by Lauren Rowe
If nature winds up taking its course and this pregnancy doesn’t stick, then I’d be awfully bummed if I’d stupidly told Josh about the situation early on. And on the other hand, if this pregnancy does wind up sticking—if I actually do wind up giving birth to Josh Faraday’s lovechild—oh my fucking God—well, then, there’d still be no rush in telling Josh about it, right? Because if we’re ultimately gonna have a kid together some time this year, there’s no reason Josh needs to know about it tomorrow versus, say, in a month... right?
I suppose if I thought Josh would ask me to get an abortion, there might be a different analysis about timing, but I already know (based on a surprisingly deep conversation we had about religion and spirituality one night on the phone) that Catholic-raised Josh wouldn’t ask me to do that; and, for myself, I’ve already seriously considered and rejected that option, anyway. Which means, under any scenario, it makes no difference if I tell Josh about my accidental bun in the oven now or a month from now.
A feeling of relative calm washes over me.
I think I just made a decision: I’ll wait a month to tell Josh about the baby, just in case natural selection takes care of things between now and then. And in the meantime, I’ll just try not to think about it (other than taking pre-natal vitamins and picking up What To Expect When You’re Expecting).
Yep. That’s the plan.
Okay.
Whew.
I take a deep breath and tune into the conversation at the table again, feeling oddly relieved.
“So it turned out it was just a little brush fire,” Colby’s saying. “And yet there we all were, geared up for the Apocalypse.”
Everyone laughs.
“I always get so nervous every time you go out on a call,” Mom says to Colby.
“I know, Mom. But I wouldn’t wanna be doing anything else with my life. I love it.”
“I know you do, honey. We’re so proud of you.”
I look down at my phone and stare at Josh’s text, the one asking if I’m at Colby’s birthday dinner. I suppose I should answer the guy.
“Yeah, I’m at the party,” I write. “Sitting at the dinner table with everyone right now, as a matter of fact. We’re eating Dax’s carrot cake, which is utterly DELICIOUS, bee tee dubs. Too bad you had to miss it.” I press send on my text and look up from my phone. “Hey, Mom, can you cut me a little slice of cake, after all?”
“Sure,” Mom says. “Does that mean you’re feeling a bit better?”
“Mmm hmm.”
My phone buzzes with Josh’s reply: “I wanted to be there, but you UNINVITED me.” He attaches a sad-face emoji.
“Are you in L.A.?” I write.
“Yeah. I took the first flight home this morning.” Another sad-face. “Did you tell your family why I’m not there?”
“No. I told them you had to return to L.A. for work.”
“Why didn’t you tell them I’m a total asshole?”
“Because it’s none of their business you’re a total asshole,” I write. “WHICH YOU ARE.”
Everyone at the table laughs uproariously about something Keane is saying.
I glance up from my phone to find Colby staring at me, his eyes full of sympathy.
Damn, that Colby.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaping up from the table. I sprint across the house toward my mom’s office, intending to close the door behind me and continue texting with Josh, but my sudden movement has made me feel horrendously queasy all of a sudden, so I hang a sharp right and bolt into the bathroom.
Gah. Thar she blows.
Bye-bye, carrot cake.
Lovely.
So far, being a mommy is super-duper fun.
I rinse out my mouth and run cold water over my face and then sit on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands. I can’t believe this is my life. I quit my job yesterday, thinking I was gonna spend the next year building a business—but, instead, it turns out I’m gonna spend the next eighteen years unexpectedly raising a kid. Without any desire to do so, I’ve trapped Josh exactly the way he’s always feared some gold digger would do—and at a time when he’s so unsure about our potential future as a couple, he didn’t even tell me about his impending move to my city.
I put my hands over my face. This is a freaking nightmare.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
I wipe my eyes and look down at my phone, my vision blurred by tears.
“This ‘total asshole’ just booked you a first-class flight to L.A. on Thursday,” Josh writes. “I get why me not telling you about Seattle hurt your feelings. You’re entitled to that. But I’m not gonna let you torture me with it forever. Go ahead and ‘think and regroup’ all you want for exactly five motherfucking days, but that’s all you get, Madame Terrorist. After that, I’m gonna fly your tight little ass down here and give you no choice but to forgive me.”
Eighty-Five
Josh
I crane my neck, scrutinizing the passengers filing through the gate, my skin buzzing with anticipation, my heart clanging in my chest. Not her. Not her. Not her. Did the entire city of Seattle board Kat’s flight to L.A.? Jesus.
I can’t wait another minute to see her. I’m wrecked. Out of my mind. These past five days, I haven’t been able to sleep. Think. Eat. Laugh. I fully expected Kat to break down and call me at some point this past week—or at least text me—especially in light of all the ridiculously expensive flowers I’ve sent her every day—but she didn’t. Nope. I didn’t hear a goddamned peep out of Kat (unless, of course, you count texts that said: “Thank you for the beautiful flowers and for continuing to give me time to think and regroup.”). Fucking terrorist. I’ve been physically sick with loneliness and yearning and regret all fucking week. If she wanted me to know what my life would feel like without her in it, well, now I know: it’s fucking torture.
Not her. Not her. Not her. I’m dying here. I shove the bouquet of red roses I’m holding under my nose and inhale deeply, trying to calm myself down with a little aromatherapy. Where the fuck is she? She was seated in the first-class cabin on the plane—so she should be one of the first people off the flight. Is she waiting to de-board just to prolong my torture a bit more? Motherfucker, I’m dying here.
Oh, good God, no—I just had a horrible thought: could Kat possibly have missed her flight? Or worse, did she decide not to come to visit me, after all? Oh God, that would crush me. In all honesty, it might even kill me at this point—I’m just that desperate to see her.
All I did this past week was play and replay our post-karaoke conversation in my head—only not the real conversation as it truly happened, but a revised, fantasy-version in which Kat said, “My heart’s on the line, Josh,” and I smoothly took her into my arms and replied, “My heart’s on the line, too, babe.” If only I’d said that, maybe things would be different now.
My heart stops. Oh, thank God. There she is. Katherine Ulla Morgan. The one and only. My unicorn. Long legs. Golden mane. Head held high. Just the sight of her jumpstarts my aching heart and makes me feel half-alive for the first time in five days.
“Kat!” I yell. I wave at her. “Kat!”
She looks toward the sound of my voice and her eyes light up when she spots me. Oh my God, I feel euphoric. She’s here. Thank God. She didn’t leave me for good. My heart can beat again. Everything’s gonna be okay.
“Kat,” I say when she reaches me.
But she looks upset. She’s pressing her lips together. Her face is tight. Her eyes are moist.
I hand her the flower bouquet, wrap her in my arms, and kiss her deeply, crushing the flowers between us. Oh my fuck, she tastes like heaven. Minty. Like she just brushed her teeth. I press myself into her and devour her lips, feeling like a junkie who’s finally, blissfully, blessedly getting his next fix.
When we finally pull away from each other, Kat’s eyes are dark with desire and I’m hard as a rock.
“Josh,” Kat breathes, her cheeks flushed. She licks her lips and tilts her
face up like she wants another kiss.
I put my fingertip under her chin. “I know we’ve got a shit-ton to talk about, but please give me one night to—”
“We have nothing to talk about,” Kat says curtly, cutting me off.
I shoot her a look of blatant skepticism.
“I’m serious, Josh,” Kat says. “From this day forward, all I wanna do is be in the moment with you. No talking about the future. No talking about our feelings. Just kiss me and let’s pretend this past week never happened.”
Eighty-Six
Kat
“Scrabble?” I ask. “Not quite what I was expecting as our first activity of the weekend.”
Josh puts the game box on his dining room table and crosses his arms over his muscled chest—and much to my surprise, he’s not flashing a smart-ass smirk. In fact, he looks completely earnest. “You were upset we never do normal, real-life stuff like play board games—so that’s what we’re gonna do. All. Weekend. Long. You want real life? You think I’m addicted to excitement, and not to you, personally? Fine. This entire weekend, I’m gonna be every bit as boring as Boring Blane or Cameron Fucking Schulz. No booze. No weed. No poker chips. No ‘numbing the pain of my tortured soul.’”
Ah, there it is—he flashes the smart-ass smirk I was expecting a moment ago.
“From here on out,” Josh continues, “I’m all about Scrabble and Monopoly and adamantly not trying to escape the pain of reality in any way.”
My mind is racing with a thousand emotions all at once, but the one that seems to be rising to the top of the heap is relief. The entire plane ride to Los Angeles, I was stressed out, wondering how the heck I was gonna deflect attention away from my newfound aversion to alcohol—I am the Party Girl with a Hyphen, after all—and now, in an unexpected turn of events, Josh has just made club soda this weekend’s beverage of mutual choice.
“But... we’re seriously gonna play Scrabble?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Yeah,” Josh says, spreading the game tiles onto the table. “We’re gonna find out if we’re every bit as addicted to each other when we’re playing a board game as when we’re saving the world or smoking weed or drinking martinis or fucking in a sex dungeon. I’m willing to bet anything we will be—but, apparently, you’re not convinced. So, here we go.”
“I’m not convinced? Are you on crack? You’re the one who didn’t want me to know you’re moving to Seattle.”
“Oh my shit. Really? That’s the story you’re telling yourself inside your head? That I ‘didn’t want you to know’ I’m moving to Seattle? That’s an interesting spin on reality—and when I say ‘interesting,’ what I mean is ‘completely delusional.’”
I open my mouth to protest. Is he seriously picking a fight with me? We just walked into his house from the airport not five minutes ago and he’s already laying into me? Why the hell did I come all the way down here to L.A. if he’s just gonna ‘dick it up’ and not even try to convince me he’s sorry for—
“Babe,” Josh says emphatically, cutting off my internal rant. “I didn’t tell you I was moving to Seattle, which is a whole lot different than me ‘not wanting you to know,’ because I’m a total flop-dick who’s scared shitless about the intensity of my feelings for you.”
My heart skips a beat.
A sexy smile dances on his lips. “I didn’t tell you because I’m having a hard time believing feelings this intense could possibly lead to anything but a gigantic fireball in the sky that burns out as quickly as it ignites,” he continues. “But, I’ll be damned, no matter what happens, my feelings don’t seem to burn out—not at all—they just keep on blazing hotter and hotter.” He bites his lip. “And hotter.”
If I were a cartoon character, I’d be saying, “Hummanah-hummanah-hummanah” right now. But since I’m a flesh-and-blood human, I just stare at Josh, my chest rising and falling with my sudden arousal.
Josh grins. “So don’t say I didn’t want you to find out. Big difference. Okay?”
I nod, my eyes wide. I want to tackle him. Lick him. Kiss him from head to toe. Suck his dick. But I don’t move a muscle.
Josh settles into a chair and moves the Scrabble pieces around on the table. “Now pick your fucking tiles so we can play the game.” He picks up the directions sheet from the box and studies it while I continue staring at him like a wide-mouth bass. “It says here each player picks seven tiles,” he says.
My crotch is burning. My nipples are hard. That was the most incredible speech any man has ever given me—and he wasn’t even buzzed or high or enacting some sort of fantasy role-play when he said it.
“We’re seriously gonna play Scrabble right now?” I manage to say. My cheeks feel hot. My clit is buzzing. All I want to do is fuck the crap out of him.
“Yup. Sit the fuck down, Party Girl. We’re gonna test my theory that you and I can have fun doing literally anything. Since playing Scrabble is my idea of the seventh circle of hell, I figure if we can have fun doing this, then I’ll have empirically proven once and for all we can have fun doing anything. And if we can have fun doing anything, then I also will have empirically proven I’m not Garrett Bennetting you.” He rolls his eyes with disdain. “Which, by the way, still pisses me off that you’d even think that for a minute.”
I open my mouth to speak, but close it again.
Josh claps his hands like he’s commanding a puppy. “Now, come on, Party Girl, sit down and pick your fucking tiles. Time to get your tight little ass whooped.”
I sit down across the table from him and stare at him blankly.
“Pick seven tiles,” Josh says, motioning to the scattered game pieces on the table.
I make a face like he’s a total dork, but I do as I’m told.
After I’ve got my tiles lined up on my rack, I look up, blankly. “Okay,” I say.
Josh’s gorgeous blue eyes are fixed on me intensely. “Go ahead,” he says, motioning to the table. “Play Scrabble.”
“‘Play Scrabble’?” I say. “I’ve never played this game before. I have no idea what to do.”
“You’ve never played Scrabble?” he says, incredulous.
“We always played cards and video games at my house—not board games. You go ahead and I’ll just do whatever you do.”
Josh grabs the directions sheet off the table in a huff. “Well, shit. I dunno what the fuck to do—I’ve never played Scrabble, either. I thought you’d know, growing up in a real family, and all.”
I bite my lip, trying not to smile.
Josh scans the directions for a moment, obviously completely annoyed. “Jesus, Kat, I figured you’d played all the board games.” He reads again for a long moment. “Okay, well, it looks ridiculously simple. Seems like we just lay tiles on the board to spell words and rack up points for the letters. Nothing to it.”
“Okay. You go first,” I say.
Josh pauses briefly, considering the tiles on his rack, and then lays down three letters: D-U-M.
“Dum?”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t have ‘B-S-H-I-T’ on my rack,” he says. His eyes flicker with apology. “I was a total dumbshit for not telling you about Seattle,” he says softly.
I nod emphatically. “Yeah, you were.”
“I know—I just said that,” he says. “Okay, that’s six points for me. It’s your turn.”
I assess the seven tiles on my rack and lay down three: A-S-S. “I don’t have ‘H-O-L-E,’” I say, smirking. “How many points does that get me?”
Josh is clearly stifling a smile.
“Come on,” I say. “How many points?”
Josh looks at the directions again. “Three. But I think you should be awarded triple points for being one hundred percent right.”
“Agreed. Okay, your turn,” I say, jutting my chin at him. “Play Scrabble, Josh.”
“I think I’m supposed to pick three more tiles to replace the ones I already played,” he says. He picks up the directions sheet again. “Yeah. It says here we both p
ick tiles to replace the ones we’ve played.”
We each pick three additional tiles and, after brief consideration, Josh lays his new word onto the board: W-O-O.
“Woo?” I ask. “Like ‘woo-hoo!’?”
“No. Like, ‘woo,’” he says. “Like ‘I’m gonna woo you, Miss Katherine’—like, you know, old timey wooing.” He flashes a charming smile. “As in, ‘You better brace yourself, Miss Katherine, because I’m gonna woo the fucking shit out of you.’”
“Oh my goodness, sir. You’re gonna woo me shitless?”
“Yes, I am, m’lady.”
“Well, sir, I’m not completely sure I’m ready to be wooed shitless, to be perfectly honest. What would people say?”
“You don’t get to decide. You’re gettin’ wooed shitless whether you like it or not.”
My pulse is pounding in my ears.
“Okay. Quit stalling,” Josh says. He motions to the game board again. “It’s your turn. Play Scrabble, Kat.”
I bite my lip and look at my tiles, considering my move. But none of the letters on my rack are calling to me, so I begin rearranging the tiles Josh used to spell W-O-O.
“No, babe, you’re supposed to use new tiles from your—” Josh begins, but he abruptly stops talking when he sees the word I’ve spelled with his tiles.
“Ow,” I say softly, reading the new word I’ve created.
Josh’s face twists with what appears to be sincere remorse.
“You really hurt my feelings, Josh,” I say. “I felt totally rejected—like I’m in this relationship all by myself.”
Josh opens his mouth to speak but apparently thinks the better of it. He begins furiously peeking at the down-facing tiles on the table, apparently looking for something specific, and when he’s found his desired tiles, he lays a word onto the game board: S-O-R-R-A.