“Does he know?” my father interrupts.
The thought of informing A.J. he’s going to be a father makes my stomach drop to somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. Talk about awkward conversations. It occurs to me with a blast of disgust that my child might grow up spending alternating weekends with a hooker named Heavenly.
But no. A.J. won’t want any part of this. Remembering the look on his face when he dismissed me so callously is a grim reminder of just how much he won’t want to be involved with anything that has to do with me.
“No. I just found out, right now.”
“And I assume since you’re informing us that abortion is out of the question?”
I’m shocked at the hardness in his voice. “I’m not getting an abortion!”
My mother says soothingly, “Of course you’re not, darling. No one is suggesting that.” Her voice gains an edge. “Are we, Thomas.”
That last bit is directed to my father. I picture them on opposite sides of their bedroom, glaring at one another.
My father starts barking instructions. “You’ll go to London. You’ll stay with your grandmother until it’s born. Dr. Mendelsohn will handle the prenatal care and you’ll have to deliver at home, but it’s the only way to keep it out of the press so that son of a bitch doesn’t find out—”
“What’re you talking about?” I interrupt, hoping that somehow I’ve misinterpreted what he’s said. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying.
My father growls, “I’m talking about doing the only logical thing that can be done with this disaster, Chloe: private adoption. The records will be sealed, so no one will be able to find out the child’s identity. And once it’s over, we’ll put it behind us. You’ll come home and it won’t be mentioned again.”
He is saying what I thought he was saying. The wind is knocked out of me. Immediately following that, I erupt like Mount Vesuvius.
“You are not telling me right now that you think I should hide a child from his father, right Dad? I’m not hearing that, because if I am, I’m hanging up this phone and it’s going to be a very, very long time before you and I speak again. If ever!”
Dead silence on the other end of the line.
Finally, with chilling softness, my father says, “He abandoned you, Chloe. He took you in when you were most vulnerable, promised to protect you, promised me he would protect you, and then he threw you out when he was tired of you. You’ve refused to tell us the details, but I suspect that’s the case. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t, of course. He’s exactly right. But the fact remains, I have an obligation to tell A.J. about this baby, even if I’d much rather stab out his eyes with a fountain pen.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Dad. Because I know you’re upset, I’m going to pretend we didn’t have this conversation. Then I’m going to make an appointment with a doctor—not Dr. Mendelsohn, but a doctor of my own—and then when I’m sure everything is all right with me physically, I’m going to inform A.J. What he chooses to do with the information is his business. And then I’m going to prepare for being a single, working mother, who’s going to make the best of things—” my voice breaks because I’m crying again “—and be the best damn mother I can be. And if you’re interested in having any kind of relationship with your grandchild, you’re going to give me moral support even if it kills you. If you’re not interested, that’s your choice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go vomit!”
I hang up the phone and run back to the toilet, over which I suspect I’ll be spending the better part of the next few months hanging my head.
The two-week period between finding out I’m pregnant and the wedding are probably the two most bizarre and emotional of my life.
Because Kat and Nico both have posted pictures of their wedding flower samples to their various social media accounts with credit to Fleuret, the phones at work ring off the hook. Literally. I have to turn off the ringers because the constant shrill noise starts to drive me insane. Magazines request interviews. The local news requests a feature. Every socialite, event planner, and bride-to-be within the continental United States crawls out of the woodwork, clamoring for us to give them quotes on their parties. I have to hire three freelance designers just to handle the daily delivery orders that won’t stop pouring in.
It’s thrilling and exhausting, but most of all I’m grateful for the distraction. I’ve decided not to tell A.J. until after the wedding. It’s going to be bad enough posing for bridal party pictures together, I can’t imagine the hell it would be doing it after he’s told me the baby isn’t his.
At least, that’s the kind of dick move I assume he’ll pull. My expectations of him doing the gentlemanly thing and offering to be involved, even just financially, are nil. He’s already proven he’s not a gentleman. And if nothing else, he’s taught me to expect the worst.
Though I learn that morning sickness should be renamed morning-noon-and-night sickness, the days fly by. I bury my pain in work. I see a doctor, who confirms what I already know, along with confirming A.J. didn’t pass me any nifty STDs. I spend too much time surfing the web for homeopathic remedies for nausea and books with titles like Surviving Pregnancy: A Guide for Mothers without Partners.
I’m aware that I’m depressed, but there’s not much I can do about it, so like everything else in my life these days, I just accept it as my lot. By the time People magazine calls to schedule the interview for the feature on Fleuret they promised Kat and Nico in return for the exclusive on their wedding photos, my emotional roller coaster has taken its toll and I’m strangely numb. I give the interview, smiling woodenly when they take my picture, answering all their questions with a sense of detachment, as if it’s someone else I’m talking about. As if this hasn’t been my dream for years.
I don’t think I have dreams anymore. I think they all died the same day I did, back on that sunny afternoon in spring.
The morning of the wedding I wake early, with a terrible sense of doom hanging over my head.
I can’t shake it. Even after I’ve gone for a run, showered, and dressed, I still feel like there’s a laser target on the back of my skull, or that the major earthquake LA has been waiting for is finally about to strike. I gather my bridesmaid’s gown, shoes, jewelry, and undergarments—I’ll be getting dressed at Kat’s suite at the hotel after I’ve supervised the setup of the flowers—and head out to my car. The wedding’s at five o’clock, and all the flowers need to be in place for pictures by three, so I’m on a tight schedule. But when I open my driver’s door I stop dead in my tracks, looking at what’s been left in a corner of my windshield.
It’s not an origami bird this time. It’s a shiny, metal LAPD badge.
It’s Eric’s badge.
Fear grabs me around the throat and squeezes. I quickly look up and around, but he’s nowhere in sight. I swallow, heart racing, and pick up the badge. I turn it over in my hand; one of those round, yellow smiley face stickers is stuck on the back.
I’ve never seen anything so sinister.
As fast as I can, I stuff the badge into my purse and load my things into the car. In less than two minutes, I’m pulling out of the parking spot, headed to the shop. On the way I call my father. He doesn’t pick up on his cell, or at the house, so I leave a message on his machine.
“Dad, it’s Chloe. I just found Eric’s police badge on the windshield of my car. I have it with me. I’m a little freaked out. Can you call me when you get this please?”
I hang up, taking a corner too fast, ignoring the shout of the pedestrian I nearly run over. By the time I get to the shop I’m a shaking mess.
Trina’s already there, loading the cocktail table arrangements into delivery boxes. She stops short when she sees my face. “What’s wrong, boss?”
I dump my handbag on the counter and run a trembling hand through my hair. “Eric left his badge on my windshield this morning.”
She gapes at me. “Holy shit! He was at your apartment? Isn’
t that a violation of the restraining order?”
“I don’t know. The order says he has to stay at least three hundred feet away from me. But I was parked down the street because there’s never any stupid parking at my place. And I don’t even know if it counts if I don’t see him.”
“But leaving his badge, that’s like, intimidation or something! Seeing as how you’re the one who got him fired!”
I shoot her a death glare. “Thanks a lot.”
“I don’t mean he didn’t deserve it, Chloe, I’m just saying that a former police officer leaving his former badge on the windshield of his former girlfriend—who just happens to be the girlfriend he beat up, resulting in his exit from the police force—that’s totally fucked up.”
“I’m aware. What I don’t know is if we can do anything about it.” I pull at my hair. “And he has to pick today, of all the days!”
Trina stops loading the boxes to stare at me. Behind her glasses, her brown eyes don’t blink. “You don’t think he’d do anything at the wedding . . . do you?”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “I didn’t before!”
“Sorry.” She’s chagrined for a moment, then brightens. “Why don’t you take my gun?”
I stare at her in disbelief. “I didn’t just hear you say that.”
“Seriously, it’s small enough to fit in your purse. I carry it in my purse all the time. I’ve got it here now.”
I shout, “You bring a gun to work? Why?”
She looks at me as if I’m dense. “Because, duh, your ex is a cop who went cray-cray and beat you up and got his dumb ass fired from the force because of it. That’s a disaster waiting to happen right there! I’m not gonna crouch under the desk like some sitting duck if he decides to come in here, guns blazing; I’m taking his ass out!” She smiles. “Then I’ll probably get my own reality show.”
Closing my eyes, I massage my temples at the same time I draw a deep breath into my lungs. When I’ve calmed down enough to speak, I tell her, “Trina, I’m not taking your gun. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t bring it to work anymore, okay?”
She looks insulted. “Dude, I have a CCW.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
She rolls her eyes. “A concealed carry license. It’s totally legit if I carry a weapon.”
I’m dumbfounded by this information. “Why would you need a license to carry a concealed weapon?”
“You think you’re the only girl who ever got smacked around by a crazy ex?”
She says this deadpan. It’s not even a question, really, it’s just one of those rhetorical things you already know the answer to.
“No, of course not. But a gun?”
Trina’s expression hardens. For a moment I see the Venice gang girl of her youth, all razor blade eyes and rough edges. “You know the old saying, ‘Don’t show up to a gun fight with a knife’? Well, my ex loves guns. So now, so do I. Because if he decides to come after me again, I have to fight fire with fire.”
I don’t even know where to go with this conversation. “Okay, for the moment let’s forget about firepower and focus on what we need to do today. We’ll continue this some other time.” I hustle into my office and start checking all my lists.
Within a few hours, the entire staff is in, everything is loaded into the vans, and we set off for the Hotel Bel-Air.
Eric’s badge is still in my purse, burning a hole through the fabric.
At the hotel, it’s smooth sailing. The load-in is a pain in the butt because the ballroom is on the opposite side of the property from the loading dock, which means we have to take all the flowers through the guts of the hotel, winding through narrow, overcrowded back hallways, carefully avoiding in-room dining carts, ceiling-high stacks of crated glassware and banquet chairs, and all the housekeeping, restaurant, banquet, and kitchen staff who are scurrying around like oversized, uniformed rats.
Other than taking longer than necessary to load in due to the hotel setup, there’s not a hitch. The lighting crew has already set up the pin spots for the dining tables and the gobos for the walls that will give the room that gorgeous, warm glow. The stage is set for the swing band—Bad Habit is supposed to jump in and play a song or two if they’re not too drunk—and the videographers and photographers have arrived. Jennifer, the wedding coordinator, is having a meltdown in the corner of the ballroom and is screaming at the banquet captain about security, which means everything is right on schedule.
It’s not a wedding until someone has a meltdown. I’m just happy it isn’t me.
Yet.
When I’m sure all of Fleuret’s setup has been completed, I put Trina in charge and head up to Kat’s suite to get dressed.
When I knock on the door, I hear the pulse of electronica music and shrieks of laughter. Over the music someone shouts, “Come in!”
I walk inside the honeymoon suite and find myself face-to-face with a male stripper. He’s young, overly tan, and is wearing a black thong and nothing else.
He’s holding Kenji over his head.
“Best wedding present ever!” Kenji screams, throwing his arms in the air like he’s flying . . . which he sort of is because Tan Stripper Boy has started to speed walk around the room.
Grace, Kat, and three girls in black shirts and trousers, who I assume are the hair and makeup team, are across the suite. Four director’s chairs are set up in front of the open balcony doors, and in them sit Kat and Grace in white robes, sipping champagne, while the other girls fuss around with hot rollers and makeup kits.
When she sees me, Grace shouts, “Because she didn’t get a stripper for her birthday, right?” and throws back her head and laughs.
“It looks to me like he’s more for Kenji than Kat,” I reply, watching Grace’s wedding present bench press Kenji in front of a mirror by the wet bar. Every time the stripper presses up, Kenji shrieks, “Again, bitch!”
Clearly the party has started without me.
“C’mere, Lo, and give me a hug.” I cross the room and set my garment bag and purse on the sofa, then hug Kat, noting the excited sparkle in her eye, the flush in her cheeks.
“You’re looking happy, kiddo,” I say softly. “Nervous?”
“Pshaw! I’m marrying the love of my life, what’s there to be nervous about?”
A pang of pain shoots through my chest, and my smile falters.
Opera music was the love of her life.
I wonder how long it will take before not everything anyone says reminds me of A.J.
“Hey. Forget about me, are you okay?”
Kat peers at me with suspicious eyes, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to put a damper on the happiest day of her life. I shove all thoughts of A.J. and my worries about Eric aside. “I’m great! It looks amazing downstairs, I know you’re going to love it.”
My grin must be convincing, because Kat grins back, all suspicion gone. “Really? How does the gazebo look?”
“Like a fairy tale. I even captured a unicorn for you. He’s a little high maintenance, though, so we’re going to release him at the end of the ceremony along with the doves.”
Kat sighs in happiness. “When do I see my bouquet?”
“Trina will bring it up as soon as I text her we’re ready. When does the photographer get here?”
“Forty-five minutes. He’ll shoot the girls first, then get the guys by the lake before the ceremony.”
The guys. My heart starts to beat faster, knowing that in a short while, I’ll be in the same room with A.J., seeing him for the first time since he ripped my heart out with a claw hammer.
My thoughts must show on my face, because Grace insists, “It’ll be fine, Chloe. Kat and I are going to get you through this.”
“I’m good you guys, honestly. Don’t worry about me. Today’s all about you, Kat.”
Behind us, Kenji squeals. The stripper is doing splits in the middle of the floor, and Kenji is standing over him, clapping. I turn back to Kat. “Okay, maybe
it’s not all about you.”
She shakes her head, downs the rest of her champagne, then eyes my bust. “Just out of curiosity, honey, are you sure you’re still going to fit into your dress? You’re looking a little fuller up top.”
I look down at the cleavage swelling from the V neck of my shirt. Though I’m slightly fuller through my tummy, too, I haven’t really started to show. My boobs have gotten a jump start on all other parts of my body.
And, of course, I haven’t tried on my bridesmaid’s gown since the day I bought it.
I mutter, “Shit.” Instantly, Kat and Grace break out into hoots of laughter.
It’s only a matter of seconds before I join them.
An hour later, the stripper sent packing, we’re all set.
Our makeup is perfect. Our hair is flawless. We’re dressed and ready to go. I had a moment’s terror when I zipped up my gown, but fortunately for me I must have lost weight from all the puking before I started to gain it back; the dress still fits. I think it even looks better than before, because now my B-cups are probably closer to a C, and for the first time in my life I have cleavage.
I text Trina to bring up the bouquets. When they arrive and I hand Kat her flowers, she tries valiantly not to cry. Her eyes get all huge and watery, and she looks at me with her lips pulled between her teeth.
“Don’t cry!” I admonish, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Not yet, anyway, you’re supposed to save that for the vows.”
She sniffles, staring at her bridal bouquet. In a small voice, she says, “It’s so beautiful, Lo. It’s just so beautiful.”
Two photographers hover in the background, snapping pictures. I hear another sniffle from behind me, and turn to see Kenji staring down at his own flower bouquet that Trina’s just handed him. He’s wearing a pair of slim-fit silk pants in the same pale celadon-green as our dresses, but over it he’s got a Saint Laurent couture tunic embroidered with gold peonies. His neck is swathed in a scarf trimmed with peacock feathers dyed a translucent green. On his feet are a pair of beaded gold Moroccan slippers with the curled toes. He looks amazing, like a character from the Wizard of Oz.
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