by Lauren Rowe
I blink rapidly, completely floored.
“Yes, I’m impregnated with your mighty Faraday spawn,” Kat continues, still seething, “which, according to you, is a huge win for me—from an evolutionary standpoint, I suppose.” She scoffs. “But I’m here to tell you, Joshua, evolution is no reason for me to marry a man who doesn’t actually want to marry me.”
We stare at each other for a long, angry beat. Yet again, she’s obviously waiting for me to say something very specific. But she can wait for-fucking-ever as far as I’m concerned. She’s crossed a fucking line and I’m fucking done. I ask her to marry me and she calls me a fuckwad? Fuck this shit. She’s right. This is a horrible idea. We’re obviously fundamentally incompatible. God help me if I were to marry this batshit crazy woman and be stuck with her for eternity—I’d quite literally go insane.
“Well,” Kat says primly, filling the excruciating silence. “I just wanted to come out here and tell you about Colby. I didn’t intend to tell you about the pregnancy. Sorry. It just slipped out.”
I suppress an eye-roll.
Kat narrows her eyes, shooting daggers at me. “Let’s just take some time and regroup,” she says stiffly. “Starting right now.”
I exhale with exasperation. “Have you told your family yet?”
“No. They’ve got enough to worry about with Colby. Probably won’t tell them for a few months—for however long I’m not showing.”
“Have you told Sarah?”
“No. She had her finals last week and now she’s in Greece, getting engaged to the man of her dreams—a guy who actually wants to marry her more than he wants to breathe, by the way.” She glares at me like I just flicked her in the forehead.
“Kat, let’s play the honesty-game here for one cotton-pickin’ minute, okay?” I grit out.
“Yes, please, good sir. I thought that’s what we were doing already, but I guess that was just me.”
God, she’s annoying. “Let’s talk about the pink elephant in the room, shall we?” I say.
“I have no idea what the pink elephant in the room is, Josh. I’m pregnant and you’re a dick. Those are pretty much the only pink elephants I see, and I just talked about both of them.”
I make a noise of frustration.
“But, please, good sir, enlighten me about the pink elephant you see in the room,” she continues.
“Would you stop with the ‘good sir’ crap? I don’t even understand the reference.”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
I close my eyes for a moment, once again asking God for patience, and when I feel ready to speak without wringing Kat’s pretty little neck, I open my eyes. “The pink elephant is this: my family is worth a shit-ton of money. You don’t need to know exactly how much, but trust me, it’s more than you think. Now I don’t think for one nanosecond you were trying to intentionally trick or trap me—okay? But you definitely fucked up here, let’s call a spade a spade, and now you’re definitely coming out on top in The Game of Life. Under the circumstances, it’s not outlandish for me to point out that through an honest mistake you’ll wind up doing quite well for yourself for the rest of your fucking life.”
Well, that did it. I just lit the fuse on a gigantic stick of dynamite. She pops up out of her chair and wiggles her body around like she’s suddenly possessed by a demon.
I recoil in my seat, genuinely scared of her flailing movement. “Jesus, Kat,” I say. “Are you gonna barf on me or dive to the ground and start speaking in tongues?”
Kat abruptly leans into my face. “Go back to L.A. before I do grave bodily harm to you, Josh,” she seethes.
“Kat, you’re misunderstanding me. What I’m saying to you is that—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying to me. And here’s what I’m saying to you in reply: Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, you arrogant little rich-boy-prick. My answer to your romantic proposal of marriage is ‘no thank you.’ And not only that, in the interest of the honesty-game, I should also tell you that I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last goddamned man on earth.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches away, just like she did after Reed’s party—just like she always does.
I follow her, rolling my eyes. Obviously, what I’ve said came out wrong. Horribly wrong. I just meant that she’s pregnant and the best outcome for her would be marriage to the father of her child, especially when he can support her and the baby in ways she’s never even dreamed of. She was out of her head about getting a million bucks for taking down The Club? Well, how’s she gonna feel about snagging a husband who could buy her a million-dollar diamond necklace on a fucking whim?
“Kat, wait,” I say.
But Kat keeps stomping away.
I follow her as far as I’m allowed to go, but there’s only so far a guy can chase a girl in this particular hospital when he’s not a part of her fucking family.
Kat bursts through the swinging doors leading into the Hallowed Land of Family Members, leaving me decidedly behind in her pissy, dramatic, tempestuous wake.
“Fine!” I yell toward the doors. “Have yet another tantrum, Kat. See if I care.”
“Fine! I will!” she shouts, continuing to stomp away.
Goddamn her. Who does Kat think she is, turning me down? Who’s she planning to marry, if not me? Cameron Fucking Schulz? Well, I hope she really likes Shirley Temples and watching motherfucking baseball. I hope when her initials are KUS, she’ll appreciate the irony of her name being synonymous with “curse word.”
I turn around in a huff and take two angry steps away from her and then abruptly stop dead in my tracks.
Oh shit.
Kat could marry Cameron Schulz—or any other guy in the entire fucking world. Kat could literally have any guy she wants—it’s the God’s truth. All she has to do is crook her index finger at any man, rich or poor, young or old, professional athlete or accountant, and he’d come running, engagement ring in hand—and she knows it.
Oh my God. Kat’s gonna give birth to my child and then marry someone else!
“Kat!” I shout, loping back toward the double doors. “Wait!”
Kat stops dead in her tracks. She turns around slowly and stares at me with burning eyes.
“Come back,” I say. “Please. I have something I need to say to you.”
She bites the inside of her cheek for a moment, but then slowly saunters back toward the swinging doors, her eyes as sharp as knives. When she reaches the doors, she pokes her head out, raises her eyebrows and exhales, deigning to give me a moment of her time. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
I exhale. I have no idea why she keeps calling me that. “Just think about what you’re doing,” I say. “You’re being a suicide-bomber.”
Kat squints at me. “That’s what you called me back here to say?”
I shift my weight. “No. That just slipped out. I called you back to ask you to please marry me.” I pause. “It’s the right thing to do all around. For everyone. And it’s... what ... I... want.”
“It’s the right thing to do?” she says slowly. “All around?”
I nod, but I can already tell this isn’t going my way.
Kat crosses her arms over her chest, keeping the double-doors open with her shoulder. “No thank you,” she says, cold as a fucking sniper.
“Think of the baby,” I say earnestly. “Let’s not be selfish, either of us. Let’s do the right thing. Now’s not the time to be a terrorist, Kat.”
Without warning, Kat pushes completely through the swinging doors toward me—to the “non-family members” side, as it were—and glowers over me with such ferocity, I leap back, surprised. “I guess you didn’t pay very close attention in Las Vegas when I taught Henn how to bag a babe.” She leans into my face, her eyes on fire. “Remember what I told him?”
I shake my head.
“Then I’ll refresh your memory. ‘Every time you’re about to say something to a woman, ask yourself: is this more or less likely to get me a blowjob? If the answ
er is yes, then say it. If the answer is no, then shut the fuck up!’”
“What are you talking about? I just asked you to marry me, and you’re acting like I spit on you.”
“Because you did,” she says, her eyes flooding with tears.
I throw up my hands, at a total loss.
“Oh for crying out loud,” she says. “Let me spell it out for you, plain and simple.” She wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath, gearing up. “Whoever I wind up marrying one day—whether I’m the mother of his accidental spawn or not—” She gives that last phrase “or not” exaggerated emphasis. “It’ll be for no other reason than he desperately wants me and only me to be his wife, forever and ever, as long as we both shall live.” She glares at me for a beat, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’ll be because he couldn’t stand the thought of living his life without me in it—couldn’t stand the thought of me being with any other man—because he loves me more than the air he breathes—more than life itself.” She wipes her eyes again. “And it sure as hell won’t be because he felt some begrudging sense of obligation toward the unwitting incubator of his accidental spawn.” Without letting me respond, she literally harrumphs at me, turns on her heel, and marches down the hallway, her arms swinging wildly with sudden fury.
I watch Kat striding away through the panes of glass in the doors, feeling like I’ve just been kicked in the balls with a steel boot. When she’s gone, I swallow hard and shake my head, the full enormity of the situation descending upon me.
I’ve got quite the track record with the ladies, don’t I? I told Emma I loved her and she said, “Me, too” and promptly ran off with Ascot Man on a polo pony. And now, a year later, I’ve asked the mother of my impending child to pretty-please marry me, and Kat basically flipped me the bird and told me she wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man on earth. Talk about winning in The Game of Life. Yahtzee.
I swallow hard again. Fuck this shit. I’m done begging a woman to love me, even if that woman’s a unicorn and the most incredible woman I’ve ever been with. And most of all I’m done handing Katherine Ulla Fucking Morgan my motherfucking dick and balls in a motherfucking Ziploc baggie and letting her throw them into a fucking meat grinder at her bitchy little whim. Clearly, she’s always gotten everything she’s ever wanted from every other motherfucking man she’s ever run across, but not anymore. I’m done.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, leaving a surprising streak of wetness on the fabric. And then I flip off the swinging doors with both hands, turn the fuck around, and march out of the hospital without looking the fuck back.
Ninety-Three
Kat
“Do you wanna wait for your friend before being seated or go to your table now?” the restaurant hostess asks me.
“I think I’ll be seated now. My friend texted she’s running a bit late.”
“Of course.” The woman picks up two menus. “Right this way.”
She leads me to a small table in the back and I immediately set down the thick stack of bridal magazines in my arms. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“Ginger ale? Extra ice, please,” I ask, taking a chair. I pull a Saltine from a baggie in my purse and take a little nibble. Gah. This round-the-clock nausea is getting really old.
A busboy brings a ginger ale to the table along with a basket of bread, and I take a greedy bite of a roll, hoping it’ll calm my churning stomach.
My phone buzzes and I glance down, expecting to see a text from Sarah.
“Hello, Stubborn Kat,” Josh writes.
My heart instantly leaps at the sight of Josh’s name displayed on my screen, just like it always does—but then I remember the current iciness between us, and my heart pangs with an overwhelming sense of hurt and regret. Why’d Josh have to look like his balls were being fed through a wood-chipper when he asked me to marry him at the hospital a week ago? And why’d he have to act like such a spoiled, rich-boy-prick, too? If only he’d looked even the teensiest bit like he actually wanted me to be his wife, if only he’d flashed a fraction of his usual down-to-earth, irresistible charm, I surely would have thrown my arms around his neck and screamed, “Yes!” despite myself.
“Hello, Mr. Darcy,” I reply to Josh’s text.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Google it,” I write.
“I did. He’s the guy from Pride and Prejudice. But since I haven’t seen that movie (a fact I’ve already mentioned to you, by the way—thanks so much for listening intently to everything I say), I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jeez, I guess being fed a weeklong diet of cold-shoulder by your pregnant girlfriend (or am I his pregnant ex-girlfriend?) is enough to make a guy a big ol’ grouch.
“Well, Mr. Grouchy Pants,” I type, “I’d never dream of spoiling Pride and Prejudice for you by explaining why I keep calling you that name. You’ll just have to watch it and find out.”
“Go ahead and spoil it,” Josh replies. “I’m positive I’ll NEVER see that movie.”
“Never say never,” I write.
“NEVER. Because I don’t have a VAGINA.”
“You never know.”
“I KNOW.”
“So is that why you’ve texted me (in all caps, no less)? To argue about whether you’re ever gonna watch Pride and Prejudice?”
“No. Sorry. That just slipped out. I’m texting to ask how Colby’s doing and also to find out if you’re feeling a bit better today?”
These are the same two questions Josh has politely asked me via text every single day this week. And in return, I’ve politely responded to him (via text) each and every time, as smoothly and impersonally as Elizabeth Bennett (the well-mannered heroine of Pride and Prejudice) would do, assuming she’d lived in the age of smartphones.
I’ll admit it’s taken quite a bit of willpower on my part not to instigate contact with Josh at all this week. So many times, I’ve wanted to call him and scream into the phone, “Even if you’re an arrogant prick, I still love you! Ask me again!” But I’ve somehow managed to maintain full control and stuff down the raging, clanging, almost desperate swell of emotion I’ve felt nearly every moment since I marched away from Josh at the hospital.
And it’s not just memories of Josh’s so-called marriage proposal that have been plaguing me all week. Even more so, it’s the way Josh has been treating me ever since that horrible night—like he’s done with me for good. His behavior this past week has been a complete one-eighty compared to the week after the karaoke bar. Back then, there were daily flowers, texts begging for my forgiveness, late-night, drunken voicemails telling me he was hard as a rock and couldn’t stop thinking about me. But this week? Nope. There’s been none of that. Just polite texts asking after my brother and my health, exactly as the ever-polite Mr. Darcy would do—only signs of his perceived obligation and nothing more. And it’s damn-near broken my heart.
Goddammit. I truly thought I was doing the right thing when I turned Josh down at the hospital—I really did—and I guess I still do, intellectually—I mean, jeez, he was such a little prick, oh my God. But, shoot, I just don’t know anymore. I can’t even think straight these days, I miss him so freaking much. If it weren’t for how busy I’ve been this past week visiting Colby and gathering ideas and information for Sarah’s wedding, I’d have hopped a flight to L.A. days ago to fling myself upon Josh’s arrogant mercy and beg him to ask me again.
“Colby’s doing well,” I text to Josh in reply to his polite query. “Thank you for asking.” (I refrain from adding, “good sir” to the end of my sentence, though I’m dying to do it.) I tap out a lengthy (and exceedingly polite) status report about Colby, just as I’ve done every day this past week in reply to Josh’s texts. “All in all, great progress,” I conclude. “At least regarding Colby’s physical healing,” I add. “Mentally, Colby’s not doing quite as well. When I saw him this morning, he was convinced he’d somehow cost that baby her
life. He thinks he should have taken a different route out of the building or something.”
“Oh, man. Poor guy. You told him that’s crazy, right? He’s a hero.”
“I told him. But he wouldn’t listen.”
“Well, he’s lucky to have you,” Josh writes. “If anyone can put a smile on a man’s face, it’s you.”
My heart leaps. That’s the first time Josh has texted anything remotely personal to me in a full week—let alone something so lovely. “Thank you,” I write, my heart suddenly gushing with relief and yearning. Oh my effing God, I’m fighting back tears. Oh, how I want to write, “I miss you, Josh! I looooooooove you. Ask me again and I’ll say yes this time, even though I know you don’t really want to marry me!” But I can’t do that. I know full well Josh doesn’t want a wife any more than he wants a baby, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the woman who’s trapped Josh Faraday into having two items of baggage he never bargained for. “It means a lot to me that you’d say that about me,” I type, my heart pounding. “Especially now. Just knowing you still feel that way about me is making me want to sob like a baby.”
I’ve no sooner pressed send on my text than my phone rings with an incoming call.
“Hi,” I say softly into the phone, holding back tears.
“Hi,” Josh says.
Oh God, just hearing his sexy voice for the first time in a week is making my heart explode. “I miss you so much,” I blurt. “Josh, I miss you.”
Josh pauses, just long enough to make my stomach drop into my toes.