you know that?”
I nod. Of course I know that. Grandpa was the blueprint I used when creating Michael’s personality.
“You should consider volunteering for something like that,” Mom says. “I’m sure there are women all over the world in need of medical care during pregnancy.”
My jaw falls slack.
Is she actually taking an interest in my work?
“Well, yeah. I already do. Every other Friday we spend the day volunteering at a women’s clinic on the South Side. That’s where I was today.”
“Really?”
I nod happily. Even though I’ve told her about the free clinic at least a dozen times, it feels good to know she’s finally listening to me.
“Well, good for you. It’s important to help the less fortunate. I’m glad to see that your grandfather’s influence has worn off on you.”
“Yeah, that’s really great, Mackie poodle,” Hope chimes in over one of her cherubic smiles. It must be the booze, but even her cheeks look fuller to me. “You know what you should do?” She suddenly drops her feet to the floor and leans forward off the love seat, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should join the volunteer group Michael works with! Then you two can travel the world together! Ohmygod!” She clutches a throw pillow against her chest and collapses dramatically against the cushions. “That would be so romantic! Two important doctors, jet-setting around the world to save lives. It’d be like a movie or something!”
In the history of my life, Hope’s exclamation points have never had any effect on me . . . until right this second. A fat smile erupts across my face, and despite the obvious impossibility of this scenario, I start to nod. “Maybe. That would be really romantic.”
“Michael would love that, wouldn’t he?”
I’m so drunk on the mere idea I can’t stop nodding. “Of course he would!”
“You know, I remember my mother tagging along with my father on a few of his volunteer trips,” Mom cuts in, a foreign, playful grin settling on her lips. “She always said she was there to help prepare meals for the volunteers, but I suspect it was more for some alone time with Grandpa.”
Hope gasps. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. I’m pretty sure Uncle Steve is a product of a couple of those cooking trips.”
I burst out laughing. Not at the mention of my grandparents’ sex life—good for them—but at my mother’s playful tone. I can’t remember the last time I heard her like this.
“Oh my god, that’s precious!” Hope cries.
“It really is, isn’t it?” Mom agrees, now chuckling herself. “Those two always had so much fun together. You could really tell they enjoyed the other’s company—like best friends. Just like you and Whitman.” She smiles at Hope. “And I imagine you and Michael.” She turns to me. “You enjoy being with him, don’t you?”
It suddenly dawns on me that the only reason my mom is being so gosh darn likable tonight is because she thinks I’m in a relationship. Without Michael in the picture, she’d be as disinterested in me as she always is.
FUCK.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Of course I do.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear that.”
“Me too,” Hope adds. “I’m so happy you finally met someone!”
I force a smile.
“He’s not on call every weekend, is he?”
Without thought I shake my head. “No. Just once a month.”
“Oh good! Then we can meet him when we come back in a few weeks. We can all go out for dinner.”
“Wait—what?” I sit up straighter. “Why are you coming back in a few weeks?”
“For the bridesmaids’ dresses,” Mom answers curtly, then reaches for a white, lace-covered binder sitting on the couch beside her. The front of it says, Hope and Whitman, A Day to Remember. With obvious familiarity, she flips it open to a tab marked ATTIRE and then turns the book around to show me the page. There are images of four pink dresses on it. Bubblegum pink with my auburn hair and freckles . . . ugh. “We’ve got it narrowed down to these four selections, but we need to see how everyone looks in them. That Harper has been known to pack it on if she’s not careful.”
“I know, Mom,” Hope says. “She’s renewing her Weight Watchers membership as we speak.”
“Well, I sure hope so. Because one heavy bridesmaid can throw off the whole balance.”
Hope turns back to me, sighing. “Speaking of Harper and Meghan, is it okay if they stay here too? I don’t want to put you out, but I hate the idea of them staying in a hotel when it’s supposed to be like a fun girls’ weekend—”
“Of course it’s okay,” Mom cuts in with a flippant wave. “Mackenzie’s got plenty of room for everyone. It’s not like she’s got a husband and kids to contend with.”
I nod absently because my inebriated brain cells are too busy trying to catch up to what’s just been revealed: they’re coming back, and they’re expecting to meet Michael when they do because I said he would be around.
So now I have three weeks to find an acceptable date instead of five.
Twenty-one days instead of thirty-five.
The mother of all f-bombs starts to rumble in the pit of my stomach, but before it has a chance to formulate, I quickly stand up and head for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Mom calls after me.
I don’t answer.
I can’t answer.
I push open the back door and stalk across the yard to where Gia is still busy painting. She glances up from the easel but thankfully doesn’t say anything. Clearly, she recognizes a horrified expression when she sees one. I snag the bottle of margaritas from where it sits on the ground beside her, raise it to my mouth, and start to chug.
Chapter 7
Thirty-five days until the wedding
Twenty days until Mom and Hope come back . . . and meet Michael
Seven thousand wedding gowns tried on
Three Motrin, two glasses of complimentary champagne, and one very greasy breakfast burrito rolling around in my stomach
Every square inch of Christoph’s Bridal is a decadent wash of white: from the satin curtains draping the individual dressing rooms to the sprays of orchids climbing the walls, the entire building screams wedding!—which is why I’ve excused myself half a dozen times for a breath of fresh air. All this wedding business is a bit suffocating.
“You need to avoid halters altogether,” Mom calls out to Hope while she jots down more notes in her book. She’s taking pictures of every dress with her phone and then writing detailed descriptions about each one so they can review the options with the wedding coordinator when they get home. “You’re just too curvy. We don’t want your girls popping out while you’re walking down the aisle. And that color. What was that, vanilla?” She makes a sour face over a question she doesn’t want answered. “Vanilla would look awful against Whitman’s tuxedo. You need to be more sensible when choosing colors, Hope.”
I sink back into the velvet chair cushion behind me and sigh. Who knew scrutinizing your child over free champagne would be so much fun . . .
“Mac Daddy!” Hope suddenly pops her head out from behind the curtain of her private dressing room. Her full cheeks are flushed the shade of strawberries, like she’s winded. “Can you come help me?”
Chelsea, our bridal specialist, had to attend to a customer out in the showroom, so Hope was left on her own to try to navigate her way into the latest dress. Apparently that hasn’t been as easy a task as she thought it would be.
“Absolutely,” I answer, grateful to get away from Mom for a few minutes. I hurry across the carpeted room and duck behind the curtain. “Wow.”
“You like?”
I nod at her reflection in the mirror. “Yes. It’s . . . wow. Hope, you look beautiful.” Truth be told, I think she looked beautiful in every dress so far—even the ones where her boobs were falling out—but this one . . . this one is really something.
She grins. “Thanks. I think this might be it, but I can’t tell for sure until I get the back laced up.”
While the front of the ivory dress is somewhat simple—a flowing empire waist with a delicately beaded bodice that perfectly displays her enviable D cups—the corseted back and train are a little more complicated. No wonder she needed help.
I drop down onto my knees and start cinching up the pretty ribbon.
“Do you think you and Michael will get married?”
A sour taste starts to well in my mouth. “It’s way too early for that.”
“But would you? I mean, if like a year from now he asked you?”
“I don’t know. It’s impossible to know what our relationship would be like.”
Fictional, Mac.
A year from now your relationship with Michael would still be fictional . . .
“Okay, so let’s say it’s going great. You absolutely adore him, and you couldn’t imagine your life without him. Would you do it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So you’re not opposed to the idea of marriage?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. Why? Did Mom say I was?”
She doesn’t answer, so I glance around the miles of organza cascading at her feet and look at her in the mirror. She flashes me a toothy grin. I roll my eyes.
“Just because I haven’t gotten married doesn’t mean I never would. I just haven’t met the right guy yet . . .”
For some frustrating reason, an image of J.T. suddenly flashes through my mind. My heart starts to race. He must have looked so good on his wedding day . . .
“Well, maybe Michael is your Mr. Right.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, maybe.”
The corset ribbon is delicate, so I take my time gently tugging each length a little tighter while Hope continues to shift from side to side, taking in all angles of herself in the mirror.
“What about kids?” she goes on.
“What about them?”
“Do you want them?”
Had she asked me that question ten, or even five, years ago, the answer would have been an easy yes! But now that I’m staring down the barrel of the big four-oh, I’m not so sure. Besides the fact that I don’t have a partner to have a baby with (some days Rerun feels like a ton of work—there’s no way I could ever go it alone), I’ve seen how difficult pregnancy can be for women my age. And while I’m more than happy to help my patients achieve their dreams of being parents, I can honestly say I’ve never wanted it the same way they do.
“I sort of think that ship has sailed.” From the corner of my eye, I see her bottom lip roll out into a pout. “But I’m fine with that,” I add firmly. “Not everybody’s supposed to be a parent. Some of us are just destined to be really awesome aunties.”
I’m thinking of all the fun times I’ve had with Claire and Andy’s boys over the years: watching their Little League games, attending Christmas recitals, going to the movies, or riding go-karts . . . Aside from the one hellish weekend I spent babysitting them when all four came down with strep throat, I feel like I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying kids without actually having them. Being an aunt is really the best of both worlds.
“Well, I’m glad to know you feel that way,” Hope goes on. “Because you’re going to be one before too long.”
My mouth pulls up into a smile. “You and Whitman plan to start trying right away, huh?”
“Not exactly . . .”
Her cryptic response steals my attention. I glance up at her reflection and find her smiling back at me, blue eyes glistening with emotion. My jaw falls slack, and my gaze instinctively drops to her belly.
“Are you . . . ?”
She nods quickly.
I blink hard, shocked and thrilled.
“Oh my god, Hope!” I quickly stand and pull her in for a hug, mindful not to smoosh the dress. “Congratulations. That’s so exciting!” And it explains why they’re getting married so quickly—and why she looks a little fuller. She must be a few months already. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Thank you. We’re really excited too.”
“When are you due?”
She takes a step back, hands caressing her belly in that tender way all moms-to-be do. “June twenty-eighth.”
My eyes snap wide. “June?”
“Yep. I’m going to have a little summer baby to dress in bikinis or tiny little swim trunks. Ohmygod, it’s going to be so much fun!” She raises her hands up to her mouth and starts giggling like a child. It’s a very sweet sight, and at some point I’m sure I’ll be able to reflect on it as a wonderful memory, but for now I can’t enjoy it because all I’m focused on is the fact that she’s—I quickly do the math in my head—thirty-one weeks and not even showing!
“Your doctor has confirmed your dates?” The physician in me takes over. “Not just by your menstrual cycle but by an ultrasound? They’ve been doing tests?”
She nods.
“And the baby is measuring normally? Because it should be at least three pounds by now.”
“The baby is totally fine,” she says, her expression softening a bit to accommodate my obvious concern. “Dr. Tan says it’s growing right on schedule and that I am a poster child for a good pregnancy . . . except for the fact that my uterus is tipping the wrong way.”
“Retroverted,” I say over a relieved sigh. “A retroverted uterus tips toward the rectum instead of the belly. Which explains why you’re not showing.”
“I know, it’s crazy, right? I didn’t even know I was pregnant until a month ago. My boobs weren’t sore or swollen or anything, and I was still having a light period . . .”
I nod in understanding. That happens sometimes. And, of course, those women are hated by the masses, but it does happen.
“Well, the tipped uterus shouldn’t cause any problems with your pregnancy,” I say. “And there are exercises you can do to help with positioning before delivery, too, if that becomes an issue.”
“I know. My doctor told me all of that. Everything’s good, Mac. I promise.”
Tears start to swell in my eyes as my concern for the situation starts to pass and the joy I felt moments ago reclaims its hold on my heart. My little sister is going to have a baby!
“This is so great, Hope. You’re going to be such a good mom.”
She sniffles on her own tears. “Thanks. We thought about waiting until after the baby was born to get married, but Whitman’s sort of old fashioned and thought it was better to be married before the baby actually gets here.”
I laugh. “I’m sure Mom appreciated that. Her mah-jongg group would probably revoke her membership if she has a grandbaby born out of wedlock.”
Hope’s smile quickly gives way to a grimace. “Yeah, well, the thing is . . . she doesn’t exactly know . . .”
“What?”
She shakes her head and crunches her nose up like a bunny, the way she did when she was little and got caught doing something naughty.
“You haven’t told her?”
“I wanted to, but . . . I don’t know. I got sort of scared. You know how she is . . .”
I nod because, yeah! I know exactly how she is. But until this moment, I never realized that Hope knows how she is too. She’s always been Mom’s little golden girl—all smiles and ribbons, impressed by the unimportant things in life just like Mom—but now . . . ohmygod. Is it possible that Hope’s been padding their relationship with some tall tales too?
“So, she just thinks you guys are getting married right away because of Whitman’s grandma? That same story you told me the other day?”
She nods sheepishly. “She doesn’t have a clue. I guess my tilted uterus served me well, huh?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess it did. But, oh man, she is going to lose her mind when she finds out. She’s wanted a grandbaby forever. Not telling her isn’t going to go over well.”
She sighs. “I know. But we didn’t want any extra drama to go along with the wedding. I mean, look at her.” She pulls the satin curtain away from the wall so we can see out into the viewing area. Mom’s scribbling notes so furiously I’m surprised there’s not a little plume of smoke wafting up from the paper. “She’s already going psycho over all of these wedding plans. Can you imagine how crazy she’d be if she knew there was a baby in the mix too?”
I nod over a heavy sigh of my own. She’s absolutely right. Mom can only tackle one life event at a time, which means not only do I have to help keep this baby situation under wraps, but my need to secure a wedding date has just been ratcheted up a notch. No way I’m going to shortchange Hope of her perfect day, knowing what’s in store for her once the wedding’s over . . .
Chapter 8
Thirty-four days to find an acceptable date
. . . and roughly six hours until J.T. comes to work on the porch
The one upside to having a mother who strives to keep up with appearances is that she maintains this standard even when there’s no one around to impress. Case in point: the elaborate breakfast she insisted on whipping together even though Hope and I assured her we were fine with the day-old doughnuts in the pantry.
For the three of us, she’s prepared a red-pepper-and-goat-cheese frittata, a mountain of crispy, skin-on potato wedges, about four pounds of sausage links, country biscuits with homemade honey butter, an enormous bowl of precisely cut fruit, and a pitcher of mimosas. It’s an obnoxious amount of food, but it also provides me with a week’s worth of leftovers. Considering my cooking skills, I’ll gladly take it.
