Intercepted (Page 56)

“Both.”

“Then I’ll order the shiraz, but you do know I’m going to steal a sip of whichever one you decide to try.” I grab the wine list off of the table and try to find another one I want to have.

“I’m not having wine.” Those foreign words snap my attention back to her in an instant. “And I can’t have brie either.”

Oh.

My.

God.

“If you aren’t about to tell me you’re pregnant, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I might never speak to you again.”

I have been hounding her about having a baby since I met her. Not only are she and Dre the most beautiful couple and it would be a crime against humanity not to bless us with a baby sharing their genes, but they’re the best people who would make the best parents. But like so many stories, when they began trying to get pregnant about two years ago, they couldn’t. She puts on a strong face, but I know how hard this has been on her.

“It’s a good thing I’m telling you I’m pregnant then.”

And I scream. In the middle of a cute little café filled with snooty women who take tennis lessons and lunch, I leap out of my seat, and I scream.

“Naomi! You’re going to be a mom!” I pull her into a hug. “I call dibs on godmother, and I’m throwing the shower!”

Some people may say it’s in bad taste to call dibs on these things. But screw them. That’s why I’m not their friend. If there’s one thing I love more than carbs and wine, it’s parties and babies. My best friend’s baby? You better believe I’m calling that shit early.

“I knew you would call it.” When I can barely hear her, I realize I’m hugging her so tight, I’m accidentally smothering her in my bosoms. “Thank you,” she says on a deep breath when I release her. “I knew you would call it, which is why Dre and I have already appointed you godmother.”

“Oh my god!” I hug her again, still screaming. Screw the other patrons. #WhoGonnaCheckMeBoo “This is the best day ever! Hurry up and order. We have a mall to hit and maternity clothes and gender neutral baby clothes to buy.”

* * *

• • •

IT TOOK SOME convincing, but after Naomi slipped on her first pair of maternity jeans, she was all in.

“I’m so buying some of those leggings,” I tell her from my seat outside of the dressing room. “I’m going to put them on and drag Gavin up to Black Hawk with me. We will gamble, drink the free drinks they bring you, and eat at buffets all day and I’ll be comfortable as fuck. Where do you think I can find a sequined visor and matching fanny pack?”

“You do know we are in public and other people can hear you, right?” She walks out and does a little spin in the cutest emerald shift dress I’ve ever seen. Unbeknownst to me, probably because I’ve never shopped for maternity clothes before, they have a fake little belly you can strap on for women who aren’t showing yet but want to buy clothes. If it’s any indication of what Nay will look like pregnant, it’s going to be unfair to the rest of the women (aka me) who are destined to spread everywhere while pregnant. “What do you think?”

“It’s amazing. You’re going to be the most chic pregnant woman ever. But since when did maternity clothes get this cute? I thought you were supposed to be in muumuus and jeans that made your ass look terrible.”

“Smart people probably still wear those because they don’t want to spend two hundred dollars on a dress they will only wear for nine months.” She looks in the mirror and smooths the dress over her cotton-filled bump. “But I’m not smart. I’m totally buying this.”

“As you should. Dre isn’t a baller for nothing. You’re having his baby! This gives you unlimited access to the credit cards.” #MarleeLogic

“Agreed.” #NaomiLogicToo. “Take a pic. I want to send it to Dre.”

She hands me her phone and I snap about a thousand pictures of her in various poses before she goes back to her maternity wardrobe search.

I sink back into the chair while I’m waiting for her to show off her next outfit and look at my phone for the first time since I put it away at the restaurant. When I see the little notifications showing three missed calls and a new text from Gavin, a giddy thrill shoots through my body.

I’ve got news. Call me when you can.

“Nay, do you mind if I go call Gavin back real fast?”

“Of course not.” She walks out in the black, long-sleeved version of the dress before, holding her phone toward me. “One more first . . .” She stops talking when her phone chimes in her hand at the same time mine vibrates in mine.

Strange.

Her eyes go wide, and her face loses some of its color.

“Are you okay?” I toss my phone onto the seat and grab her bottle of water from the dressing room. “Here, have some water.”

“Um. Mars?” Her voice is quiet, and she shifts from one foot to the other, something she always does when she’s nervous. “Did your phone go off too?”

“Yeah . . .” I do not like where this is heading. “Why?”

“Look at it.” She’s watching me so closely, I’m not sure she’s even blinked.

I do as she says. There’s an ESPN notification on my screen. My sweaty, shaking hands make it so I have to try more than a few times before I’m able to enter my password correctly. And when I do, I wish I hadn’t. I read and reread the headline until I know I’m not reading it wrong. No. In my hand, there’s a picture of my boyfriend, the smile I’ve grown to love. The eyes I’ve told my secrets to are staring right back at me under a headline announcing his new contract.

GAVIN POPE SIGNS RECORD-SETTING, SIX-YEAR CONTRACT WITH NEW YORK GIANTS

He lied.

He didn’t go to New York to see his mom. He went to sign a contract for a team on the other side of the country after telling me for weeks he was staying here.

New York.

Not Denver.

Not me.

#PersonalFoul

Thirty-nine

I was so busy running the last three or four weeks of my relationship through my head, I’m not a hundred percent clear on how I got home. I think Naomi drove me back to my place after we left the maternity store so I wouldn’t have to deal with my world crashing down and an overly chatty Uber driver during rush hour.

Now, numb on my Ikea couch, staring at my ceiling and ignoring the sports commentators on my TV, I’m trying to think of any point where he might have mentioned playing for New York. I can’t think of a single time. I remember Donny telling us they might be interested, but Gavin shut it down so quickly, I never thought twice.

Stupid.

He has a home in New York. Family, friends, history.

Why wouldn’t he want to go back if he had the opportunity?

The broken, crushed, and betrayed part of me is screaming, Because of me! He wouldn’t want to go back because of me! The cynical, jaded part I’ve become so accustomed to after years with Chris, however, is feeling resolved. He’s a quarterback in the NFL. What did you really expect? You know athletes. What’s the definition of insanity, Marlee? You’re slipping.

I am.

It was stupid of me to expect something different.

Why would I think my measly marketing job at HERS would hold the same weight as a person who is offered 130 million dollars? I know I shouldn’t be mad at him. I mean, what person in their right mind would say no to that kind of money?