Do You Take This Baby?. Wendy Warren

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      Gemma stopped moving and gently pulled her hand from his. “This—” she gestured to the dance floor “—is awkward. I mean, there’s no music or anything. Maybe we should—”

      “Here.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping it a few times, and Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” began to play. The twins were delighted. He handed the phone to Vivian—despite his better judgment—and pulled Gemma toward him again.

      Her head only came up to his chin, and she kept her gaze straight ahead. Because he wasn’t sure what else to say at the moment, he simply danced until she murmured something he couldn’t quite make out. “What’s that?”

      “I’m sorry about the social studies essay.”

      A reluctant smile curled his lips. “Don’t be. Best grade I ever got.”

      “You were teased for weeks. That was my fault.”

      “True. But I forgave you.” He stared at the top of her head, wishing she’d look up. “After the initial impulse to throw you into Long River.”

      Ethan had felt like the world’s biggest jackass when his social studies teacher, Martin Oleson, had read his paper—the one Gemma had written—out loud in class. Gemma had penned a ridiculous, but grammatically correct, essay on how participating in a sport like football increased testosterone in young men and made them want sex all the time. How could they be blamed if that’s all they focused on, even when they were sitting in their social studies class? The paper had gone on to propose that school funding be put toward maintaining a library of men’s magazines, which would be far more useful than textbooks to retain student attention. Ethan had been mortified. His only recourse had been to brazen the moment out, laughing along with everyone else. Humiliation had been preferable to admitting he hadn’t written the paper, couldn’t have penned something that articulate no matter how hard he’d tried.

      Gemma lifted her face, plainly revealing the guilt she felt after all this time. “I never expected you to turn it in, you know. I thought you’d look at it first and ask for an extension so you could write it yourself.”

      Ethan stiffened. Look at a ten-page paper twenty minutes before he had to turn the thing in? Not damn likely. “Too lazy,” he lied.

      Gemma frowned. “You’re not lazy. You play professional sports. You won the Super Bowl. You work during the off-season and you mowed my parents’ lawn every Sunday morning for five years.”

      The discomfort began in his gut and spread. He pasted a glib smile on his face, as he always had in moments like this. “I’m academically lazy.”

      “The brain is like a muscle. It grows and becomes stronger when you use it. If you ignore academics, you may as well cut your head off.”

      “But my face is so pretty.”

      Her outraged expression both shamed and amused him. Choosing to focus on the amusement, he laughed. A big dumb-jock laugh. “Calm down, Professor. We can’t all belong to Mensa. Every hive needs drones.”

      “Oh! That is a terrible way to look at one of the greatest gifts you’ll ever have—your mind.”

      She had no idea how ludicrous that comment was. If his mind had come with a return policy, he’d have traded it in long ago.

      “How do I make another song play?” Standing beside them, Vivian tapped on his phone.

      She was right; the music had stopped. He let go of Gemma. Her creamy skin reddened as she took a step back.

      “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I went on like that.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

      He didn’t want her to be sorry. Pretending school didn’t mean anything to him had always been easier than caring. That didn’t mean she should lower her standards. He’d be disappointed if she did. “You’re a teacher. You’re supposed to be irritated by someone like me.” He smiled, but it didn’t change his plummeting mood. “I’d better head home.”

      “Home? But they’re serving dinner in—”

      “I can’t stay. I already told Scott.” Turning from Gemma to reclaim his phone from a reluctant Vivian, he tapped the little girl’s nose gently with his finger. Violet presented her nose, and he tapped it, too. “I will see you two ladies tomorrow. Save me a dance.”

      The girls beamed. “What about Auntie Gem?” Violet inquired thoughtfully. “She likes to dance, too.”

      Ethan looked at Gemma, who appeared confused. “Dancing doesn’t seem to agree with us,” he observed softly. “Maybe tomorrow we could try again and improve our track record?”

      Her smile was uncomfortable, but she nodded. “See you at the wedding.”

      With a tip of his head, he strode from the ballroom, reminding himself that this part of his life—this crazy time with a baby in his house and more contact with people from his past than he usually had—would be over soon. This summer, he’d return to training camp, which was, at least, a world he understood. Being glib worked there. He’d be able to keep things light and...what had Vivian said? Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Which was how he liked his life.

      He would stop thinking about Gemma Gould and her intimidating brain. And her calming presence. And her beautiful awkwardness.

      They were oil and water, and even he knew that combo didn’t mix. Sometimes, though, when Ethan was with Gemma and there were few other people around, he had the strangest sensation that, for once, he wasn’t alone.

      * * *

      The next evening, Gemma felt like a plump pink sausage in a bridesmaid’s gown clearly meant to be worn by a woman several inches taller and at least two cup sizes smaller. Women like Elyse’s other ten attendants, for example.

      Seated at the long bridal table amid the rest of the exquisite wedding party, Gemma felt restless. Ethan was to her right, currently engaged in discussing football with the other groomsmen. As discreetly as she could, she reached beneath her armpits and gave the strapless bodice of her fuchsia gown a healthy tug. Oh, was she going to be glad when the final kernel of birdseed was thrown and the happy couple drove away in their glossy white limo. Despite her sister’s constantly voiced worries, the ceremony had been perfect, and the reception was under way without a hitch. Still, seated at the elegantly appointed table while servers poured wine from vintage labels and placed dishes of filet en croûte before the laughing guests, Gemma couldn’t help but feel twinges of grief.

      She frowned, idly plucking chia seeds off her house-made soft breadstick. Her own wedding, had it not been called off, would have been last month. A full year and a half before the date, she’d already chosen her gown (winsome chiffon skirt, no train), her location (on the beach in Manzanita) and the food (casual-but-authentic Mexican—crab-and-tomatillo quesadillas, street tacos, carnitas...yum). She and William would have had only one attendant each, and her four-year-old nephew could have worn a pair of swim trunks and his favorite Ninja Turtle floatie instead of the toddler tux he kept trying to struggle out of tonight.

      “Whoa, what did that breadstick ever do to you?”

      Ethan’s bemused voice jerked Gemma’s attention to the crumbles of bread over the table. СКАЧАТЬ