Page 62 of Mile High Coach

I am carrying Harrison’s baby.

That was always the plan, always the next step in our agreement, but now that it’s happening, I realize just how stupid of an idea this always was.

It’s vulgar, but it’s just like the first time he came inside me—it didn’t feel like a turkey baster. It didn’t feel like an agreement. It felt like him being closer to me than anyone else had ever been.

And now, there’s a little piece of him in me now, his DNA working to build a little person with his fingers and toes, his eyes, his hair—anything about this baby could be a constant reminder of the man I allowed myself to fall for, despite it being the worst idea in the world.

“Fuck,” I whisper, before turning and throwing up right into the toilet, like my morning sickness was kindly waiting for me to figure things out before intruding on my life. When I’m done, I straighten up, use mouthwash, and wash my hands three times before bundling the tests up in a couple of plastic bags and walking them to my room to throw them directly into the garbage, where Chrys won’t accidentally come across them.

When I walk back into the kitchen, I startle, seeing my dad sitting there in his chair, with his coffee and a newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Dad,” I say, looking around. “Where’s Chrys?”

“Not up yet,” he says, waving a hand and looking up at me with that new smile, the one that falls a little crooked on one side. I swallow and look at him, then the table. I thought I might have more time before I’d have to face them. “Come here, Lovelace. Would you sit?”

My hands start to shake, and I realize it’s because I feel like a teenager—like my dad might catch me, realize I’m pregnant.

Not that my parents ever would have come down with an iron fist when I was a teenager. They would have sat me down, gone through my options with me. With a whoosh of grief, I imagine the exact look on my mother’s face, the quiet surprise and fierce support for her daughter.

“Dad,” I say, sitting down and pressing my hand against the table. “You got yourself ready this morning?”

“Feeling good,” he says, nodding. “Not so hard to get into the chair nowadays.”

“Huh.”

“What’s…what’s going on with you, Lovelace?”

I swallow, look away from him. Chrys, Mom, and Dad were always the same—easygoing. Talkative. When she was a teenager, Chrys would sit at the table for hours, talk to them about her crushes and her passions, and they’d share their worries and fears with her, like some sort of big, emotional buffet.

The thought of joining them had always made me feel sick, lightheaded. I liked keeping my cards close to my chest.

My mother and father have always been like that. Journaling in the evenings, holding hands at the dinner table. At one with the universe.

And I’ve always been the one trying to understand the universe, to put it in a box and study it under a microscope, feeling awkward talking to them, not quite sure how to relate.

This is far from the first time that my dad has asked me for a window into my life. But it’s the first time I give him one.

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper, watching as he blinks, absorbing the information.

For a second, I wait for the next step—the reaction I’m currently having. What am I going to do? How soon can I get into the doctor? What are the odds of losing this pregnancy, especially given my history? Where will I live? How will I take care of a baby and my dad at the same time?

But he doesn’t ask any of those questions. Instead, a smile spreads over his lips, a little loose and wild like it’s been since the accident, and tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, honey,” he reaches across the table, puts his hand on mine. When I look down at it, I see his age there, just how much time has really passed. “A miracle.”

At that, I burst into tears, and Chrys comes out to find Dad and I crying together at the kitchen table as I tell him abouteverything that’s happened. As he and I, for the first time, talk about missing Mom.

“Without me?” Chrys asks, already tearing up as she sinks into the seat next to me, throwing her arm around my shoulder. “You guys are having a table sesh without me?”

For the next few hours, we stay like that, laughing and crying and for the first time in my life, I’m completely honest with my family. Chrys orders a pizza to celebrate, then asks if babies can have pizza, and when I clarify that I’m not a baby, but a pregnant woman, she asks if pregnant women can have pizza, and I affirm that yes, we can.

The three of us eat pizza together, and when we’re done, giddy and spent at the ripe hour of ten in the morning, Dad clears his throat, sits up a little straighter in his chair, and says, “Well, we’d better figure out what we’re going to do about all of this, huh?”

“I mean, it’s not—” I start, but he shakes his head and holds up his hand.

“You’re having a baby. And as much as I’ve enjoyed having Chrys here, my goal is not to live with my adult children. I’ve been looking into some programs, some living facilities that would allow me to retain a lot of my independence. But…Lovie, I was hoping you’d take a look with me. See if you can use some of those famous negotiating skills to find a good price for move-in.”

“Dad,” Chrys says, reaching for his hand. “I don’t mind staying here with you?—”

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