The Goal
Page 77
I frown at the screen. Damn it, I can’t stand that she’s still living in that house with that creep. But every time I bring up the idea of finding a place together, Sabrina brushes it aside. And she’s been kind of distant ever since Mom flew back to Texas.
I love my mother to death, but I’m pissed at her, if I’m being honest. I get that she’s worried about me and thinks that having a baby at my age is a terrible idea, but I didn’t like the way she interrogated Sabrina. Not just on that first day, either. The whole visit was riddled with passive aggressive remarks and veiled criticism. I think Sabrina felt defeated by the time Mom left, and I’m not sure I blame her.
I send another text.
Me: Honestly? Don’t like the idea of u being around drunk dudes. Ur due date is in 4 days. U need 2 B around responsible adults.
Her: Don’t worry. Nana’s sober as a judge. She doesn’t drink, remember?
At least that’s something. Still, I hate not being there with her.
“Oooooooh! I’m coooommming!”
Okay. Enough. I can’t stay here for one more second listening to Brody Hollis get his nut off.
Shoving my phone and wallet in my pocket, I stomp out of the apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. It’s past nine, so the August sun has already set and a nice breeze tickles my face when I step outside.
I walk down the sidewalk with no destination in mind, other than not my apartment. With the part-time construction jobs, the visit from Mom, and driving back and forth from Sabrina’s, I haven’t had a chance to fully explore my new neighborhood yet. Now I take the time to do it, and discover that it’s not as sketchy as I originally thought.
I pass several cafes with quaint outdoor patios, some nice low-rise office buildings, a handful of nail salons, and a barbershop that I make a mental note to visit one of these days. Eventually I find myself in front of a corner bar, admiring the redbrick facade, the small patio sectioned off by a wrought-iron railing, and the green awning over the door.
The sign is old and dated and slightly crooked. It reads “Paddy’s Dive”, and when I step past the creaky wooden door, I find a dive, all right. The bar is bigger than it appears from outside, but everything in here looks like it was built, bought, and operated in the seventies.
Aside from one barfly at the end of the long counter, the place is empty. On a Friday night. In Boston. I’ve never been to a bar, anywhere, that hasn’t been jam-packed on a Friday night.
“What can I getcha?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s in his early to late sixties, with a shock of white hair, tanned wrinkled skin, and exhaustion lining his eyes.
“I’ll have a…” I pause, realizing I’m not in the mood for alcohol. “Coffee,” I finish.
He winks. “Living on the edge, are ya, son?”
Chuckling, I sit on one of the tall, vinyl stools and fold my hands on the counter. Okay, wait, bad idea touching this counter. The wood is so weathered that I’m pretty sure I just got a splinter.
I absently pick the sliver of wood out of my thumb as I wait for the bartender to make my drink. When he places a cup of coffee in front of me, I accept it gratefully and glance around the room.
“Slow night?” I ask.
He smiles wryly. “Slow decade.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
I can see why that is, though. Everything in this bar is outdated. The jukebox is the kind that still requires quarters—who even uses coins anymore? The dartboards are all punctured with holes so big that I don’t think a dart could ever embed into the board. The booths are tattered. The tables are crooked. The floor looks like it could cave in at any second.
And there aren’t any TVs. What kind of bar doesn’t have a TV?
Yet, despite all its obvious flaws and drawbacks, I see potential in the place. The location is amazing, and inside are high ceilings with exposed beams and gorgeous wood paneling on the walls. A few renos and some modernizing, and the owner could totally turn this place around.
I take a sip of coffee, studying the bartender over the rim of my cup. “Are you the owner?”
“Sure am.”
Hesitation has me going silent for a second. Then I set down my cup and ask, “Ever thought about selling?”
“Actually, I’m—”
My phone rings before he can finish. “Sorry,” I say hastily, reaching into my pocket. When I see Sabrina’s name, I’m instantly on alert. “I need to take this. It’s my girl.”
The older man smiles knowingly and backs away. “Gotcha.”
I press TALK and shove the phone to my ear. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”
“No! It’s not okay!”
Her shriek nearly shatters my eardrums. The anguish there makes my pulse kick up a panicky notch.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Did that son of a bitch Ray touch her?
“No,” she moans, and then there’s a gasp of pain. “I’m not all right. My water just broke!”
32
Tucker
There is no worse feeling in this world than seeing the woman you love in pain and being unable to do a damn thing about it.
For the past eight hours, I’ve been about as helpful as a fish out of water. Or a fish in water, because what the fuck do fish really offer to society?
Every time I try to encourage Sabrina to do her breathing, she glares at me like I slaughtered her treasured family pet. When I offer her some ice chips to chew on, she tells me to shove them up my ass. The one time I peeked over Doctor Laura’s shoulder at Sabrina’s lady parts, she told me that if I did that one more time, she’d break my hockey stick and stab me with it.
The mother of my child, folks.
“Four centimeters dilated,” Doctor Laura reports during her latest check-in. “We still have a ways to go, but things are progressing nicely.”
“Why is it taking so long?” I ask in concern. “Her water broke hours ago.” Eight hours and six minutes, to be exact.
“Some women deliver their babies within hours of the water breaking. Some don’t start having contractions as late as forty-eight hours after it. Every labor is different.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get there. Sabrina, let the nurse know if the pain becomes too much for you, and we’ll administer that epidural. But don’t wait too long. If the baby is too far down the birth canal, it won’t do any good. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”
I love my mother to death, but I’m pissed at her, if I’m being honest. I get that she’s worried about me and thinks that having a baby at my age is a terrible idea, but I didn’t like the way she interrogated Sabrina. Not just on that first day, either. The whole visit was riddled with passive aggressive remarks and veiled criticism. I think Sabrina felt defeated by the time Mom left, and I’m not sure I blame her.
I send another text.
Me: Honestly? Don’t like the idea of u being around drunk dudes. Ur due date is in 4 days. U need 2 B around responsible adults.
Her: Don’t worry. Nana’s sober as a judge. She doesn’t drink, remember?
At least that’s something. Still, I hate not being there with her.
“Oooooooh! I’m coooommming!”
Okay. Enough. I can’t stay here for one more second listening to Brody Hollis get his nut off.
Shoving my phone and wallet in my pocket, I stomp out of the apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. It’s past nine, so the August sun has already set and a nice breeze tickles my face when I step outside.
I walk down the sidewalk with no destination in mind, other than not my apartment. With the part-time construction jobs, the visit from Mom, and driving back and forth from Sabrina’s, I haven’t had a chance to fully explore my new neighborhood yet. Now I take the time to do it, and discover that it’s not as sketchy as I originally thought.
I pass several cafes with quaint outdoor patios, some nice low-rise office buildings, a handful of nail salons, and a barbershop that I make a mental note to visit one of these days. Eventually I find myself in front of a corner bar, admiring the redbrick facade, the small patio sectioned off by a wrought-iron railing, and the green awning over the door.
The sign is old and dated and slightly crooked. It reads “Paddy’s Dive”, and when I step past the creaky wooden door, I find a dive, all right. The bar is bigger than it appears from outside, but everything in here looks like it was built, bought, and operated in the seventies.
Aside from one barfly at the end of the long counter, the place is empty. On a Friday night. In Boston. I’ve never been to a bar, anywhere, that hasn’t been jam-packed on a Friday night.
“What can I getcha?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s in his early to late sixties, with a shock of white hair, tanned wrinkled skin, and exhaustion lining his eyes.
“I’ll have a…” I pause, realizing I’m not in the mood for alcohol. “Coffee,” I finish.
He winks. “Living on the edge, are ya, son?”
Chuckling, I sit on one of the tall, vinyl stools and fold my hands on the counter. Okay, wait, bad idea touching this counter. The wood is so weathered that I’m pretty sure I just got a splinter.
I absently pick the sliver of wood out of my thumb as I wait for the bartender to make my drink. When he places a cup of coffee in front of me, I accept it gratefully and glance around the room.
“Slow night?” I ask.
He smiles wryly. “Slow decade.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
I can see why that is, though. Everything in this bar is outdated. The jukebox is the kind that still requires quarters—who even uses coins anymore? The dartboards are all punctured with holes so big that I don’t think a dart could ever embed into the board. The booths are tattered. The tables are crooked. The floor looks like it could cave in at any second.
And there aren’t any TVs. What kind of bar doesn’t have a TV?
Yet, despite all its obvious flaws and drawbacks, I see potential in the place. The location is amazing, and inside are high ceilings with exposed beams and gorgeous wood paneling on the walls. A few renos and some modernizing, and the owner could totally turn this place around.
I take a sip of coffee, studying the bartender over the rim of my cup. “Are you the owner?”
“Sure am.”
Hesitation has me going silent for a second. Then I set down my cup and ask, “Ever thought about selling?”
“Actually, I’m—”
My phone rings before he can finish. “Sorry,” I say hastily, reaching into my pocket. When I see Sabrina’s name, I’m instantly on alert. “I need to take this. It’s my girl.”
The older man smiles knowingly and backs away. “Gotcha.”
I press TALK and shove the phone to my ear. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”
“No! It’s not okay!”
Her shriek nearly shatters my eardrums. The anguish there makes my pulse kick up a panicky notch.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Did that son of a bitch Ray touch her?
“No,” she moans, and then there’s a gasp of pain. “I’m not all right. My water just broke!”
32
Tucker
There is no worse feeling in this world than seeing the woman you love in pain and being unable to do a damn thing about it.
For the past eight hours, I’ve been about as helpful as a fish out of water. Or a fish in water, because what the fuck do fish really offer to society?
Every time I try to encourage Sabrina to do her breathing, she glares at me like I slaughtered her treasured family pet. When I offer her some ice chips to chew on, she tells me to shove them up my ass. The one time I peeked over Doctor Laura’s shoulder at Sabrina’s lady parts, she told me that if I did that one more time, she’d break my hockey stick and stab me with it.
The mother of my child, folks.
“Four centimeters dilated,” Doctor Laura reports during her latest check-in. “We still have a ways to go, but things are progressing nicely.”
“Why is it taking so long?” I ask in concern. “Her water broke hours ago.” Eight hours and six minutes, to be exact.
“Some women deliver their babies within hours of the water breaking. Some don’t start having contractions as late as forty-eight hours after it. Every labor is different.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get there. Sabrina, let the nurse know if the pain becomes too much for you, and we’ll administer that epidural. But don’t wait too long. If the baby is too far down the birth canal, it won’t do any good. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”
