Page 94 of Sure Shot
I mean—what if it justhappened? Then Bess would never have to make any sacrifices for me. What if—just once—my swimmers made contact the same way that other guys’ do every flipping day. What if Bess is one of those women who gets pregnant on the first try, never miscarries, and never even gets morning sickness?
What if. What if. What if.
I could drive myself crazy like this. No, it’s worse than that. I could drive usbothcrazy.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a slow breath. My happiness feels more tenuous than it did an hour ago.We’re not doing this, I remind myself. Yet I don’t know how to silence that little voice in my head that whispers:Wouldn’t it be funny if Bess got pregnant?
That little voice isn’t going anywhere. But that doesn’t mean I have to listen to it. That’s my new job, isn’t it? Shutting off that voice and being happy with what I have.
She’s sleeping now. She’s unbothered by getting her period. This is not a tragedy. It’s just a Thursday. I need to keep telling myself that.
There’s a book pregnant women read calledWhat to Expect. My ex-wife bought a copy about ten minutes after her first ill-fated positive pregnancy test. That book is probably on a shelf somewhere in my old house in Dallas. We never really needed it.
Instead, I need a book calledHow to Stop Expecting.
I wish the apartment I was buying only had one bedroom in it. It’s like I’m saving the other one for a ghost.
Thirty
Big Ideas
Bess
January
The Dallas gameis three days away, and the team has already left town. They’re playing Colorado first, but everyone in my life is focused on Dallas. And I mean everyone.
Jason Castro is blowing up my phone to ask if I have an opinion about which brand of strawberry jam is the luckiest one in Texas. And my brother won’t stop texting, asking how practice has been going.
“Do you think the Dallas offense looked a little shaky in last night’s game?” Eric asks me as I close my laptop on my desk.
“Definitely,” I lie, just to make him feel better. I need to get out of the office for a few minutes and think about something else. “Where’s that Ringborn contract? I’m going to make a post office run and pick up some coffee.”
“Oh, awesome. Can I have a double espresso and a cookie?” He hands me an express envelope and a five-dollar bill.
“You can have a single espresso, because you’re already jumpy. Stop watching videos of Dallas and proofread the Chickie’s contract.”
Eric grunts. “There’s no reason to restrict my caffeine intake while I’m combing through the fine print. That’s a bad strategy.”
“Fine. I’ll bring you a triple espresso if you stop talking about the Dallas game for the rest of the day.”
“Deal.” He opens the contract file.
“I’ll be about an hour, though,” I warn. “I’m meeting the girls for coffee.”
His head snaps up. “You mean Rebecca? Does she have any news about—”
I hold up a hand. “What did we just talk about?”
Eric clamps his jaws together and waves me out of the room. “Go already. Come back with coffee. And some news.”
“Can’t guarantee the news. But I will bring you that cookie.”
He gives me a smile and turns back to his work.
I head outside, pulling my coat tightly around me as the Water Street breeze hits me full force. It’s January, and the wind off the river is icy.
When I pull out my phone to check the time, I see that my brother has called again. He’s also sent a text.How are things looking for the Dallas game?
