Page 75 of The Game Plan
Friday brought a warmth I didn’t know I was missing. Saturday brought a productive kind of nesting. But today…I’m nauseous.
And it’s not the baby pressing against my ribs or the pressure building in my lower abdomen as it prepares for labor. It’s the nerves for the day. The deep, twisting, sinking kind of nerves.
Grant’s parents texted last night, requesting—inviting—us to dinner. My nerves have been shot since the moment the message came through. I know I can’t avoid them forever, but the thought of facing them terrifies me.
It’s not like I haven’t met them before. But it would be nice if, just once, they saw me in a favorable light. Instead, they’ve seen me hungover. Pregnant. And now, I’m married to their son. They know about the wedding, but they think it happened weeks ago. The truth is, we’ve been racing down this highway of lies, and the knots just keep tightening.
What if they don’t accept me? Or this marriage? Or my daughter?
I know I shouldn’t care what they think. At the end of the day, I have Grant. And that’s enough. But it’s more than that—this is his family. A family he’s close with. It’s the kind of family you see on TV, where the parents love each other, the mom prepares home-cooked meals every night, and both parents support their kids. As someone who barely had a traditional family, I don’t want to be the rift between them. It would kill me to know I caused a strain in their relationship.
“Relax, Peach,” Grant’s deep timber interrupts my spiral as he places a hand on top of mine. One that’s been absentmindedly rubbing circles on my stomach.
“They’re going to know,” I whisper.
Grant glances over, his hazel eyes boring into the side of my head. “They won’t.”
“Your dad’s going to know it’s a lie. You see him every day and never said a word. And your mom? One look at me, and her spidey-mom senses will tell her it’s fake.” My chest heaves as panic rises with each word, the spiral impossible to stop.
He hits the brakes, flicking on his turn signal and navigating us into a vacant street parking spot. “Peach, breathe. Jesus.”
At the sound of his concerned voice, I inhale a shaky breath.
“First of all, nothing about this is fake. It might have escalated at a pace we weren’t expecting, but nothing,nothingabout what we have has ever been fake.”
I nod as he continues. “Secondly, they’re never going to know that we were married on Friday. For all they know, we’ve been married for a month, but we’ve been soaking in the transition quietly.”
“What if she hates me? What if she thinks I’m some gold-digging whore tying you down with someone else’s baby?”
His jaw tenses, and I can tell he’s biting his cheek to keep from reacting. “She’s not someone else’s baby. She’sours.Yours and mine. End of conversation on that front.”
He brings his hand to my face, his thumb and forefinger gripping my chin to turn my attention to him. “I mean it, Savannah. You’re not a gold digger or a whore, and I really hate the thought of you thinking that. You’re not trapping me and saddling me with a responsibility I didn’t want. If I didn’t wanther, I never would’ve marriedyou. There is no you and I without her.”
I sniffle, trying to swallow down the lump building in my throat, but it’s a lost cause. Between the exhaustion and hormones, I’m a raging ball of emotions. Tears break free and streak down my face. Grant’s thumb brushes them away as quickly as they fall.
“I hate seeing you cry,” he mumbles.
I huff a laugh. “Well, get used to it. It’s all I seem to do lately.”
“Get it out of your system now, baby. Everything is going to be fine.” He says the words with more authority than before, and I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince. Me or him. But I nod anyway, pasting on false bravado. The look I give him must work because, as quickly as we stopped, Grant’s navigating us back on the road that leads to his parents’ house.
It isn’t long before Grant pulls into the driveway. I stare at the sprawling house with its perfect landscaping, straight out ofHome and Garden.For his dad being a hotshot coach, the place is impressive but not over the top. Humble, even.
Grant steps out, rounding the truck, as he comes around to open my door.
“You know I can get my door, right?”
He rolls his eyes as his hand slides into mine. I try to keep my nerves from showing, the need to fidget overwhelming. The closer we get to the front door, the tighter my chest aches. I thinknot knowing what I’m walking into is the worst part. Should I be expecting an ambush of disappointment, acceptance with open arms, or a lashing?
Grant opens the door and calls out like it’s any other day. “Hey! We’re here.”
As Grant leads me farther inside, I take it all in. Family pictures on the walls. Decorations that could’ve come from a magazine. Everything is pristine, almost too perfect—and guilt gnaws at me for dragging our mess into their beautiful home.
A shuffle of footsteps pulls my attention. My body stiffens as Mrs. Campbell appears around the corner, apron tied at her waist, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes land on me, and for a beat, everything freezes. I brace for the cruel words I’m used to from my mother.
But they don’t come. Instead, she smiles. Small. Hesitant. But a smile, nonetheless.
“Hi, kids.” Her gaze flicks to my bump, then to our attached hands. “Dinner’s almost ready. Everyone’s out on the patio.”
