The jake ryan complex, p.19
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 19
“But . . . this baby. It’s going to change everything. This isn’t what you signed on for. I’d understand if you wanted out—”
“I don’t want out. I want you. And if this baby is a part of you, then I want the baby too.”
His dark brows cinch in concern. “You say that now, but what if you feel different in ten, or twenty, years? I don’t want you resenting me for changing the course of our lives.”
Ten or twenty years . . . I love that he’s talking about our future.
“I won’t resent you. I could never resent you.”
He starts to smile, but before he fully commits, his attention averts away from me and to our mingling of hands. He stares at them for a long, concerning beat before he swallows so hard I can hear it. In a near whisper he says, “And you don’t think less of me for getting myself into this situation?”
The vulnerability in his question forces my throat to swell with a thick, painful ache that brings tears to my eyes. Oh, you sweet man . . . Old wounds run too deep . . . I untangle my fingers from his, press my palms against his cheeks, and gently raise his head so he’s looking at me. The slight quiver of his chin reaffirms the answer I’m about to give him.
“The only way I could think less of you is if you weren’t stepping up and doing the right thing, but you are. Because you’re a good, integrous man. It’s one of the qualities that made me fall in love with you.”
He pinches his eyes shut tight, as if savoring my words, before he leans forward so our foreheads are pressed together. His breath blankets my face in long, warm spurts—like he’s been holding it for days—before he finally whispers, “Thank you,” and then kisses me.
The kiss is soft and tender and, just like the text I sent, declares his truest feelings for me. Feelings that leave me confidently saying, “You’re going to be a great dad.”
From beneath my lips he lets out a weak laugh. He pulls away from me, shaking his head. “I have no clue how to be a father.”
“Yes you do. From what you’ve told me about your own, you’ve got a pretty great example to work from.”
“Yeah, I guess. But the circumstances were so different. How is this even going to work? Do I only see the baby on weekends and holidays?”
“I don’t know. That’s something you and Caroline will have to work out.”
“Caroline.” He sighs. “How am I going to deal with her for the rest of my life?”
I grin. “She’s a lot.”
“So much. I can’t believe I—ugh.” He buries his face in his hands. “I was so drunk.”
Despite the seriousness of the topic, I can’t help but laugh. My ego needed that stroke.
“I know.” I nuzzle his arm with my knuckle. “If it makes you feel any better, I do think she’s going to be a good mom. Deep down there’s actually a pretty decent person under all that . . . filth.” He glances up at me, and I shrug. Way deep down . . . “But I think it will be better for everyone if I’m no longer her doctor; I’ve decided to transition her over to Andy.”
“Good idea.” Just like with Claire, busy schedules haven’t allowed for J.T. to meet my partners, either, but he’s heard enough about them to know they’re all good, trustworthy people. Andy will take good care of Caroline and his baby. “You know I never would have come to the appointment if I had known—I mean, I had no idea you were her doctor. I feel awful about that.”
“I know you do, and I appreciate that, but there’s nothing you can do to change how it all went down, so you just have to let it go, okay? Try to chalk it up to a painfully awkward story we’ll tell at dinner parties someday.”
“Or weddings . . .”
I blow out an appalled snort. “Uh, no. Our goal is to make it through the wedding without any mention of babies.”
“Your mom still hasn’t figured it out?”
“Nope. And I’m definitely not going to be the one to tell her.”
“You really think she’d be that upset? I thought grandbabies were always good news.”
J.T.’s never formally met my mom to appreciate just how naive his question is. I level him with a steely look. “Yes. She’s going to be that upset. She lives and dies by outward appearances. Throwing an out-of-wedlock baby into the mix is going to shatter the picture-perfect image she presents to the rest of the world.”
“So, our situation will probably send her over the deep end, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I’m really sorry we weren’t able to do the whole dinner thing last night,” he says, remorse once again stealing his expression. “I hate the idea of showing up at a family wedding and never having met any of them. I mean, other than the little hello as I was leaving the other day, but they didn’t even know who I was. Do you think maybe we should drive up and see them this weekend, just so everybody’s familiar come wedding day?”
I’ve given this a tremendous amount of consideration over the last forty-eight hours, and while the big reveal definitely makes me nervous, I think I’ve come up with a pretty sound plan to survive it: I’m going to spring J.T. on Mom during the rehearsal. That way there will be lots of witnesses to help temper her reaction. Because if there’s one thing my Martina experience back in high school taught me, it’s that my mom doesn’t like to lose her cool in front of an audience.
“You’re sweet to think of that,” I say, “but there’s already too much going on. You can just meet them at the wedding. It’ll be fine.”
Chapter 15
Twenty-six hours until the wedding
I run my fingers down the lapel of the charcoal suit coat and grin. As it hangs here now, on the back of the laundry room door, I can appreciate what a handsome suit it is. But come tomorrow, when his frame is filling out every tailored inch of it, it’s going to be a truly spectacular sight—not that his current ensemble is anything to sniff at.
I glance down the hall and into the kitchen, where he’s standing at the counter waiting for the coffee to brew, wearing nothing but his navy cotton pajama pants. My grin widens. Yeah, those look pretty spectacular too . . . He must sense my gawking, because he suddenly turns and looks at me.
“Can I help you?”
His tone is as playful as the smirk on his face and immediately sends my thoughts racing to the bedroom—and the things we could be doing to each other up there. Unfortunately, though, I’m on a tight, Nazi-scripted schedule that won’t allow for any deviation, no matter how sexy he might be.
“Just admiring the view,” I say back to him. He gives his butt a little waggle that makes me burst out laughing. Good Lord, you are cute . . . I zip the suit up in the garment bag along with my very pink dress, then head into the living room and add it to the pile of other luggage sitting by the door.
“Is it time?” Coffee in hand, J.T. walks out of the kitchen, a sad look on his face.
I nod.
He hands me the mug and sighs. “I should have asked if he could reschedule.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You don’t want him to think you’re not interested. You absolutely need to be there.”
Earlier this week, a former client of J.T.’s from Rockford—the guy who worked for the big developer—reached out to him and asked if he would be interested in working with them on a renovation project (converting an old library into urban lofts) in the city. Of course he was thrilled at the offer. It’s exactly the kind of thing he was hoping to get into, but the powers that be are only in town to discuss the details this evening, which means that J.T. won’t be able to make the three-hour trek to Grand Rapids with me for the rehearsal and accompanying dinner, as we’d originally planned—at best he’ll get there around eleven o’clock tonight, which is when I plan to tell him about Michael. Considering everything we’ve been through, I can’t imagine it will upset him but figure a good night’s sleep—and some great hotel sex!—will help cushion any blows he might experience.
The turn of events has J.T. feeling guilty, but I think it actually works in our favor. Unlike my original plan, which had only family and the wedding party in attendance, ripping off the J.T. Band-Aid at the wedding—in front of Mom’s gallery of hoity friends—has to yield us the best possible results. The bigger the audience, the better!
Although explaining Michael’s absence before the wedding may still prove to be a bit of a challenge . . .
“I just feel like me not showing up until the actual wedding is going to wind your mom up even more. I don’t want her annoyed with me before I even meet her.”
“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “She’ll be three drinks in by the time she slides on her wrist corsage. Nothing in the world will be bothering her. Now, would you be a gentleman and kindly help me with my bags?”
We load up my Jeep and say our goodbyes through the driver’s window.
“I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be the one in the slinky black nightie,” I mutter between our succession of kisses. He groans happily against my lips. “And I’ll see you on Sunday.” With a little assistance from J.T., Rerun stands up on his hind legs and leans his big panting mug into the window. I give him a hearty scratch and a kiss on the head.
“Drive safe,” J.T. says.
“I will.”
“I love you.”
He’s said those words to me at least a thousand times over the last week and a half, and they still make my insides flutter with excitement.
“I love you too.”
I slide the gearshift into reverse and slowly back down the driveway, my heart swelling at the pair of them watching me. My guy and my dog. Samantha Baker, eat your heart out.
The lobby of the Pebble Creek Lodge is every bit the craftsman-style masterpiece the website boasts it is: gleaming hardwood floors, dark-leather furniture, exposed beams showcasing the meticulous framework of the enormous building. There’s even a monstrous stone fireplace situated against the far wall (logs currently crackling despite the sixty-eight-degree afternoon outside) with a collection of rocking chairs lined up in front of it. It’s the kind of place where Lady Mary would kick off her riding boots after a grueling day hunting pheasants and scowling—definitely not the kind of place a crazed mother of the bride will lose her cool when she learns her eldest daughter has been lying to her about the man in her life.
I check in at the front desk, adding J.T.’s name to my account so he can pick up a key when he arrives later tonight, then head to my room to freshen up before the rehearsal. After a quick shower, I touch up what little makeup I wear, then slide into the celery-colored jersey wrap dress I bought last summer for Daisy’s graduation party. Mom will undoubtedly say it’s too simple for the occasion, but I think it’s perfect, a sort of understated elegance. And Claire told me it made my green eyes pop, so I’m considering it a good choice.
According to the Nazi’s detailed itinerary, tonight’s rehearsal (and tomorrow’s ceremony) will take place in the chapel located in the northern wing of the building. Following the little signs posted throughout the property, I navigate my way down countless hallways and corridors before finally arriving in front of two enormous wooden doors, each with a small cross emblazoned across its center.
I pull hard on the thick, burnished handle and step inside. Wow. Much like the lobby, its vaulted ceiling and walls are outlined by thick oak beams the same honey color as the rows of pews, but it’s the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass—just behind the pulpit and framed by a rise of natural stones—that’s the most striking feature. It faces a wooded area so dense with varying shades of foliage you’d think we were tucked away in an English forest rather than in a man-made building on the outskirts of Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’ve been wondering why Hope elected to have a late-morning service rather than an evening one, but now I know . . . with the morning sun peeking through those trees, they’re in for some breathtaking wedding photos.
“Macaroni!”
From the front of the sanctuary, where the bridal party, my parents and extended family, Reverend Howell, and all of Whitman’s guests are gathered, Hope cries out my least favorite nickname, prompting all heads to turn in my direction.
Thank you, Hope . . .
I offer a timid wave, while Hope hurries up the aisle to greet me. Amazingly, her baby bump is still undetectable—and strategically hidden under her floor-length, peasant-style dress—but as she leans into me for a hug, I can feel my future niece or nephew inside her.
“Thank god you’re here,” she whimpers into the crook of my neck. “I’m losing my freaking mind.”
Aware of our audience, I keep my expression pleasant as I quietly respond. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”
She sniffles. “Yes. I’m fine—we’re both fine. It’s not me. It’s her.”
Of course I want to know what’s causing my sister so much distress—though I don’t need to ask who the her is who’s causing it—but first I need to be sure that she’s physically okay.
“What was your blood pressure the last time you checked it?”
Her body shudders against mine as she searches for a calm breath—and the answer. “Um . . . one twenty-five over eighty.”
“And when did you take it?”
“Last night.”
“Okay. That’s good.” I stroke her back with a reassuring hand. While it is higher than when we last spoke two days ago, it’s still within normal range. Though the continued increase is a bit concerning . . . “So, what’s she doing that’s got you so upset?”
“She’s a freaking lunatic,” she growls in a restrained whisper, her breath fiery against my skin. “She’s got split personalities or something. She’s all bossy and bitchy to me and Dad and even the poor wedding planner, but the second anyone else comes around, she clams up and turns into this like . . . bobbleheaded Stepford wife. She’s all polite and sweet and—ugh! Her smile is so scary! It looks like someone painted it on her face. I swear to god, Mac, it’s like a real-life Jekyll and Hyde.”
Despite my sister’s obvious anguish, I consider this incredibly encouraging news. Just as I’d hoped, Mom is too concerned with putting on a good show to express her true feelings. So long as she’s introduced to J.T. in front of people, we should be good to go . . . “Just try and ignore it as best you can,” I advise in my most calming big-sister voice. “Twenty-four hours from now this will all be over, and you’ll be a happily married lady getting ready to have a family with that sweet guy up there. It’ll all be worth it. But for now, you need to get yourself together, because the crazy woman is headed right for us.”
Looking every bit Laura Bush in her navy St. John suit, Mom makes her way up the aisle, while Hope composes herself, subtly dabbing her eyes as she pulls away from me.
“Hello, Mackenzie.” Mom sizes me up from tip to toe as she extends her arms to hug me. She feels more rigid than usual, like an ironing board without the cushiony cover.
“Hi, Mom. You look very nice.”
“Well, thank you, dear.”
And you look very nice too . . .
“What happened? Why are you late?”
“I’m . . . not.” Confused, I glance down at my watch. It’s not even five o’clock yet.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, didn’t you check your email?”
“No. I was driving.”
“Well, Tammy sent out an updated itinerary over two hours ago.” She sounds exhausted by my very rational explanation. “The rehearsal was pushed up to four forty-five. We’ve all been standing here waiting for you.”
I glance over her shoulder at the two dozen or so people either standing near the raised stage area or sitting in one of the pews. Contrary to her perturbed state, no one else seems the least bit put out to have been waiting for me for a whopping eleven minutes.
“Now we’re going to have to rush through it,” she goes on. “We absolutely have to be out of the chapel by five fifteen, and you still have to meet everyone. Come on . . .”
With a disgusted wave, she orders us to follow her back down the aisle.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter to Hope. “I had no idea you changed the time.”
“It was her,” she grouses through gritted teeth. “She demanded the floors be cleaned before the ceremony because she found a dirty spot back behind the pulpit.”
“Behind the pulpit?”
“Yes. And the hotel stupidly said they would do it, but it takes like seven hours, and then they have to allow enough time for it to dry. They have to start by five thirty or it won’t be ready in time.”
I roll my eyes. Hope was right. She is insane . . .
On the advice of Tammy, the wedding planner, Hope has kept the rehearsal itself as simple as possible, limiting the guest list to only the wedding party and immediate family, with the exception of Carol and Steve, our favorite aunt and uncle, and their son, David, and his partner, Phillip.
The four of them wave to me from their seats in the fifth row, while Phillip, sitting on the aisle, adds to the greeting by whispering, “Somebody call the fire department, this girl’s smokin’,” as I pass by.
I cast an appreciative glance over my shoulder. Coming from Phillip, the J.Crew-worthy dresser, that means a lot.
We catch up to Mom where she’s now standing with an older couple I’ve never seen before.
“Jim, Cathy, this is my oldest daughter, Mackenzie.” Mom’s voice is dripping with unfamiliar sentiment as she turns to me, now wearing that scary, plastered-on smile Hope warned me about. She ushers me closer with a nudge to my lower back. “Darling, these are Whitman’s parents. Jim and Cathy Gentry.”
Darling? Oh, please . . .
“It’s nice to meet you both.” I shake hands with Cathy first, then her husband. Like their son, each has a kind, warm smile and one of those firm handshakes that suggests their small fortune (raising prize cattle) was earned through hard work and jaw-strapping grit. “Good midwestern stock,” Grandpa Harold would call them. The kind of people you can always count on, even though they’re Buckeyes fans.
