by Carter Blake
All I can do is stare at him. What do I even say?
“Not bad, eh? Of course, I recall some of the other speakers, but he was the one that stood out, don’t you think?”
As I take a sip of my tea, I don’t take my eyes off him.
“I was referring to something else,” I respond, finally. “I was referring to you and me, and…you know,” I leave the last few words hanging.
I don’t really want to be the one to talk about it first.
“You and me?” he taps his forehead with his index finger. “Say, what was your name again? I never forget a face. And you do look familiar?”
I burst out laughing. He really is something else.
“Funny. Ha, ha, ha,” I growl at him jokingly.
There are other memories of the conference coming back. Memories of acting…silly.
Like I’m starting to act right now.
It’s strange, because acting silly isn’t what I’m usually known for.
Killian has an interesting influence on me sometimes.
He takes a step toward me and pretends to peer at me closely. It’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. Goosebumps travel up and down my arms and spine.
If I’m not careful, I might just throw myself at him.
“Yes, yes, yes. You do look very familiar,” Killian murmurs and keeps staring at me. “You say you were at the writers’ conference?”
“Killian…”
After growling his name, I give him a firm yet friendly punch him in the shoulder.
He winces and pulls back.
“Now I remember you!” He claps his hands together. “You were the ever so talented children’s book illustrator. If I remember correctly, I asked you about illustrating a sex education book for kids, and you weren’t very impressed with my idea.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” I admit with a wistful nod.
“And you say I’m forgetful. Have you also heard since that time that someone else has stolen our idea?”
I shake my head.
“No, I haven’t,” I confess, feeling a strange sensation at his suggestion of our idea.
“They have. But yes, I do remember you and me…at the conference.”
Silence.
Feverishly, I rummage around my brain for something intelligent to say. My brain doesn’t cooperate, and I say nothing.
“You know what else I remember?”
By now, there’s a kind of seriousness to Killian’s voice I’m not familiar with.
Again, I shake my head.
“Jameson. I remember we drank a lot of Jameson. Boy, did we drink an ocean of it.”
He puts his mug on the table and cradles his head as if the mere thought of it is bringing flashbacks of a massive hangover.
“Of course. We drank a bottle between us,” I laugh.
“I’m sure it was more than a bottle, my dear. I haven’t been able to drink the stuff since.”
He sits down at the kitchen table like he just owned up to his darkest secret.
Again, that uncomfortable silence settles between us.
“It wasn’t long after the conference I met my…” I hesitate.
So far, I haven’t told one living soul the full details of our failed marriage.
“Shortly after that, I got engaged and then married.”
I pause and stare at my hands. They were hands that could create beautiful, award-winning images for children books. Now, they just look like my hands, the hands of somebody who couldn’t even keep a marriage together.
It’s a crazy thought, I know, but I guess we all have crazy thoughts at crazy times.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian mumbles.
My eyes find his.
“Don’t be,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m not. I’m pleased we went through with the divorce. I’m pleased it’s all over.”
Killian just nods.
I join him at the kitchen table. Since there are only two chairs, I sit right next to him.
Our knees almost touch.
“I guess some things aren’t meant to be.” I shrug and cradle my mug as if it’s my lifeline.
“Guess so.”
“It’s interesting how you think you know a person only to discover that you were completely and utterly wrong about them.”
Again, Killian only nods. My eyes stare off into nothing, a place just past Killian’s head.
“It was never going to work out,” I continue.
Now that I’ve started to talk about it, I can’t stop.
“The only sad thing is, I won’t have a family. I always saw myself with a large family. Husband, plenty of kids.” I sigh. “And now that won’t happen. What do they say again? C’est la vie?”
Killian puts his hand over mine.
He’s about to say something, but I put my index finger over his lips. I don’t want to hear whatever lame thing he’s going to say.
I know what I know. And I know I won’t be having a family.
I don’t want any contrived sympathy from him or anyone.
He gets the message, and I move my finger. For a while, we sit and stare. I think we each must be lost in our own thoughts, but I don’t ask him what he’s thinking.
I glance at him. He extends his right hand and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. As he does so, he bends forward so close, our noses almost touch.
My eyes are glued to his.
His thumb now strokes the side of my cheek. I can hear my heart beating in my chest. It sounds like an out-of-control herd of wild horses.
Suddenly, the world goes a little out of focus, and warmth spreads through me.
Almost of their own volition, my lips part a little. Each and every one of my nerves quivers in anticipation. Barely inches from my lips, he hovers.
I resist the urge to pull him toward me. I’m not going to make the first move, even though my body aches for his touch. I’ve come here to recover from a failed relationship—not to stumble right into the next one.
Suddenly, time seems to slow down—or maybe it just moved to a different beat. Unable to move or do anything else, I stay in the same position, waiting for his lips to come crashing down on mine.
Killian
Our lips hover near each other so closely that I can taste the tea on her breath. I can feel the warmth of her body radiate through her clothing.
There’s a sudden hyperawareness of my own body. I can feel my heart throbbing in my lips. I can feel every hair I have rising from my skin.
Yet there’s this feeling of disconnect. As if I’m on the outside looking in. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like?
My thumbs rub against her arms, and I can’t help but wonder why we’ve stopped ourselves.
There’s obviously still some attraction there. She’s been watching me since she got here—which I’ve enjoyed poking fun at—and here we are, right now, on the verge of giving in.
And she certainly can’t try to blame the whiskey. We’re both sober—well, mostly sober on my end—so she can’t use that excuse.
I certainly know that I want her, but who wouldn’t? The woman is gorgeous and is more than skilled in the bedroom. Even if it had been her first time.
And if she didn’t want me, she wouldn’t be here right now. She would’ve certainly just left by now.
So why the hesitation?
She clears her throat and takes a step back. I let go of her arms and do the same.
I need a fucking drink.
She watches me walk over to her desk and open the drawer. My hope is to find some whiskey, and in the drawer, I see an empty bottle of Jameson.
Of course she would be drinking Jameson.
I set the empty bottle down on the desk and make my way over to her cupboard. Looking inside, I don’t find any Bushmills or Jameson. But I do find a bottle Locke’s 8-Year-Old single malt.
That’ll do nicely—I make short work of cracking open the bottle and pouring myself a
glass.
I make even shorter work of emptying the glass in one quick drink.
It’s a mix of fruit and barley with plenty of oak and just a touch of floral in its taste. It’s smooth and burns going down—everything a proper Irish whiskey should do. And it helps to take the edge off.
Turning around, I hold up the bottle to Rebecca in an unspoken offer.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, lass.”
Time to pour myself another drink. I watch that golden-colored drink crash against the glass like a small storm. It looks like a raging sea all by itself. Then, everything is calm and still like the eye of a hurricane.
My fingers wrap around the glass, and I feel the weight of it against my hand. It feels good—feels right—and gives my mind something else to focus on for a merciful moment.
The glass and the whiskey are transporting me to the point that I don’t even realize that I’m holding my breath.
This isn’t at all how I wanted this week to go.
I’ve got a bad arm, thanks to Rebecca hitting me with her car. Then there’s Rebecca herself being here.
And, of course, I can’t write, because I’ve managed to come down with writer’s block of all fucking things. And even if I could write, the head of my editing team is off on their honeymoon and having a baby at that.
It seems as though everyone is having—or wanting—a baby.
But then maybe that’s the answer.
The breath I was holding is finally let out.
I also let go of the glass in my hand, leaving it on the counter. I turn to face Rebecca.
It’s not entirely clear how this is going to end. Redheads—especially those with Irish blood in them—can have quite the temper. Even the lovely and softhearted ones like Rebecca.
“Let’s have a baby, Rebecca. You and me.”
Her lips part, and her blue eyes widen at my words.
She looks one part surprised, one part angry, and two parts unamused. It’s the “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” cocktail.
“I didn’t tell you that to be mocked, Killian.” She glares. “And I certainly didn’t tell you that so that you could use it as some in to get into my pants again.”
“I’m serious, Rebecca. Dead serious. Look into my eyes.”
As mad it is sounds, I’m genuine in my offer.
“I don’t have time for your jokes, Killian,” she scoffs.
Maybe it’s the whiskey—and the Guinness.
Maybe I’m really just that horny and wanting any excuse to get her back into bed.
Or maybe I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.
That seems like the most likely explanation.
Since she doesn’t immediately hit me, maybe she sees that I’m not just taking the piss.
“I get how much you love kids, Rebecca. You’re the greatest illustrator of children’s books in the world because of how much you love them. And I know how much being a mother means to you. I know how wonderful you would be at it.”
I know that I may be laying it on thick, but it’s also the truth—truth that I hope works in my favor.
“So you want to have a child and have a big happy family with me? Is that it?”
Now here comes the part where she might still hit me.
“Not quite. Think of this as purely a business arrangement between friends or acquaintances. You get to have the baby you always dreamed of without having to worry about being stuck in a loveless marriage. You don’t have to ever worry that you’ll be single forever and with nothing to show for it. I get an extension I need for my book. It’s a win-win for the both of us.”
I can see her weighing the pros and cons. Which—for me—is a good sign.
Obviously, it isn’t everything that she dreamed of being offered, but it’s a lot that I’m throwing out there at her.
It’s a heavy-handed move on my part that—I will admit—is rather manipulative.
But I need the extra time. I have nothing to write, and I have a deadline looming over me like the fucking Ghost of Christmas Past.
The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
This way, I can tell my publisher that I, too, am having a baby and need the time off to prepare—which would all be true—and to make sure the love of my life is well taken care of during the pregnancy—which would be a slight exaggeration.
It would lift this weight off my shoulders and give my anxiety a vacation.
Who knows, maybe all the baby-making with Rebecca will get my creative juices flowing just as much as my baby-making ones.
That thought has my cock twitching a bit prematurely.
Not yet, boyo. Let the woman say “yes” first before you celebrate.
“How can I even take you seriously, Killian? You’ve been drinking all day. I could say yes now, and then you could wake up tomorrow and take it all back.”
Her breathing picks up as she imagines this scenario.
“You could show up at my door,” she continues, “and be all, ‘Oh, sorry, lass. I was a wee bit hammered last night and really didn’t mean it when I offered to have a baby with you. But I’m totally down to fuck.’” Her impression of yours truly is not that bad. “I can’t handle that kind of humiliation.”
With that last sentence, there’s this raw emotion in her voice that hits me hard. She’s put herself out there for me to see, and it’s incredibly courageous of her to do.
There’s an honesty to it that I find very admirable. It’s not something I could do, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t respect it.
Luckily for her, her fears are unfounded.
“Alright, I’ve had some drinks. There’s no point in me trying to say I haven’t. But we both know that I haven’t had enough to impair my judgment.”
I begin to close this gap between us and move slowly toward her, looking her in the eye as I explain this the best I can.
“I’m offering you this with sound mind and body. This isn’t something that I’m going to wake up tomorrow and go, ‘Oh shite, what have I done?’ I’m telling you, Rebecca, this offer is as serious and genuine as any offer could be.
“I know I can’t give you the whole big happy family bit that you want and deserve, but I can give you that piece of the puzzle. And I would like to think you know that I wouldn’t offer something like this to be cruel or to make a joke. That’s not who I am. So please, have a baby with me.”
Rebecca
All of his words linger and run in a continuous loop in the back of my mind. But it’s that last line that I focus on.
So please, have a baby with me.
Not at all how I expected the day to turn out.
“Okay, let’s say that I say ‘yes’ to your business proposal.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I can’t exactly tell myfamily. I haven’t even told them that I’m divorced yet. We would have to keep this all a secret.”
“That’s okay with me. Only people who need to know are you, me, and my publisher. That’s it. Everyone else can be on a need-to-know basis.”
I can’t believe how crazy and ridiculous this all is. I went from accepting that I would never get my happy ending and have kids to being one word away from getting it all.
Sure, I never envisioned being a single mother—I’m sure not many women do—but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t gladly do it.
I bet I’d be pretty damn great at it, in fact. It still feels like there’s a black hole in my heart leftover from my marriage, and it’s hard to imagine that ever healing. But when I think about having kids, I know for freaking certain that I have all the love in the world to give—and then some.
And even on a practical level, being a single mom wouldn’t be all bad. Especially since I don’t exactly have a typical job that requires me to go to the office and be away from home for forty-plus hours a week. I would have all the opportunities to be there for the baby.
For my child.
I would be there every step of the way to
guide and encourage them as they grow. There’s nothing I would have to miss out on.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It might be the best thing I could do with my life, and I’m sure it would be more rewarding than I could even begin to imagine now.
But then, would it be fair for the baby? I know I have more than enough love in me to make up for two parents, but what do I say or do when they get older and ask about their father?
Do I tell them the truth and say that it was just a business arrangement and that their father didn’t actually want them? Or do I play with the truth and twist it about into some kind of romantic fairy tale?
What really bothers me is the thought that I might be considering this not because I really want a baby—even though I absolutely do—but because of my recent divorce from Dickhead.
That black hole in my heart might be clouding my judgment and pushing me to jump on whatever opportunities I find to get what he refused to give me.
Speaking of the divorce, like I said, I still haven’t even told my family about it. I can just imagine being at the next family gathering and saying, “Hey, everyone, I just divorced my abusive asshole of a husband, and I’m also having a baby with Irishman who spends more time in a pub than the bartender. Pass the rolls and butter, please.”
No, I don’t see that going over too well.
My poor mother would probably have a fucking stroke, and Grandma would make everyone uncomfortable when she asks—and she would ask—if the baby daddy was hung or not.
In those exact words.
“Fuck, I need a drink.”
I brush past Killian and walk right up to the counter. I grab the glass of whiskey that he had poured for himself, and I drink it in one go.
The chestnut-colored alcohol burns on the way down my throat—just as I need it to—and I can’t help but let out a small cough after I swallow it.
I’ve never had Locke’s Whiskey before, but it’s actually really good. Better than Bushmills, though not as good as Jameson.
This is something I need to pick up more of the next time I’m in town.
Pouring another glass of whiskey, this one filled nearly to the top, I take another deep breath. My mind is racing with the pros and cons of the idea taking turns trying to persuade me.