by Lauren Rowe
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 can 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.”
“More so? Really? How do you figure?”
“Because you must have stayed with a woman like that for a reason. You must have known deep down she was every bit as incapable of emotional intimacy as you are. You liked that she never required you to reveal a goddamned honest thing about yourself in three freakin’ years.”
He looks shocked.
I press my lips together. Oh shit. I just dropped another one of my atomic bombs, didn’t I? Oh fuck. That was harsh. Honest, but harsh.
I just can’t help myself. Ever since rea
ding Josh’s application (and seeing Emma’s beautiful, shy photo in Josh’s Sick Fuck folder), I’ve had somewhat of a fixation on this Emma bitch. On the one hand, I’ve felt the primal urge to rip her limb from limb for hurting Josh. And, on the other hand, I’ve honestly been a bit obsessed with trying to figure out why the heck he stayed so long with a woman who was so obviously his total mismatch in every way (other than the fact that she’s literally the most stunningly beautiful creature I’ve ever seen).
Josh looks floored. Pissed, I’d even say.
“Damn, that drink you made me was really, really strong,” I say, my face turning hot.
Josh’s jaw muscles are pulsing like crazy.
Shit. Maybe I’ve totally misjudged this. Maybe he can commit. Hell, maybe he was on the verge of asking Emma to marry him, for all I know. Oh, jeez, yes. Maybe that’s why he now says marriage isn’t in the cards for him? Is Josh just a case study of a man with a shattered heart? But, clearly, I can’t ask him if he was about to propose. It’s too sensitive. I opt for something slightly more innocuous. “So did you and Emma live together?”
Josh makes a face I’m not expecting, like he’s embarrassed about what he’s about to say. “No. It was a long-distance relationship. She lives in New York.”
Oh, Sweet Jesus. Is he frickin’ kidding me? “It was a long-distance relationship?” I boom, totally shocked.
“Yeah. So?” he says, clearly defensive. “I get out to New York all the time for work. I saw her a lot.”
There’s a very long silence.
Josh’s face is bright red.
I’m sure mine is, too.
James Bay is singing to us about scars.
I feel like I’ve said way, way, way too much. My inner-bitch just came out full-force. God, I suck sometimes. “So... what’s your favorite movie of all time?” I ask brightly. “If you could be anyone from *NSync other than Justin Timberlake, who would you be? Do you have a spirit animal?”
“You’re not what I’d call the world’s foremost expert on relationships,” Josh says, his voice low and intense. “I wouldn’t exactly hire you to write the definitive textbook on How to Have a Healthy, Lasting Relationship.”
I part my lips, speechless.
His jaw is clenched.
I squint at him for a long moment, trying to look like a badass—but then, goddammit, tears prick my eyes. “You’re right,” I finally say. “I pretty much suck at relationships.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry for saying all that stuff. I shouldn’t have said it.”
He twists his mouth and exhales. “If you hadn’t said it, you’d still be thinking it.”
I don’t correct him. He’s right.
He shakes his head. “I must say, you have quite a knack for not kissing my ass, Kat.”
I smash my lips together.
“I’m not used to it,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say.
Josh shakes his head like he’s chastising me. “No apology required.”
I bite my lip.
He grazes his fingertips up the length of my arm and my skin electrifies under his touch.
“You get really sassy when you’re buzzed, you know that?” he says.
I nod. My crotch is suddenly burning.
“But you know what?”
I wait.
“I really like sassy.”
I bite my lip. My heart is racing at his simple touch.
“Did I hurt your feelings?” he asks softly. His fingers move up my arm and drift along my jawline. “When I said you’re a flop-dick when it comes to relationships?”
I smile. “Oh, is that what you said? Jeez, that’s a whole lot meaner than what I thought you said. All I thought you said was you wouldn’t hire me to write some textbook.”
He chuckles. His fingertips skim the length of my hairline.
“I’m not mad at you,” I say softly. “I’m the opposite of mad at you.”
He smiles wickedly. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Josh touches my chin and my body ignites. He leans in and kisses me gently.
We sit and stare at each other for a moment. A legion of butterflies has unleashed inside my stomach.
His eyes drift to my empty glass. “Would you like another one, Party Girl? The night is still young.”
“Yes, thank you. But not nearly as strong this time, Playboy. I wanna be fully conscious for whatever might happen next. Something tells me it’s gonna be good.”
He smirks. “Good idea.” He stands, grabs my glass, and heads toward the kitchen—but before he turns the corner, he turns back around. “Hey, Kat. Thanks for always playing the honesty-game with me. So few people do that with me—most people just kiss my ass.”
“Well, you can hardly blame ‘most people,’ Josh—you’ve got a truly kissable ass.”
He grins. “Thanks to the ‘YOLO’ stamped on it—which, I’m telling you is gonna be all the rage one of these days, mark my words.”
I laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, Playboy, if it helps you look yourself in the eye every day.”
His blue eyes are positively sparkling at me right now. “Your drink is coming right up, Party Girl.”
“Thanks.”
“My extreme pleasure.”
Chapter 25
Kat
I feel myself literally swoon as Joshua William Faraday exits the living room to fetch us another round of drinks. That man is so freaking charming, and so freaking hot, and so freaking funny and adorable and sweet and generous and sexy (and I could go on and on), it’s just not fair. I feel like I’m playing tennis against Roger Federer armed with nothing but a fly swatter.
I can’t remember the last time I felt like this—so gooey and heart-fluttery and fairytale-believe-y and emotional. I’ve got to get a grip on myself, slow my shit the fuck down. Tap into Classic Kat for a while. Jeez. My feelings are moving too effing fast, especially considering whom I’m dealing with here.
Oh my God, I’m losing it. Falling hard.
This is so unlike me. I’m never the one chasing the guy—I’m always the one being chased. I’m the one who says, “I’m not sure I’m feeling it, sorry,” and then he says, “Well, then, baby, lemme try to convince you.” Isn’t that exactly what Cameron said? Yep. After one date, he was ready to chase me to the ends of the earth, God knows why.
And that’s the way I like it. I like being chased. What the hell did Josh tell Henn when he was being “Hitch” and teaching Henn to “dick it up”? I scoff out loud at the memory, even though I’m sitting here alone in this room. “Women think they wanna be chased,” Josh said, “that’s what all the movies and books tell ’em they want—but they don’t. Not really. If you do the equivalent of driving to her house and holding a boom box over your head, you might as well hand her your dick and balls in a Ziplock baggie, too, ’cause you’re not gonna need ’em any more.”
What a big ol’ bunch of bullshit. Of course, we wanna be chased. Idiot.
And, yet, here I am, aching for him, ready to hand him my whole heart and soul, aren’t I? And he’s the one who always pulls back.
I look up at the ceiling. What the hell have I gotten myself into with this man? Is he even capable of giving his heart to me—at least at some point? If I break down and make the depths of my feelings known to him, would he be thrilled or scared to death?
I lean back on the couch and squeeze my cheeks, pondering the situation.
Oh damn. I can’t feel my face.
My gut tells me he’d be scared to fucking death. Maybe thrilled, too—but his fight or flight instinct would surely kick in. It’s just too soon. A guy like him needs more time. Heck, a girl like me needs more time. Usually. I truly don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. Where the hell is shallow, hedonistic, meaningless-sex-seeker Classic Kat when I need her?
As I glance around the room, lost in my thoughts, a small, framed photo on a table catches my eye. I can’t make out the image from this distance, so I get up to ta
ke a closer look.
When I pick the photo up, I can see it’s a faded shot of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman sitting in a wicker love seat with two tousled little boys—all three of them tanned and windswept and bursting with what appears to be authentic joy. The smiles on their glowing faces aren’t canned “say cheese” grins—these people are bursting with genuine down-to-their-bones happiness. I can almost hear their ghostly peals of laughter rising up from the image.
God, it pains me to think what happened to this poor woman shortly after this photo was taken. Oh, and her poor little boys. I scrutinize the boys’ faces in the photo, tears welling up in my eyes. I know Josh and Jonas are fraternal twins, but they look virtually identical in this shot. It’d be impossible to tell them apart if it weren’t for Josh’s slightly darker hair.
Tears blur my vision.
It kills me to think about how devastated those boys must have been when their mommy was so unexpectedly and savagely ripped from their young lives.
I wipe my eyes, but it’s no use. I can’t seem to stop my emotions from overflowing out of me. I take a deep breath and try to stuff my emotions down. It’s suddenly hitting me full-force that the cute little boy in this picture—the one with the slightly darker hair—is standing in the next room, mixing me a drink, trying his earnest best on a daily basis to “overcome” everything he’s had to endure.
Ice cubes rattle on the far side of the room and I snap my head up toward the sound.
Josh is standing at the entrance of the living room, his facial expression the same as when I opened my door to him in Las Vegas after reading his application.
His eyes dart to the photo in my hand and then back to my face.
The music swirls around us for a long moment. Finally, I hold up the photo and try to grin. “Your mom was stunning.”
Josh doesn’t reply.
I walk across the room with the photo and sit on the couch. “Tell me about her.” I pat the couch next to me.
He looks torn.
James Bay is serenading us, singing about scars.
“Come on, Josh,” I say. I pat the couch again.