No. They weren’t. Not since that night... “I need to talk to him about something important,” was all Krissy said, hoping Patti would leave it at that.
Thank goodness she did. “Don’t be a stranger,” Patti said. “If you have some time, we’d love to see you.”
Soon, if things went as planned, they’d be seeing quite a lot of her. “I’d like that. I’ll be in touch.” After your grandson is born.
* * *
A week later, on a Friday evening after work, Krissy sat in her parked car, watching the clock, not wanting to show up too early. She’d kept the heat on, because an April evening in New York was not near as warm as an April evening in Hawaii. Or maybe it was nerves giving her a chill.
It’d taken days of back and forth messages to set up a meeting with Spencer, the pain in the butt. He kept suggesting various bars in White Plains, all relatively close to where she worked, saying a neutral location with lots of witnesses was safest for both of them. Seemed the years hadn’t managed to mature him any.
Regardless of the fact she wasn’t drinking any alcohol these days, the topic they needed to discuss would be better dealt with in private. So Krissy had insisted on meeting him at his apartment—which, as it turned out, was also relatively close to where she worked.
Learning that had been a bit unsettling.
The christening, the confirmation, and maybe a few milestone birthday parties was all the time she’d planned to have to tolerate Spencer. The bare minimum required for her son to get to know his godfather. Heaven forbid Spencer wanted to play a bigger role in her child’s life.
No. Tonight she’d set some ground rules.
Krissy eyed the clock then the distance between her parking spot and the front door of Spencer’s fancy high rise. Six minutes should do it, only because she wasn’t walking all that fast these days.
At seven o’clock, on the dot, Krissy knocked on Spencer’s door.
A few seconds later, it opened and ho-lee cow. The years had been good to the now very handsome Spencer Penn. He must have grown a foot since high school. His lean, teenage soccer player physique? Gone, replaced by muscles, defined, sexy, desirable muscles that were prominent beneath the short-sleeved black polo shirt and tight fitting khaki pants he wore. His thick, wavy, always mussed—in a lead singer of a boy band kind of way—dark hair? Gone, replaced by a shortish, surprisingly appealing, buzz cut. His smooth, boyish face? Gone, replaced by sculpted cheekbones, sexy scruff, and full, kissable lips...that were smiling as part of a ‘You like what you see?’ expression.
Shoot. Krissy focused in on his light brown eyes, smart eyes that, like Jarrod’s, could always seem to tell what she was thinking.
Spencer looked her up and down his gaze settling on her midsection, “Still have a sweet tooth I see.”
Any attraction she may have been feeling vanished. Poof! Gone. “Can you manage to not be obnoxious, for at least the next five minutes?” If she’d cared one bit what Spencer thought of her, she’d have changed out of her work scrubs and freshened her makeup or run some gel through her short hair. But she didn’t care. Krissy handed him Jarrod’s letter. “This is why I’m here. And I have no intention of standing out in the hallway like an annoying salesman while you read it. So either invite me in or I’m gone.”
Without saying a word, he stepped aside and Krissy walked into his apartment. Feeling awkward, and not wanting to stand there while he read Jarrod’s letter, Krissy asked, “Where’s your bathroom?”
Spencer looked up from the envelope he’d been staring at but hadn’t yet opened and pointed down the hallway to the right. So that’s where Krissy headed.
Since she had some time to kill to make her visit believable, she spent it snooping. One toothbrush in the holder. Basic man stuff neatly stashed in the medicine cabinet. An electric beard trimmer. Deodorant. A small box of condoms. Mostly empty drawers. No tampons, or hair paraphernalia, or any signs the same woman visited on a regular basis. Rather than think too hard on why that made her happy, Krissy flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and walked back into the hallway.
Seeing Spencer sitting at the kitchen table, fully engrossed by his letter, Krissy took a few minutes to admire his apartment, neat, modern, and nicely furnished in tans and blacks, so different from the cluttered, messy bedroom of his youth. In the living room he had a bunch of thick textbooks stacked on a low shelf. Krissy walked closer. Anatomy and Physiology. Nutrition. Relaxation. Strength and Conditioning. Athletic Training.
Then she saw it, at eye level, a full color picture of the three of them in a plain black frame, Jarrod on one side, Spencer on the other, and Krissy in the middle. It’d been taken in Central Park, during the winter. They’d been all smiles, with red cheeks, disheveled hats and coats, and covered in snow. Happier times. The good old days, always together...until junior year, when everything had changed.
Beside it were a bunch of pictures of Spencer wearing the same clothes he wore now, posing with various adult male soccer players. “What’s with all these soccer pictures?”
“I’m an assistant athletic trainer with the NYC United,” he answered, his eyes never leaving the letter. “A semi-pro, United Soccer League team.”
Pretty cool, but she’d never tell him that. Krissy remembered her sister Kira telling her there was a semi-pro soccer team in their area. They practiced and played at one of the local colleges, which explained why Spencer now lived so close to her. “That’s what you went to school for?”
“Got my master’s degree in it.”
“What does an assistant athletic trainer do exactly?”
“Athletic trainers deal with prevention, acute care and rehabilitation of sports injuries.”
Other pictures caught her attention. Spencer hiking. Spencer skiing. Spencer on the beach with a bunch of his good looking friends. My God! Krissy looked away. “No pictures of your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Good to know.
Why is that good to know?
Hmmm.
Before she could come up with an answer, Spencer interrupted.
“You’re pregnant?” he yelled from the kitchen, in a tone that seemed to indicate women like Krissy shouldn’t procreate. Really, he felt it necessary to yell? The apartment wasn’t all that big.
“Yes,” Krissy said, keeping her voice uninterested and her back to him as she perused the other pictures on the shelf. “Sorry you wasted a perfectly good insult.”
“With Jarrod’s baby?” he asked.
The disbelief in his tone had her swinging around to face him. “Yes with Jarrod’s baby.”
From where he sat, Spencer looked up from the letter. “How do I know?”
“How do you know what?”
He stood. “How do I know that’s Jarrod’s baby in here,” he motioned to her belly, “and
