by Lauren Rowe
I sip my drink. Why did I just ask him that? I really didn’t need to hear him say that so starkly, even if I already knew that’s what he’d say.
“I don’t have anything against marriage, mind you,” Josh continues. “I’m totally happy for your parents if it works for them—kind of in awe of them, actually—I just don’t see the logical point of marriage as an institution,” he continues. “I mean, if you wanna be with someone, be with them. If you don’t, then leave. No need to get a piece of paper from the government that forces you to stay if you’d rather go.”
I sip my drink quietly, listening to the music, wishing I could rewind time and un-ask the question. If I were my own life coach, I’d be slapping myself across the face right now and shouting, “Fucking idiot!”
“You disagree with me?” he asks, studying my face.
“No,” I say. I sip my drink. “I most certainly do not disagree.” I really, really should leave it at that. Definitely. That would be the wise thing to do.
“But?” he prompts.
“No ‘but.’ I don’t disagree with you in concept one little bit.” I sip my drink again. Damn, that’s a strong drink. And, damn, I wish I hadn’t asked Josh about marriage of all things, for crying out loud. I’m truly an idiot, not to mention quite possibly a masochist, too.
“But?” he repeats.
“But...” I say, drawing out the word. Oh hell. Keeping a lid on every frickin’ thought that flashes into my head isn’t my strong suit, especially when it comes to Joshua William Faraday. “But watching my parents through the years—the way they’ve stuck it out through thick and thin and how strong they are because of it—how strong our whole family is because of it—I think there’s a bit more to marriage than just, you know, ‘I can’t leave your sorry ass because that goddamned piece of paper forces me to stay.’” My cheeks burst with color. Why am I saying all this? “But,” I continue, trying to appease the shrieking voice inside my head telling me to press the eject button, “I definitely hear you—marriage certainly isn’t for everyone.” I clear my throat. “I’m not sure it’s for me, honestly. I was just saying it’s worked out well for my parents.” Oh God. I wish I could jump into a time machine, go back to three minutes ago, and say, without elaboration or qualification, “Oh, I totally agree. One hundred percent.”
Josh makes a face I can’t interpret. “Maybe marriage might make sense for people who want to have kids.”
There’s an awkward pause. Did he just backtrack? Are we meeting in the middle? Hmm. I do believe we are. Which therefore means I should leave it at that. But, oh God, I can’t. “Well, actually,” I begin, ignoring the warning bells going off in my head, “if you think about it, marriage makes less sense if you’ve got a kid with someone.”
He looks at me like I’ve just shouted, “Justin Bieber for President!”
“Because,” I continue, pissing off my internal life coach even more, “whether or not you’ve got a piece of paper from the government, once you have a kid with someone, that person’s gonna be in your life forever and ever, regardless. I think it’s more meaningful to choose to be with someone just because you want to make a life with them, not because you plan to make them a vessel for your mighty spawn.”
There’s an awkward silence.
I seem to have rendered Josh (and myself) speechless. What the fuck am I doing? If I were my own life coach, I’d be throwing my hands up in disgust saying, “You’re obviously completely un-coachable.”
James Bay’s voice fills the room for a very long moment.
“That’s kind of the flipside of what my dad always used to drill into Jonas and me,” Josh finally says. “He was obsessive about it, actually.” He puts on a booming, paternal voice, clearly imitating his father: “‘Boys, when you’ve got Faraday money, women will try to trap you into marriage with an ‘accidental’ pregnancy right and left—every goddamned time you fuck one of ’em. Don’t you dare let me catch either of you ever making an accidental Faraday with a woman unworthy of our name or I’ll get the last laugh on that gold digger’s ass and disown you faster than she can demand a paternity test.’”
My jaw drops. What the fuckity fuck?
“That’s why I’ve always been obsessive about wearing condoms,” Josh continues softly. “Way before I’d ever even gotten to second base with a girl, I was already freaking out about unwittingly creating an ‘accidental Faraday’ with some random woman who was ‘unworthy’ of my name and bank account.”
I clutch my stomach. I feel physically sick. What kind of father says all that to his young sons? Preaching safe sex is one thing, sure, I get that—especially when you’ve got a kajillion dollars to your name, I suppose—but a father conditioning his pubescent sons to think every girl out there is a gold digger and telling them he’d disown them if they ever knocked someone up is pretty fucked up, if you ask me. “Your dad sounds like he was a real peach,” I mumble.
“Oh, you have no fucking idea,” Josh says between gritted teeth.
A sudden panic rises up inside me. “Josh, I’m on the pill—you know that, right? I would never, ever do that to you—”
Josh looks ashen. “Oh, God, I know that. I didn’t mean—”
“I’d never, ever try to trick you into anything. In fact, we can go back to using condoms, if you want, every single time—”
“Kat, please. Stop. I know you’d never try to trick or trap me. I’m sorry I said—”
“We can use condoms,” I persist. I’m totally freaking out.
“Kat, please. Pretend I never said anything. I didn’t mean to imply...” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Jesus, my dad is the gift that keeps on giving, isn’t he? Listen to me, Kat, I know you’d never do that to me. The only reason I felt comfortable enough to tell you the fucked-up shit my Dad said is because I know you’d never do that.”
Oh, jeez. I’ve never been so relieved not to be pregnant in all my life. Last week, after losing sleep for two nights over that birth control pill I’d missed, I finally traipsed down to the all-night drug store and bought myself a pregnancy test. And when I peed on that little stick and it came back with only one little pink line, I let out the longest exhale of my life.
“I’m definitely not gestating an accidental Faraday,” I say, trying to sound light and bright but obviously not succeeding. “I’m a mill-i-on-aire now, remember? I don’t need to trap you for your stinkin’ Faraday money.”
Josh runs his hands through his hair. “Kat, please forgive me. I was just telling you what my dad said because... I don’t even know why I said it. I certainly wasn’t implying you were trying to trap me in some way or that you’d even think of doing that. I think I was just trying to reveal one of the many ways I’m fucked up to you—trying to explain why I might be unusually high-strung or weird about certain things.” He shakes his head and exhales. “I think I was just trying to... you know... take a stab at... emotional intimacy.” He makes a face that says, “I guess I still suck at it.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. He’s so frickin’ cute.
Josh exhales. “The truth is I’m actually pretty fucked up, Kat. I’m just really good at hiding it.”
I grab his hand. “No you’re not, Josh. Not at all.” I grin. “You’re actually horrible at hiding it.”
He bursts out laughing and all tension between us instantly evaporates. He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into him for an enthusiastic kiss. “You’re awesome, Kat,” he mumbles into my lips. “So fucking awesome.” He pulls back and looks into my eyes for a moment, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’ve never told anyone about all that. My dad was so fucked up, you have no idea—he said the craziest shit all the time. Sometimes, looking back, I can’t figure out what shit was normal father-son stuff to say and what shit was just, like, you know, totally out of line. It all jumbles together.”
“I’m glad you told me. I really like the Josh who can’t hide he’s fucked up.”
“But your family sou
nds so normal. You must think I’m a ticking time bomb of crazy.”
“Oh, please. My family has its crazy, too. Not necessarily in the same league as your father, but crazy nonetheless. And, hey, why would I care if you’ve got crazy in your family? Since I have zero desire to make a Faraday with you, I’ll never have to worry about passing your crazy-genes on to my offspring.”
Josh bristles. Shoot. I shouldn’t have said he has crazy-genes. That was pretty insensitive, given what he’s been through with his father and brother.
“You have zero desire to make a Faraday with me?” Josh says.
I’m astonished. That’s what offended him?
“Not even a little bit?” he asks, shooting me a charming smile.
“Not even a little bit,” I say. And it’s the truth.
“Well, shit, Kat,” he says, pouting. “I’m genuinely offended.”
I throw my hands up. “You’re offended I don’t wanna make a baby with you? What the fuck? Do you have a split personality?”
“Quite possibly. I do have crazy-genes, after all.” He makes a “crazy” face.
I chuckle. “I thought you’d be thrilled I don’t want to make a Faraday with you.”
“Well, yeah, sure, from a practical standpoint, I’m elated. But from an evolutionary standpoint, I’m deeply offended. You should be chomping at the bit to snag my fabulous genes, crazy or not. Look at me. I’m an ideal sperm donor.”
I laugh. “Oh, really? You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself, huh?”
“I’m saying from an evolutionary standpoint. Our only purpose as a species is to reproduce. There’s no other reason for existence. You’re born. You reproduce. You die. That’s the game of life—finding someone to give you hearty spawn so you can live eternally through them.”
“Wowza.” I’m speechless for a moment. “Well, I think I’m gonna have to disagree with you—it sounds to me like you’re not as ideal a sperm-donor as you think. I’d prefer my spawn to have a father who wants them, first of all—that’s always nice—plus, I’d want my spawn to inherit a little bit of humility along with their chiseled cheeks and rock-hard abs.”
“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. From an evolutionary standpoint, humility is completely counterproductive. Does a peacock say, ‘Aw, shucks,’ about the feathers on his tail? No, he’s genetically engineered to flaunt his tail. Why? So he can attract the best peahen in the flock.”
“Peahen?”
“The female version of peacock. The name for male and females together is actually ‘peafowl.’”
“And you know this factoid because?”
“Because I grew up with Jonas. The dude’s got so much weird shit trapped in his brain, it’s bizarre.”
I chuckle. “Well, I’m not a peahen, I’m a human. And, either way, I don’t wanna make a baby with you—human, peafowl, or otherwise. Not for really reals and not as part of an evolutionary experiment. I’m too selfish. I’ve seen what it takes from watching my mom, and no thanks—I’m quite happy going to work and yoga classes and doing shitfaced karaoke.” I shrug.
Josh squints at me, apparently disbelieving my sincerity.
I shrug. “What can I say? You can add no-baby-no-thank-you to the list of ways I’m like a dude. I’m missing the baby-gene—it’s not personal to you. I don’t even like going to my friends’ baby showers.” I shrug. “But, hey, I’m only twenty-four. Still a wee little baybay. Check back with me in ten years when my biological clock is ticking like an atomic bomb—who knows if I’ll be chomping at the bit to board the baby-train then? You never know, I guess.”
“Hell no,” Josh says. He swigs his drink. “I won’t give a shit about your ticking clock when you’re thirty-four. Pfft. Optimal child-bearing-age is twenty-six. You’ll be no good to me when you’re thirty-fucking-four.”
“Why the fuck do you know the ‘optimal’ child-bearing-age for a woman? You’re creeping me out.”
Josh laughs heartily. “Jonas. I told you, the guy knows everything. Ask him the life span of a blue whale or the average rainfall in the Amazon or how to make a cherry bomb out of paperclips and he’ll know it off the top of his head. The dude’s a freak.” He sips his drink. “And Jonas says twenty-six is the magic number. Past that, you’re just a useless sack of ovaries and fallopian tubes, baby.”
I burst out laughing. People aren’t supposed to talk this way. I absolutely love it.
After we finish laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of our conversation, there’s a long, awkward beat. I keep waiting for him to speak, but apparently, he’s waiting on me. Well, hell. I might as well call out the pink elephant sitting smack in the middle of the room.
“So does that mean you might want little Faradays one day with some trampy little twenty-six-year-old? Is that what you’re saying?” I ask.
Josh clears his throat. “Actually, no. I don’t know why I just said all that. I was just trying to be snarky, but it backfired. For some reason, whenever I’m with you, I say crazy shit I’d never normally say. It’s like I get some sort of Kat-specific Tourette’s Syndrome.”
I laugh. “I know the feeling—apparently, it’s a two-way syndrome.”
“Actually, I’ve never been able to picture myself having kids—but, then again, I’ve never been able to picture myself more than two weeks into the future, unless you’re talking about something business related, of course. Ask me to draw up a five-year business plan for Climb & Conquer, and I’m your guy; ask for year-to-year projections on a new investment, I’m on it; but try to pin me down to coffee next week, and I freak out.”
“Gosh, I hadn’t noticed,” I say.
He ignores my sarcasm. “But, hey, same as you—check back with me in ten years. Maybe guys have a biological clock, too.”
I sip my drink, trying to seem casual, but my heart is about to hurtle out of my chest and splatter against the wall. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Guys don’t have a biological clock,” I say. “Men can unleash their super-sperm any ol’ time, even after every single one of their ball-hairs has turned gray.”
He laughs.
“And, anyway, knowing you, I’d think I should check back with you in fifty years, not ten. Given your extreme terror of commitment, I wouldn’t want to cause you undue stress.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good idea. I’ll unleash my super-sperm at eighty. That way, when I go to the drugstore, I’ll be able to buy diaper cream and denture cream at the same time. One-stop-shopping.”
I laugh. “Awesome. You’re gonna win so hard at the game of life, dude.”
He laughs. “‘Hey there, whippersnapper! I can’t find my teeth! Let’s make a baby!’”
I laugh again. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure your twenty-six-year-old tramp is gonna go weak in the knees over your eighty-year-old ball sack and wrinkled ass. Talk about a gold-digger—we both know that poor girl’s gonna be looking at her watch every five minutes, just waiting for you to die.”
“Well, my future gold-digging spawn-carrying twenty-six-year-old might not get weak in the knees over my saggy ball-sack, I’ll grant you that, but she’s gonna cream her panties over my wrinkled ass, I guarantee it. I mean, seriously, who could resist a wrinkled ass stamped with ‘YOLO’?
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Josh. Fifty years from now, your twenty-six-year-old spawn-carrier won’t even know what YOLO stands for. By then, YOLO will be the equivalent of ‘Daddy-o’ or ‘far out.’”
Josh puts on his “old man” voice again. “Damn kids. Back in my day, YOLO ass-tattoos were the bees’ knees.”
“That statement will be a bald-faced lie—I don’t care how far into the future you make it.”
“Aw, come on. Just wait. I’m a trendsetter, baby. Sure, the trend hasn’t caught on yet, but it’s coming, you’ll see.”
We share a huge smile.
“I really think we’re on to something here, Kat. If I wait ’til after I’m diagnosed with dementia to have my first kid, then I ca
n have him and forget he was ever born all in the same day.”
“Brilliant. Talk about a surefire way to solve your fear of commitment.” I take a long swig of my very strong drink. Wow, the vodka’s really hitting me hard.
Josh blanches. “Why do you keep saying I’m afraid of commitment? You said that earlier, too. I’m not.”
I don’t reply. Oh shit. He looks genuinely offended. “Oh,” I begin, at a loss. “I’m sorry. I thought I was saying something that’s just a basic fact, like, ‘Your eyes are blue.’”
“I had a girlfriend for three years, Kat,” he says. “I’m not the least bit afraid of commitment.”
I feel the urge to laugh out loud, so I drain my drink.
“I had a girlfriend for three years,” Josh repeats. “I know how to commit.”
Fuck it. The vodka is giving me liquid courage. “Honesty-game?” I ask.
He makes a face like he’s just bitten into a lemon. “Yes?”
“You’re a commitment-phobe, Josh,” I say simply. “Text-book.”
“No, I’m not. Absolutely not.”
“Yep.” I take a swig of my drink. “You are.”
“A three-year relationship isn’t a commitment? What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?”
“About a year—with Nate.”
“Ha! You’re one to talk.”
I take another swig. “This isn’t about me and my horrible relationship skills.” Oh wow, Josh put a lot of vodka into my drink, didn’t he? “We’re talking about you and yours—and the fact is you’re deathly afraid of commitment in any form. Yes, you had a girlfriend for three years—and certainly that meant something, I’ll grant you that, but it sounds like it was three years of a whole lot of nothing. I’m sorry to break it to you, but you and your girlfriend apparently never talked about anything real. You couldn’t be yourself around her at all—and the minute you revealed who you really are, what you really want, she shamed you and ran off with Prince Harry. So, yes, you were in a relationship for three years, and, yes, it shows you have character and integrity, but it doesn’t prove you’re not afraid of commitment. I mean, in a way it proves your fear of commitment even more so.”