Misadventures of a College Girl

by Lauren Rowe

  Electricity shoots through me. “We’re going to have babies?”

  “Of course, we are. We’ve got to have babies. I want to coach my son in pee wee football one day.”

  “What if we have a girl?”

  “Then I’ll coach my daughter in pee wee football.”

  My smile widens. “She may want to take dancing and singing lessons like her mommy. Or, heck, maybe our son will.”

  Tyler’s face lights up. “That’d be amazing either way.” He strokes my arm for a moment. “So here’s the thing, my eager little beaver. Given the uncertainty of the situation with me right now, it makes no sense for you to apply to a four-year program in Miami. Who knows where I’ll be a year from now? It’s fifty-fifty the Dolphins will cut me, and I’ll have to shop myself as a free agent. And even if I don’t get cut, I’ll only have a year left on my contract with the Dolphins by then. Hardly a reason for us to make this town our permanent address. I mean, if there were an incredible theater scene here for you, that’d be one thing. But there isn’t.”

  “But there’s no alternative. I only came up with the idea so I could be with you and also keep learning and growing and performing at the same time.”

  “Yeah, I get it. But if you want to be a college girl again, then I say swing for the fences. Go to NYU. Fuck Miami. Shoot for the stars.”

  The very mention of NYU makes my skin buzz with electricity. “That makes no sense,” I say. “Assuming the second time’s the charm for me to get in, which isn’t a given at all, me going to NYU would mean I’d be living in New York while you were living here. Not an option.”

  “Oh, you’ll get in. Now that you’ve been on a high-profile tour and made Dean’s list at UCLA, you’re a proven commodity. Plus, I wonder what would happen if I were to give a healthy donation to the NYU theater department and let it be known I felt inspired to give it after seeing an amazing curly-haired girl on the Wicked tour who mentioned it was her lifelong dream to attend NYU?” He flashes me a mischievous look.

  I giggle. “Tyler.”

  “If they reject you after all that, then fuck ’em. They don’t get to write your story, you do. Either way, I’ll get us an amazing penthouse apartment in Manhattan with three-sixty views, and we’ll split our time between here and there until I can get my ass to New York full-time. There are two teams in New York and a whole bunch a short distance away. I’ll figure it out. Plus, we’ve got off-seasons, don’t forget. So we’ll make New York our home base and figure everything else out around that. One way or another, one day, we’ll both live full-time in New York, I promise. Until then, we’ll just make it work. This thing with you and me is a marathon, not a sprint, baby. Now that we both know for sure we’re in it for the long haul, we’ll do whatever has to be done.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “The thought of us being apart for even short periods makes me feel physically sick.”

  “Me, too. But you know what makes me feel even sicker? The thought of me being the reason you don’t maximize your time on this planet. If you give New York an honest try and things don’t pan out for whatever reason, then that’s that. We’ll have some babies, and you can teach theater at a high school or do community theater or whatever the fuck someone does with a useless theater degree.”

  We both laugh.

  “But I don’t think you’re going to be happy ten years from now, twenty years from now, if you’re thinking, What if?”

  I grab his hand and squeeze it. “Thank you.”

  “Now text your stage manager and tell her you’ll be there tomorrow night. I need probably another week before I can get on an airplane, but you go on ahead. My sister or dad will come hang out with me for a week.”

  I put my palm on his cheek. “You’re an amazing man.”

  “Bah. It’s the halo effect. I’m actually a total dick.”

  I laugh.

  Tyler kisses the top of my hand. “It’s all going to work out for us, pretty baby. And you know why? Because we’re written in the stars.”

  I kiss him over and over again. But after a moment, I pull away from him, mute the football game on TV, and grab my phone. “We need a soundtrack for this make-out session. We’re going to remember this moment for the rest of our lives, and we need the perfect song for the memory.” I quickly navigate to one of my all-time favorite songs—a cheesy song my father told me was one of my mother’s favorites: “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley.

  “Oh, I love this song,” Tyler says. “It was one of my mom’s all-time favorites. Second only to ‘Careless Whisper.’ She had a thing for cheesy eighties music.”

  My heart stops. “This was my mom’s favorite, too. My dad told me she used to sing it to me all the time.”

  Emotion washes over Tyler’s face. “Well, if that’s not a sign we’re meant to be, I don’t know what is.” He kisses me while Rick Astley serenades us, but around midway through the song, Tyler breaks free from my lips. “It’s all going to work out,” he says, smiling against my lips. “I promise.”

  “You’re incredible.”

  “It’s that damned halo effect.”

  “Nope. I see you with complete, unfiltered clarity, Tyler, and you’re most definitely not a dick.”

  “No, no. I was talking about your halo effect, cupcake. It makes me do crazy things to try to impress you. Always has.”

  I smile broadly. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I’m so flippin’ excited.”

  “You should be. We’re going to have the best life ever.”

  Epilogue

  “Happy Birthday to youuuuu!”

  I clap uproariously. There are two handsome, singing figures at the foot of my bed. The larger one is wearing a T-shirt that reads I Love My Hot Wife. The much smaller figure is wearing a shirt stamped with My Mommy Rocks! “Thank you so much!” I squeal. “Look at all those pancakes! Wow.”

  “I helped Daddy make ’em,” my four-year-old son declares proudly.

  Tyler and I exchange a look. He’s so dang cute. “Thank you so much, Toby,” I say. “Come here.”

  Toby crawls onto the bed next to me while Tyler sits on the edge of the bed with the tray in his lap.

  “I made you a present, Mommy,” Toby chirps. He hands me a drawing made in crayon, and immediately, despite the artist’s rather loose interpretation of the human form, I know it’s meant to be a portrait of our little family. I know this for several reasons. First off, one of the little amoeba-scarecrow-blobs in the drawing has a green face. So, clearly, that’s me. I’ve only recently started playing Elphaba on Broadway after several years of playing in choruses and supporting roles in a myriad of different shows, but Tyler’s already proudly taken our son to see his green-faced mommy defy gravity at four matinee performances in a row. But, regardless, even without a green-skinned figure in the drawing, I’d still know it’s a portrait of our family because one of the other amoeba-blobs appears to be holding a brown piece of poop in its hands. Which means that’s Tyler. And that poop is a football.

  The adorable thing is that Toby couldn’t possibly remember seeing his father play professional football. Tyler’s nine-year NFL career—the last five of which he played with the New York Jets—ended two years ago, when Toby was two. But, still, it’s no wonder to me Toby drew his daddy holding a football. Tyler’s many football awards and photos and memorabilia grace our sprawling penthouse apartment, right along with my UCLA and NYU memorabilia and framed playbills.

  And the final figure in my son’s drawing? Well, it’s Toby, of course. I know this for certain because his representative blob is smaller than his mommy’s and daddy’s. Plus, it’s holding a football, just like the daddy blob. Not a surprise. There’s never been a child on this planet who wants to be more like his daddy than Toby Caldwell.

  To be honest, I was kind of hoping my son would show early signs of being a blossoming musical theater geek like me, but it’s already quite clear that’s a to
tal nonstarter. Toby Caldwell inherited his mother’s curly hair and nothing else. In every way, other than that boy’s hair, he’s his daddy’s mini-me, through and through.

  “I love it, bubba,” I say, looking up from my son’s birthday gift to me. “Thank you so much. I’ll put it on the fridge.”

  Tyler props up my pillows behind me and moves to place the breakfast tray over my lap.

  “Hang on,” I say. “I’ve got to run to the bathroom first.” I hop out of bed and pad across the room. “Make sure Daddy saves me a pancake, bubba. You know how much Daddy loves eating all the pancakes.”

  Toby giggles. It’s our family’s joke. Daddy and Toby always eat all the pancakes except one. Honestly, I don’t even like pancakes, so one saved pancake won’t rock my world, especially given the yummy looking yogurt parfait I spied on the tray next to the pancakes. But Toby doesn’t need to know my honest feelings about pancakes. All he needs to know at his age is that he always dutifully saves a pancake for his mommy because he’s a thoughtful and kind little boy who loves his mommy.

  I close the bathroom door behind me, my heart pounding, and grab a pregnancy test from under my sink. It’s been torture waiting for today to take this test. But I wanted to wait long enough to confidently avoid a false negative. And then I had the brilliant idea to wait an extra week until my birthday morning to find out.

  I pee on the stick and put it on the ledge of the sink, assuming I’m going to have to wait a few minutes for the result. But, almost instantly, a bright pink “plus” sign begins appearing in the result pane. I clap my hand over my mouth. Oh, my God. Tyler’s going to freak. He’s been wanting another Caldwell for three years. I hide the stick behind my back and saunter into the bedroom.

  “What the heck?” I shriek, feigning shock at the lone pancake sitting on the tray. “What happened to all the pancakes?”

  Toby squeals with laughter. He looks at his daddy, and they share a guilty smile. “I told Daddy not to eat that one because it’s your birthday, Mommy.”

  “Thank you. Glad to know someone around here has some self-restraint.” I sit on the bed and pick up my son’s drawing again. “Hey, bubba, do you think you’d be willing to add something to your drawing for me? I think there’s a little something missing.”

  Toby looks perplexed. But Tyler’s face instantly lights up like a Christmas tree.

  “What?” Toby asks, scooting next to me on the bed to look at the drawing. His little brow is knitted.

  I gaze at Tyler to find him looking like he’s holding his breath. “A baby brother or sister,” I say, pulling the pee stick out from behind my back with a giggle.

  “Oh, babe,” Tyler says. He grabs my face and kisses me with so much fervor, he takes my breath away. “The Caldwells are multiplying!” he shouts, raising his fist in victory. “You’re gonna be a big brother, Toby! Mommy’s got a little brother or sister inside her belly right now.”

  “In there?” He pokes me.

  “In there,” I confirm.

  Toby nods like all’s right with the world. “Good,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ll play football with Daddy, and our baby will sing and dance with Mommy and everyone will have a best friend.”

  Tyler and I laugh.

  “How sweet of you to want a best friend for me,” I say. I wipe a pancake crumb off my son’s lip with my thumb. “Thank you, bubba.”

  My eyes drift to Tyler, and my clit pulses at the sight of him. Holy hot damn. My husband looks sexy as hell right now. Clearly, my baby news has turned him on.

  Tyler rustles Toby’s curly hair. “Hey, bubba. Let’s go find Lucinda, okay? Daddy wants to give Mommy a special birthday present for a little bit. And then we’ll all go out together and go ice skating at the rink for Mommy’s birthday before she has to go to the theater.”

  “Okay.”

  Tyler turns his back toward the edge of the bed, and Toby leaps onto his daddy’s back without needing to be told what to do.

  “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Caldwell,” Tyler says over his shoulder. And off he goes with his son on his back to find our live-in housekeeper somewhere in our sprawling apartment. Two minutes later, my husband returns with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Tyler quietly closes and locks our bedroom door behind him, picks up the tray of food off my lap, and places it on a nearby table. He then proceeds to pull off every stitch of his clothes, gracing me with the view of him that will never get old as long as I live.

  “Happy birthday, baby,” Tyler says, pulling my pajama bottoms down. He leans down and presses his lips softly against my belly button. “Hello, Baby Caldwell. I can’t wait to meet you.”

  I lean back into my pillows, smiling as my naked husband crawls onto the bed next to me, pulls my underwear off, and begins trailing kisses from my belly downward. “Happy birthday to me,” I whisper softly as Tyler’s lips begin doing wondrous things to me. “Happy, happy birthday to me.”

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  Excerpt from Misadventures with My Roommate

  Gavin threw open the door to The Coffee Bean with more force than was necessary. He scanned the store, thankful it was mostly empty of customers. Then he looked behind the counter, and he was even more thankful. Blake was standing there tying the strings of her black apron around her small waist. It actually would’ve been difficult to tell just how thin she was if it weren’t for the small pieces of fabric that cinched her shirt just under her chest.

  Yesterday, Gavin had to force himself not to be a total perv and stare at her all day. Her terrific body, her wavy dark auburn hair that fell over her shoulders, her light-blue eyes, that smattering of freckles on her nose… She was beautiful. The fact that she seemed to have almost no filter was also attractive. Gavin had learned the hard way over the past few years that people rarely said what they meant or were honest about their intentions. In Gavin’s world, Blake was a welcome anomaly.

  “Hey, hotness,” she shamelessly called out when she saw him.

  He felt heat prick his face and couldn’t help the shy smile that quirked his lips. Giving her a small wave, he dipped into the back to clock in and grab an apron. When he came back out front, tying his apron as he walked, he approached Blake. “Ready?” he asked.

  “For…?”

  He barked out a laugh, and damn did it feel good. He didn’t laugh nearly enough anymore. “To learn how to make these drinks.”

  A look of disappointment crossed her features. “Oh. That’s not nearly as fun as what I was thinking.”

  “I bet it wasn’t.” He shook his head at her brazenness even though he liked it.

  He showed her where the recipe book was that she could reference if she got stuck. Then he explained the most common orders and a few variations of each.

  “How does anyone remember all this?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  Gavin shrugged. “Repetition. Most of these get ordered multiple times a day, so it becomes second nature. And the rare ones you can look up.”

  “I don’t think my brain has room for all of this. I’ve been a bartender for four years, and I still don’t remember how to make most of the drinks. I just throw whatever in a glass, and people know better than to complain.”

  He smiled again. “What happens if they complain?”

  “I throw them out.”

  Eyebrows shooting up, Gavin said, “You throw people out?”

  She widened her stance and put a hand on her hip. “What does that mean?”

  “Can we pretend I never said that?”

  Blake seemed to mull that over before dropping her arm. “Sure.”


  Gavin was dumbstruck for a second. “Wait. Really?”

  Blake leaned a hip against the counter. “Yeah. I say shit I shouldn’t all the time, so it’d be hypocritical of me to hold someone else accountable for the stupid things they blurt out.”

  Gavin thought there was an insult in there somewhere, but he didn’t dwell on it. “Oh. Great. Thanks.”

  Blake nodded. “So let’s talk about more interesting things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you.”

  Trying to keep his face blank so she wouldn’t pick up on just how much he didn’t want to talk about himself, he asked, “What do you want to know?”

  She tapped a finger against her chin for a few beats before answering. “Boxers or briefs?”

  He rolled his eyes with a chuckle. When he saw her eyes alight with mischief, he decided she was teasing and didn’t answer.

  “Okay, a real question,” she said. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five,” he answered.

  “I’m twenty-six. I can be your sugar mama,” she joked.

  At least he thought she was joking. “Wouldn’t be a hard position to qualify for,” he said in an attempt to tease her back.

  But her face grew serious, making it plain that he’d somehow missed the mark. She looked pensive as she studied him. “What qualifications would someone need? In case I find someone interested in applying.”

  Gavin laughed again, but it was humorless this time. “Right now, I’d settle for having a couch I could crash on.” He wasn’t sure why he was being so honest. He didn’t need anyone knowing about his personal shit. But part of him wanted to get it off his chest, throw it out into the universe so he didn’t have to carry it all on his own. Which was stupid, but he couldn’t take it back now.