by Cat Carmine
“You’re going to ... keep it?” Everything she says has a note of hesitation to it, like she isn’t even sure of the right way to talk about this.
I take a deep breath and then nod. “Yeah, I’m going to keep it. It feels crazy and like I’m probably ruining my life, but in a weird way ... it feels right, too, you know?”
“It feels right?” Emma’s lips twist. “Blake, you barely have your own life together. How do you think you’re going to be able to take care of a baby? You can’t just go live with Mom and Dad forever, you know.”
“I know,” I snipe back. “I wasn’t planning on it. I have a job, remember?”
“Yeah, one Tyler had to help you get.”
The tears that had been pricking my eyes spill over now. I swipe at them with my sleeve, more embarrassed than anything else.
Rori shoots a glare at Emma. “Can you cool it?” she hisses at our sister. “I think Blake is stressed enough right now.”
I give her a wan but grateful smile. “I know this isn’t perfect,” I admit, “and it’s not how I’d ever planned to do things. But it happened, and I’m going to try to make the best of it.”
“Good for you.” Rori puts her arm around my shoulders, and I slump against her. “So, can I ask ... who the father is?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Well, that’s where ... it gets complicated.”
“Like it wasn’t complicated already.” Emma rolls her eyes. It’s a simple gesture, and one that’s not altogether unexpected from my more-perfect-than-perfect sister, but it still cuts like a knife.
“Emma!” Rori hisses again. This time she looks genuinely pissed. “Seriously. Leave her alone.”
Emma looks as if she’s going to say something else, but when she looks around at all of us, she clamps her mouth shut.
“Is the father ... going to be involved at all?” Rori chooses her words carefully again when she turns back to me.
“Well, I haven’t exactly told him yet.”
“Oh, Blake.” Rori’s face falls. “You have to.”
“I know, I know. And I’m going to. I didn’t exactly come here tonight planning to tell you guys, you know. I had always planned to tell him first.” I shoot a glare at Emma, since it was her pressure that caused me to accidentally spill the news.
“That’s good. You should definitely tell him as soon as possible,” Rori says with a decisive nod. “So, can I ask who it is? I didn’t even know you were seeing anybody.”
“I’m not, really,” I admit. I glance over at Lucy, and her mouth falls open. She almost drops her cocktail. I can tell by the stunned expression on her face that she’s just figured it out on her own. After all, she’s the only person who knows about Logan.
“Is it...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. I nod. She winces. “Oh, Blake.”
“What?” Rori looks back and forth between us. Even Emma looks curious.
I take a deep breath. “It’s my boss,” I admit. “I slept with my boss, and now I’m having his baby.” Saying the words out loud for the first time makes me feel like I just started the downhill part of a crazy rollercoaster ride. Yet, strangely, at the same time, it fills me with a deep sense of peace. This is my truth, such as it is. There’s a certain power in owning that.
Or at least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.
“Logan Cartwright?” Emma spits. She doesn’t need to say anything else, because the look on her face says it all. It’s a look of downright horror, and my newfound sense of peace swirls away, like water down the toilet.
“Yes.” I hold my chin out defensively, daring Emma to say something. She looks like she’s about to, but Rori shoots her a killing glare. Emma snaps her mouth shut.
It’s Rori that speaks next. “Have you told Mom and Dad yet?”
More of my inner calm goes flushing down the toilet. I shake my head. “Like I said, I wanted to tell Logan first.” I pause. Gnaw my lip for a second. “What do you think they’re going to say?”
Rori and Emma exchange a glance. “I’m not sure. I think they’re going to be pretty shocked.”
“To say the least,” Emma mutters.
I set my drink down on the bar. The tart smell of cranberry is making me feel nauseous.
“You don’t look so hot,” Rori says, holding onto my elbow. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine. I’m just hot.” I pull my hair up off the back of my neck and try to cool myself down, but it’s no use. My face is burning up, and having my sisters and Lucy swarm nervously around me isn’t exactly helping. Suddenly, the bar feels claustrophobic, too hot, too crowded, too loud. “You know what, I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“I’ll come with you,” Lucy says automatically, setting her drink down on the bar next to mine, but I wave her off.
“I’m fine. I’m just going to get a cab and go home.”
“Blake, not by yourself,” Rori insists. Emma, I notice, is silent.
I shake off Rori’s concern and head for the door. It feels like I can’t get out of that bar fast enough.
But I don’t go home. There’s something else I have to do first, and if I leave it any longer I’m going to lose my nerve.
So I direct the cab driver to Park Avenue. To Logan’s place.
Twenty-One
The country club is crowded and noisy and pretty much the last place I want to be right now.
I take a small sip of the beer in front of me and nod at an old fossil whose name I can’t remember. My family has belonged to the Kinsmen Country Club almost since the day it opened, all the way back in the late 1920s. I’m sure the place has changed a lot since the days my great-grandfather sipped smuggled scotch here during Prohibition, but sometimes I think it hasn’t changed enough. Still way too many stuffy old white guys, strutting around like they run the world. I don’t know if I hate them or if I’m just afraid I’m turning into one of them.
Take today, for example. The Kinsmen Annual Golf Tournament. Stuffy old white guys love golf. Fucking love it. I’m sure half these guys blow a bigger nut over a hole-in-one than over a beautiful woman. And that’s just plain wrong. At least I differ from them in that regard.
I wouldn’t have even come out tonight except for the fact that Cartwright Diamonds has always been one of the golf tourney’s sponsors. It’s expected that I at least put in an appearance. I should have come out this morning, when I could have shaken a few hands, hit a couple token drives, and then been done with the whole scene. Unfortunately, I put it off all day, and now it’s evening, everyone is in off the green, and the bar is jam packed with braggarts and pompous assholes lying about their scores. Fun.
I give a nod to another fossil with a shock of silver hair and an apple green polo. I’m sure I know him from somewhere, but I can’t be bothered calling up his name. I wonder briefly if this is the future I have to look forward to — a wardrobe that belongs in a Crayola box and a Viagra dealer on speed dial. I take a longer swallow of my beer and pray that I can get out of here as soon as possible.
“Logan! Good to see you, man.”
I cringe at the sound of my name, but as soon as I turn around, I relax.
“Tyler Grant. I have to say, you’re a welcome sight right now.”
Tyler gives me a grin that’s half grimace. “Yeah — quite the, uh, senior crowd tonight.”
I chuckle. “The Old Fart Brigade is out in full force.”
“Maybe you should stop giving away free Viagra and BlackBerry holsters in the gift bags.” He grins again. “Logan, you remember my buddy Wes, don’t you?”
“I do.” I shake the hand of the other man with Tyler. “Wes Lake, right?”
“That’s right,” he says. “A pleasure.”
“You guys want to join me?” I gesture to the empty stools beside me. “And by that, I mean, please God, join me so I have an excuse not to go make the rounds.”
Tyler and Wes exchange a glance, and then wordlessly
slip onto the rattan bar stools next to me. I flag down the bartender and order them both pints.
“Cartwright sponsoring the tournament again?” Tyler asks, once he’s sipping from the foamy head of his beer.
I nod. “Not sure I have a choice at this point. Dad did it every year, and it’s kind of expected now.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty big on tradition here.”
“I’ll say.” I move my glass around the bar top. “How’s work going?”
For a while, we chat about business — Tyler recently took over his father’s media conglomerate, Good Grant Media, and Wes is one of the city’s preeminent property developers. Both are smart and savvy businessmen, and I enjoy shooting the shit with them. Always interesting to hear what’s going on in other industries. And needless to say, it beats the hell out of circulating the bar and making asinine small talk.
“By the way, I meant to ask you how Blake is working out,” Tyler says, after we’ve exhausted all the industry gossip.
I choke. My throat feels tight suddenly, like I swallowed something painful, and now my muscles are closing protectively. “Not bad.”
Tyler raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound too sure. If she’s not working out, please, man, tell me. Emma asked me to put in a good word, but if she can’t keep up, I’d rather know that.”
I shake my head quickly. “It’s not that. As an assistant, she’s ... excellent. Beyond excellent, really.”
Tyler’s shoulders relax. “That’s great news. I wasn’t sure. I know she can be a bit flighty.”
“Flighty?” I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t know about that. Maybe just ... irreverent.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Yeah.”
Tyler squints at me. “You okay, man?”
“Fine, fine. Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
“I hear you on that.”
We order another round and shoot the shit for a little longer, but now that he’s brought up Blake, I find that she’s all I can think about. I have a hard time following the conversation, even though it’s just your usual craptalk. If the Knicks have a shot this season, whether the new microbrewery over in Park Slope is any good, how long it’ll be until virtual reality porn goes mainstream. You know, the usual.
But my thoughts aren’t there. They’re on Blake. Does she like basketball? Does she drink beer? Does she ever watch porn, when she’s home alone and feeling frisky? That thought in particular sends me down a deep, dark rabbit hole.
“Do you remember when I got engaged to Laura?” I ask Tyler suddenly, interrupting his rant about online pirates and how much they’re cutting into his profit margins.
He stops, surprised. He blinks a couple of times, sneaks a glance at Wes, and shrugs. “Sort of, yeah. Eight, nine years ago, now?”
“It’ll be ten years next month.”
He whistles. “Time flies.”
“It does.” I move my glass around on the bar now. It’s been empty for awhile, but I’m not interested in ordering another one.
Tyler looks around the room, like he isn’t sure what to say next, so I save him the trouble.
“I was just thinking about how, when Laura and I got engaged, it was so predictable.”
“What was?”
“Just … everything. She knew I was going to do it that night — it had been in her calendar for weeks. Who puts that in the calendar?”
Tyler grins, but he still seems unsure. “Yeah, that’s weird, I guess.”
“Our whole relationship was like that, you know. It wasn’t an arranged marriage or anything, but in some ways, it might as well have been.”
“You met at Yale, right?”
“We did, yes, but our families were already acquainted.” Laura’s father had been heavily involved in the import-export business. Still is, I suppose, unless he’s retired now. We haven’t really kept in touch. “From the moment we started dating, it was like we were working from a script. Dated through college, engaged a year later, arm in arm at every damn gala and charity fundraiser. Then she got sick. The only damn unpredictable thing either of us ever did. How do you like that?” I chuckle, like it’s funny, even though it’s anything but.
“Yeah.” Tyler is wearing the nervous smile of someone who thinks they might be dealing with a sociopath.
“What would have happened if she hadn’t gotten sick?” I muse, more to myself than to Tyler and Wes. “We’d be married, of course. Probably have two kids by now, maybe three. She wanted three, I think. God, I’d probably already be wearing apple green polos, wouldn’t I?”
“Apple green …?” Tyler shakes his head. “I don’t know, I can’t picture that.”
“I can,” I say grimly. Then I run a hand through my hair. This train of thought is dangerous. “I’m not saying I’m glad she died, obviously. God. No. Losing her just about ruined me, it did. We would have been happy together. I know we would have.” My words convey more sureness than I actually feel. I turn my glass again, now wishing I had ordered another one.
“Man, are you okay?”
Am I? I have no idea anymore. I look over at Tyler and Wes. “I guess lately I’ve just been thinking a lot. About how predictable life is. How nice it might be to not always know what’s going to happen next.”
Saying it makes me think of Blake. Because with Blake, I never know what’s going to happen next. Blake is the very definition of unpredictable, a firecracker with a blonde braid, a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a sexy little pencil skirt.
I picture myself saying that to Tyler and chuckle at the thought. Would he punch me? Blake is his fiancee’s sister, after all, and I’m her boss.
Instead, I push back the barstool and stand up. “Thanks for the company this evening. It was great seeing you both.”
I head for the exit. I pass Apple Green Polo guy in the lobby as I go, just in time to see him pull his BlackBerry from the holster clipped to his belt. I shake my head.
I can’t get out of this place fast enough.
By the time I stroll through the opulent lobby of my building, all I want to do is get up to my penthouse and crash. Maybe I’ll savor a scotch in the library, listen to a little Vivaldi. Just something to take the edge off the day. Then again, maybe I’ll just hit the sack.
All that changes when I happen to glance towards the windows on the far side of the lobby. To the woman leaning against the glass, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.
“Blake?” I stop in surprise, my heart lurching in my chest. She hastily wipes at her cheek — a tear?
“Logan.”
“Were you looking for me?” Stupid question, buddy. Why else would she be in your building?
Sure enough, she nods. “I have to talk to you.”
“That’s good,” I say, surprising myself. “Because I have to talk to you, too.”
She blinks once, twice, then a third time. Finally, she nods. She follows me to the elevator and up to my penthouse.
Twenty-Two
My heart thuds the entire elevator ride up to Logan’s apartment. It’s so loud that I swear he can hear it. It echoes off the mirrored walls of the lift, a persistent, hollow percussion, like a marching band. What did he mean when he said he wanted to talk to me? Does he want to fire me? Tell me that our relationship has to remain strictly professional? I don’t know which would be worse right now.
I try to keep my anxiety under control, but by the time the elevator doors open into the luxurious foyer of his penthouse, there are tears stinging my eyes again. Damn hormones.
Logan leads me into the living area and gestures to the couch for me to sit. “Would you like a drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“Sure you don’t want anything stronger?”
I shake my head sadly. I’d actually kill for something stronger right about now, but I can’t tell him that.
“Do you mind if I have a scotch, then?” He smiles, sort of, and those tears that were pricking my eyes
threaten to spill over. God, he has a beautiful smile. It’s so rare, but every time I see it, it stops me cold. It’s like the Northern Lights — precious and majestic, a natural wonder that only a few are lucky enough to ever experience.
Now his smile disappears, replaced by a frown of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.” I think.
Logan disappears into the kitchen — the same kitchen where he made me come last time, I remember with a flush. Part of me wants to follow him in there, to beg him to lift me up onto the marble countertop again, to bury his face between my legs again, to work that magic tongue that he uses so well. Anything to avoid thinking about the real reason I’m here.
But I can’t. Because if I go down that road, I won’t want to tell him about the baby, and if I don’t tell him now ... Well, I’m afraid I won’t get the courage ever again.
Logan reappears a couple of minutes later. In his hand is a crystal tumbler, filled with about an inch of amber. When he passes by, I get a whiff of the peaty, aromatic scent of the scotch. God, I’d kill for some liquid courage right about now.
I’m hoping that Logan will sit down on the couch beside me, but instead he sinks into the leather wingback chair across from me. Even though he’s less than eight feet away, it feels like a thousand miles. The cavern between us stretches out to impossible lengths.
“I forgot your water,” he says suddenly, jumping up.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I’ll be right back.” Is it just me, or does he look nervous? Logan disappears into the kitchen again and returns a moment later with a bottle of water. He twists off the cap and hands it to me. He looks so helpless, so eager to please, that I find myself smiling encouragingly at him.
“Thank you.” I take a long swallow while Logan slips back into the chair across from me. There’s a moment of silence, and then I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. “I wanted to talk to you tonight because—”
“Blake, is it okay if I go first?”