by SM Lumetta
“Don’t get nervous again,” he says in his soothing nurse tone. He starts scratching Flower behind her ears. She dog-groans in approval. “I am definitely weirded out by the request, that’s for sure,” he admits. “But I’m also intrigued. You think I’m hot enough to mate with, so this is news.”
I groan. “I hate you so much,” I say, fake bawling like a D-list actor breakdown.
He grins his “I know you’re bullshitting me” grin, which makes me hate him for about five seconds. Then I just admit that I do think he’s hot enough to mate with.
“Fine, you’re hot—haven’t we covered this? God, you’re enamored of yourself.”
“I’m just loosening you up, Lolls. You’re far too uptight about this. Maybe you should have come over this morning to hit the water with me.”
I lean my head to one side and sigh, capping it with a slight eye-roll. “I’m still a little nervous. That last spill caught me so off guard, it took a little confidence with it.”
“You weren’t seriously hurt,” he says, sweet and encouraging.
“It wasn’t the physical effects that have kept me out of the water, Critter,” I say, using his nickname my grandma Jean used to call him. She still does sometimes, but only when she wants him to know he’s “too big for his britches.”
“I know. But you should get back up on the board soon.”
“I will. After I get up on yours,” I tease, finally feeling a little less stressed over this whole approach-my-best-dude-for-dick idea.
When he whips his head in my direction, he stares at me, affecting a shocked face. In fact, he’s—yep, he’s doing The Scream now. Munch would be proud. I mimic him and soon we’re roaring.
“Nice one,” he murmurs. “So when would we get started?”
Aaand the nerves are back. “Um, well, I… hmm. I think I’d rather you seriously think about this overnight at least. Let it settle. Marinate.”
“Stew? Soup? Casserole?”
“Dick.”
“Dick casserole? That’s like a seventies superhero,” he muses, proud of his lame joke. “Or maybe porn.”
“Oh my God,” I say with a groan.
“You better get ready to say that a lot,” he adds with a wicked grin on his face. Which I have to stop myself from slapping because it’s entirely possible that I will break his nose this time.
“I’m leaving,” I declare, removing myself from his sofa and searching for my wayward purse on my way to the door. “You’re a sick individual. I’m so glad I asked you.”
“I think we’ve discussed my hotness,” he calls.
“Yeah, and you get less hot with every declaration!” I say before closing the door behind me. Then I rethink and open it to shout inside, “Let alone the intelligence that leaks out with every word about it!”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Clearly you need some intelligence injections. I can help you with that, too,” he says.
I nearly collapse because I realize his goddamn sex jokes are going to be near constant whether we go through with this or not.
I find myself crouched just inside the door, my hand gripping the doorknob as I hang my head in shame. Shame for even considering this. But I’m laughing, too, so I guess it’s not all shame. “I truly hate you, Monkhouse.”
“Smoochual, Lollipop,” he calls. Flower barks.
I just grin and push up so I can close the door and leave for real. “Call me if you have any legitimate questions or concerns,” I say, trying to sound as nurse-y as possible. “Except I’ve completely changed my mind, so forget it.”
“Call you tomorrow, baby momma!”
“Christ, Fox,” I say, popping my head in the door for hopefully the last time today. “I’m serious! I need you to think about this. It is not a ‘what should I have for dinner’ kind of decision. It’s a lifelong affecting kind of thing. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees, sounding like a scorned teenager. I half expect him to follow with, “God.”
“Consider all the possible ramifications and shit.”
He makes an idiotic face. We’re impossible. We are simply incapable of keeping things serious for more than a minute.
“I’m out of here.”
I hear him call out that no matter what, he will continue to mop the floor with my ass in Mortal Kombat. Because he’s nothing if not classy. Ahem, klassy.
When I get home, I throw my keys on the counter and stare at my place. I decide to make some dinner and relax before making it an early night. Cooking is not my favorite thing but it is one of the things I can do to straighten out the tangle of snakes in my stressed mind. I have a meeting in the early afternoon for a new film project that’s coming into the production studio I work for and have to drive into LA. Where I live in Bodhi Beach is a little way south of Santa Barbara, so it’ll take me well over an hour to get there. Probably two, but I like to delude myself that I won’t have to be in the car that long. I plan to get up early to avoid the bulk of the shitty-ass LA traffic and take the PCH down. At the very least, it will be scenic, and I can pretend I’m going to get back on a surfboard sometime soon. The last time I surfed, I wiped out pretty badly, so I’m a little skittish over it. Soon, I hope.
As I settle on my sofa for some mindless TV and grub, I wonder what is going through Fox’s mind. Is he flattered? He seemed at least somewhat touched by the fact I asked him. He could easily be scared shitless. I mean, we’re friends, always will be. If I’m going to have his kid, it could feasibly get weird when the kid asks, “Who’s my daddy?”
Shit. Did I not think this through at all? I jump up from my awesome, saved-my-rotting-veggies-from-compost meal on the coffee table in the living room and pace around.
Okay, think about it. What would I say to my kid? Fuuuuck, how am I going to be a mother when just thinking the phrase “my kid” and imagining trying to parent said child, let alone discuss highfalutin crap like “why aren’t you married to my daddy” leaves me in a total freak-out?
The audience murmurs among themselves. They’re judging me. Doubting me.
Before I can talk myself into a full-on panic attack, I grab my phone and call Nora. She has a knack for talking me down. Sometimes literally smacking me down, but not in a violent way. Once, she actually sat on me so I would stop moving.
I yell at the phone between each ring, “Pick up. Pick up, goddammit! Nora, quit ignoring me. Get off Facebook, for the love of all that’s—”
“Stop yelling at me. I was taking a leak!” she snaps by way of greeting. “You’re terrible!”
I roll right past it. It’s what we do. “I’m kind of panicking. Freak out and flail sort of panicking.”
She sucks in a breath. “Ooh, you talked to Foxypants today, didn’t you? What did he say? Are you preparing to hop on the baby-maker express right now? Is he there?”
Oh my God. “Seriously, Nor, you could use a drink.”
“Oh no,” she says, completely changing her “tell me sordid details” tune. “Are you guys in a fight now?”
“No! I’m—he’s thinking about it. I wouldn’t take an absolute answer right away. Not for something like this. Even if he was super nonchalant and all, ‘Yeah, let’s bone,’ I’d make him think it over.” I’m not just nervous, but agitated as well, and I pace faster.
Nora exhales into the phone. She senses the crazy amping up. “Oh, okay. Yeah, that makes sense. I suggested that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, everything I do correctly is thanks to you,” I say free of sarcasm. And by free of sarcasm, I mean not at all.
“Twat.”
“No, thanks. So wine night? Just one bottle, though, I have to drive to LA in the morning.”
“I can’t. Boss is up my ass about x, y, and zed campaigns, so I’m working on a bunch of press releases tonight.” She sounds irritated. Her boss is kind of a psycho.
“You can’t use an hour break for one glass?”
“You drive a hard bargain. I’ll be there in ten.” It takes twenty minu
tes from her house, but knowing the way she drives it will, in fact, only be ten. I just hope she doesn’t maim anyone on the way over.
We’re a bottle down already and I’m sure the one we’re in now may not be the last. We’ve got music on and Nora is loudly ticking off points on her fingers why Fox is not a horrible choice to, and I quote, “screw me like a lightbulb.”
“Right, okay, right. I got this. You’re right! It’s a compliment to ask someone to father your kid, right?” I say, totally ignoring how loose my muscles feel. Well, most of them. This Cabernet is seeping into my calves and weighing me down something fierce. I prefer to think of it as “grounding.”
“Totally!” she agrees. “If he’s not mature enough to take it that way, then he’ll only be doing you a favor by saying no!”
I stop, my wine-weighted legs bolted to the floor. In fact, I feel like I’m wearing lead boots. And why do I keep parading through my living room with every thought?
“Son of a fuck knob, what if he says no?” My voice is screechy, which annoys even me. Nora visibly flinches and sticks a finger in her ear as if to soothe a ruptured eardrum.
“I can see that was the wrong thing to say,” she says. Her strong voice goes deep, like whiskey deep—which we are not drinking tonight, honest to God. If the whiskey comes out, it’s a bad, bad sign. Nothing good will come of it. “I don’t think he’ll say no. For real. One hundred percent, I think he’ll agree. I’m just saying that if it were possible for him to say no, it would be because he’s not mature enough to see all the facets of you asking. Or something.”
She slurred a little in the middle, but I think that was because she was talking too fast. Or because the wine forced cobwebs to grow in my ears at a ludicrous speed. Dammit, I should have eaten more of my stir-fry. Hey, it’s still in the fridge. I should heat that shit up.
“Focus, Fordham,” Nora calls. “You’re unraveling.”
I turn to her and nod, and then sit my ass down on a floor cushion and belly up to the bar. That is, the coffee table where the second bottle of wine sits nearly empty. A breeze sweeps through the open window and around the room. It’s a relief. I feel slightly calmer.
“Do we need a third?” I ask, sort of not asking. I’m hoping she’ll make the right decision for both of us.
She sits up and twists her long black hair on top of her head, magically securing it in a knot without a single fucking bobby pin. My mouth drops open. I’ve seen her do it many a time, but it never ceases to make me jealous. That never works for me.
She leans forward, her elbows on her thighs. Her head swings back and forth and part of me is relieved she’s going to say no, but I admit there’s also disappointment. Dammit, I’m drunk enough already.
“Yes. Yes, we do,” she says.
The hangover I have when my alarm clock goes off at five thirty in the morning is the kind where you immediately think you would rather die than ever hear that noise again. The headache I’ve got makes me sensitive to light, and though I have never gotten a migraine, I can now relate. I just hope I don’t vomit. Oh God. I’m going to vomit.
Post-porcelain worship, I feel mildly better, though my head might have split open. I kind of want to kill Nora for letting me dive headfirst into bottle number three, but I did suggest it. She will be the first to remind me of that. What irritates me most is that the bitch probably doesn’t even have cotton mouth this morning. Luck of the Irish half of her genes, I guess.
Somehow I get myself out of the house almost on time, despite wishing I had a pair of those massive sunglasses they give to people after corneal replacement surgery. The sun feels like flaming daggers to the head, but after a gallon of water, four ibuprofen, and a drive-through egg sandwich with bacon and cheese, I feel human… ish. I also make two extra pit stops from all that damn water.
At pit stop number two, my cellphone rings. I unlock my car and sit down before answering.
“I’m in.” It’s Fox. My stomach flips, but this time, it’s not nausea. Well, not that kind of nausea anyway.
“Really?” I ask. I’m surprised and not. I guess it’s getting more real by the second. My heart is beating out of control, though I can’t be one hundred percent sure that it’s not because my head’s still pounding and I want to drink another gallon of water. I’m really happy I didn’t start driving because I think I have to pee again already. “I mean, are you sure?”
“Yeah, I am. I think we can do this, and, ya know, I’d like to do this for you.” He sounds genuine, and thankfully, appropriately serious right now. “Oh, and I wanted to be clear: when I say ‘I’m in,’ I mean that I will be. In you.”
I hang up the phone. Can’t let him get cockier by knowing I think he’s funny.
The next week, Fox comes over to raid my fridge for leftovers. I save extras, but rarely eat them, so he takes advantage of me. Hmm, that sounds interesting in this context.
Fox plops himself onto my couch. He’s just wearing his scrub pants—the shirt is unsurprisingly MIA. He must have had a morning shift. I worked from home a bit, hence I’m lounging in my pj’s in the fluffy mega chair across from him.
“Let’s talk terms.”
“Terms?” he asks, shrugging. I love how he acts all nonchalant, the prick. “What terms? I stick it in, jizz, you get knocked up, end of story.”
I stare at him, my eyes narrowing. I shake my head lightly, leaning to one side like a confused dog. Wait, did I just call myself a bitch?
“I’ve never really pitied you until now,” I say.
“I’m fucking with you.” He rolls his eyes, smiling.
“Remember where that got you last time?” I tap my nose and he puts his entire hand over his own, gasping like an offended southern belle at a Junior League high tea.
“You never used to be so violent.”
“Maybe you’ve gotten wimpier. Terms?”
“Right, okay. Sure. But we don’t need an actual contract, do we?” He looks concerned. “Like, drawn up by a lawyer, signed and notarized kind of shit?”
“Christ, I know the process, but no, I don’t think so. I just want to set some ground rules, you know?” I nervously scratch at my arm. Do I need a contract? A million catastrophic outcomes swirl through my head like a category five hurricane. I pinch the bridge of my nose. That hangover from last week echoes through my skull.
He pulls the Kermit face. I snort trying to suppress a giggle. He maintains the expression and it kind of warms my chest. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose just to be a goof. Regardless, my qualms liquefy and I’m much more solid in my decision. It’s Fox. We’re good. We’ll be fine.
The audience murmurs. I give them the hairy eyeball.
“I don’t like the sound of that. Rules,” he says, kind of gagging on the word. He brushes invisible crumbs off his bare chest and well-defined abs. Hmm, very nice abs.
I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’re lazy.”
“Am not,” he says, visibly offended.
“You couldn’t even be bothered to wear a shirt today.”
He breaks into a shit-eating grin. “Just getting you warmed up.” He makes a goofy kissy face while he pops his pecs.
“The land of plenty just dried up,” I say, making a circular motion with my hand in front of my crotch. “Way to go.”
He puts on a snooty air. “Don’t get me turned on—we haven’t discussed the rules yet.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Harriet,” I say. “It’s common sense shit, so relax. Point one: I want you to get tested.”
“Excuse me?” He legitimately seems offended. “I wrap the staff.”
It hurts that he’s dead serious about using that phrase. Like “the staff” is a religious icon. I get up from my spot on the big fluffy chair and cross the open floor to the refrigerator. He calls after me, but I ignore him. I pull out the orange juice and a glass from the cupboard.
“Screwdrivers?”
“Appropriate,” he agrees with a nod. He twists
and leans back, kicking his feet up as he stretches out on the sofa. “They’re like mimosas for adults.”
“Or alcoholics.” His responding “heh” pulls a louder echo of the sound from me, and I slap the counter. “Ah, such pride in our debauchery.”
“It’s the main reason we’re friends.”
“Other than the mile-long list of blackmail fodder we have on each other,” I say, pointing at him with the vodka bottle.
“Fair. Secret backpack-puker.” He grins like the goddamn Joker as I stare at him with a mixture of awe, disgust, and paralytic shock.
When I’m able to blink again, let alone speak, I set down the bottle and grip the counter. “You dirty bastard,” I hiss, my eyes still wide. “Or should I say, bed wetter?”
His face takes on an appropriately equal level of offense and surprise. “That is totally normal!” he shouts.
“Yeah, for babies,” I say. “And by the way, I had the fucking stomach flu! At least I didn’t barf all over the bus—or you!”
“I’m not sure our friendship would have survived,” he muses, looking out the window. Again, is the Academy watching? Is this Big Brother or some other fucked up reality show? Where’s the camera?
“I’m drinking both of these,” I say, holding up two glasses of vodka and OJ. “Because you’re impossible. Also, rude and mean.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, preening at me. He runs his fingers over his hair and then he fluffs it, because he’s a jackass. “Love you! You love me, right?”
“Not today, Satan. Not today,” I say with a wink. I take a sip of my drink.
“Why do I love RuPaul’s Drag Race so much?” he asks, hilariously catching my reference.
“Because I feed you when you watch it with me. And sometimes Cameron comes over in drag.”
“Fair.”
I hand him his glass as I set down mine on the table. He takes a sip and takes my arm hostage, tickling my palm with his middle finger. I yank my hand back and make some crazy squealing sound. “Oh my God! I felt that in my gigi!”