by Kat T. Masen
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you acting like a jerk?”
Chewing his mouthful of bread at a slow and annoying pace, he eventually swallows to answer my question. “Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbles, taking another bite to avoid talking.
“God, you’re such a woman. Whenever someone says ‘nothing’s wrong,’ there’s always something wrong,” I complain.
“Geez, you nag like the rest of them.”
“Did you say that I nag like the rest of them? You know what?” Whether it is the stifling heat or the anger consuming me, my body temperature rises, and suddenly I feel woozy. “I’m jumping into the lake.”
His knee-jerk reaction is laughable. I’ve jumped into this lake a million times, and today is no exception. Taking my wedges off, I carry them and place them on a rock. It would have been a good idea to wear my swimmers, but this heat is overbearing, and my dress will dry within minutes.
“There could be anything in that lake,” he warns me.
“Can’t be as bad as what’s beside me,” I mutter under my breath.
My feet move toward the shoreline, and instantly, cool water graces my skin as I breathe a sigh of relief. Moving further in, my muscles relax as I sink my entire body. A couple of kids are playing in the water not too far away, and on this hot summer day, I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.
Haden is standing on the sandbank, watching me in amusement.
“What?” I yell out. “Worried you’ll get that pretty hairstyle of yours wet?”
Didn’t Vicky say he’s into extreme sports? Not that lake swimming is an extreme sport, but reality is that anything could be lurking in this water.
He takes off his shoes and places them beside mine. Next, he pulls his shirt off, revealing his perfect—and I mean perfect—set of abs. Shit, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Wearing only his shorts, he takes his glasses off and hides them in his shoes. Moving toward the edge of the rock, he dives in, causing a huge splash before he resurfaces right beside me.
“FYI, I’m not afraid to get my hair wet,” he says, out of breath and way too close to me.
“Could have fooled me. Thought you were an adrenaline junkie… or what was it your Facebook page said?”
“You’ve stalked me?” He grins, swimming around me like a hunter circling its prey.
“Uh… no, not me. Vicky did. She’s the social media addict.”
“You stalked me,” he gloats.
“I didn’t stalk you. But I have no idea who you are. So yes, Vicky stalked you, and I may have listened, but I want to point out that I resisted.” I’m folding my arms like a petulant child as he continues to grin like he is winning this battle.
Well, two can play at this game.
“Two Yorkshire Terriers… really?” I tease.
“Harry Potter… really, Malone?”
“Wait.” I grin unwillingly. “You’ve stalked me?”
“I had no idea who you are.” His smile remains fixed. “Let’s see, aside from Harry Potter, you’re into swimming, extreme cleaning, and what’s the other thing…” He continues, “Oh, that’s right, you’re obsessed with cats.”
“No, no,” I correct him. “I’m not into cats. I just have a lot of crazy cat-lady friends. Personally, becoming a crazy cat lady is my worst fear.”
He laughs with ease. “You’re too beautiful to be a crazy cat lady.”
I respond quickly to avoid my embarassment, “Didn’t you watch that episode of The Simpsons where they show how Crazy Cat Lady became just that? She was beautiful, graduated with a doctorate and law degree, and then became so burned out she began drinking. She got one cat… then another… and so on.”
His expression remains fixed as he watches me in a curious yet heartwarming way.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“You’re cute when you’re quoting The Simpsons.”
“Um… thank you? So anyway, anyone can become a crazy cat lady.”
Continuing to swim circles around me, he appears to be unable to wipe the smirk off his face. I’m not quite sure what’s so funny, but the looming gray clouds followed by thunder in the distance divert my attention.
“Time to get out,” I suggest, eyeing the clouds again. “Plus, I’m hungry.”
“You just ate,” he points out, swimming beside me to the rock.
I walk out slowly and squeeze my dress to wring out the excess water. It’s an excuse to ignore his wet body right beside me. Bending down to grab his shoes, the muscles of his back tense, causing me to lick my lips unknowingly. With quick reflexes, he catches me looking and gives me a wink. Okay, what a cocky thing to do. I let out a huff, then tell him to hurry his ass up.
We head back home to find that Gemma and Melissa have arrived early. Seeing both of them makes me super excited. It’s been a while, and I’ve missed their fun-loving ways so much.
Gemma is also known as the Chameleon in our family. The last time I saw her, she had black hair with streaks of blue. Today she’s rocking a new, shorter style dyed gray. People often say she looks like Dad, which isn’t such a bad thing unless she had inherited his beer gut. Thank God, she hasn’t.
“Lil’ sis!” She rushes up to me and squeezes me tightly. I forgot to mention that she’s only five feet tall, making her the shortest in our family. I hold onto her until she pulls away and rubs my belly until it bugs me, forcing me to swat her hands away.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be an auntie!” She hands me a green gift bag, and I stare back at her, confused. “For the baby, silly.”
Finally catching on, I place my hand in the bag and pull out a white onesie. It’s tiny, and I mean one-of-my-boobs-could-barely-fit-in-there kind of tiny.
I hold the onesie up and read out the print. “My aunt is hotter than your aunt.”
Everyone around me breaks into laughter, and even though it’s lame, I laugh along with them.
Melissa pushes Gemma aside and reaches out her arms. I happily embrace her, and she gently whispers in my ear, “He’s cute, Pres… real cute.”
No shit. That is half my problem. If he were drop-dead ugly, I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.
The obligatory introductions begin, and already Gemma has found something in common with the Jerk—they both love horror flicks—something I despise. We move into the living room, and Gemma pops in a DVD since my parents were behind in technology. It’s something about a lunatic murdering people in some rural town. It’s gory, unpleasant, and by the time the second person is killed within ten minutes of the movie starting, I jump ship and escape to the kitchen where my sanity and will to live remain intact.
“Since you’re in here, how about you peel those potatoes for me?”
Mom hands me the bag of potatoes as I happily chat away about work, life in the city, and Vicky.
“That girl sounds like a bad influence,” Mom scowls.
“Honestly, Mom, I’m not ten. If anything, maybe I’m the bad influence. Uh, hello!” I point to my belly.
Mom simply shakes her head, then entertains me with the latest family gossip. Before I know it, the food is ready, and I am famished just smelling the enticing aromas.
An array of food is spread out on the dinner table. My mom, a.k.a. Martha Stewart, has gone all out, even using her fancy silverware. Everyone else enters the room, talking animatedly about the movie. I take a seat beside my dad, and Haden follows by sitting on my other side. We say grace, then dig in, all the while talking about random topics including Gemma and Melissa’s house in L.A.
“I love L.A. There’s a nice buzz to it. Plus, I love surfing,” Haden says.
“You’ll love our new place,” Melissa adds. “We’re a block from the beach, and there’s plenty of cafes and shops along the boardwalk. Maybe Presley can bring you along next time?”
“I’d love that.” He grins, shoving a piece of chicken into his mouth while he watches me.
What the hell just happened? Now he’s taking va
cations with me.
When did it cross over from enemy to friend?
Note to self—do not rely on your family to hate him because clearly, he has them under some magic spell.
“So, Haden, tell us about your family?” My mom moves to the subject that I so desperately want to ask about but have never found the courage to do so. He places his fork down and appears to change his demeanor. His smile whittles to nothing but a bleak stare. The light in his eyes almost darkens.
“My family lives in New Jersey. Mom works at the local library in her spare time, and my twin sisters, Lucy and Lennie, are in college.”
“You have twin sisters?” I blurt out, almost spitting out my peas.
“Yes. Annoying twin sisters, but yes.”
“Oh my God, Pres, you could be carrying twins,” Gemma cries out loud.
I shut her down immediately. “No, there’s definitely only one baby inside.”
I take my phone out of my pocket and produce the picture I had taken of the ultrasound. I point out the baby as my phone is passed around the table until it lands into Haden’s palms.
Quietly, he stares at the photograph, and I realize only then that he hasn’t seen the picture of the baby yet. That’s partly my fault. For a man who yo-yos from giving a shit to not giving a shit, I figured he didn’t care about stuff like ultrasounds.
I watch his facial expression, the look of curiosity as his eyes narrow in on the baby, and the way his lips purse contently. He turns to face me and, embarrassed, I try to look away, but he has caught me staring.
“Do you know what the sex is?” he asks, just short of a whisper.
“Uh… no. I could have found out, but the baby decided to do this somersault thing and covered its bits. I’d say it’s either a boy or girl,” I state, trying to lighten the conversation and ending with a short chuckle.
“Our friends, Ella and Jess, were told they were having a girl and bought everything pink. Turned out to be a boy,” Gemma tells us. “Let’s just say that kid may give Elton John a run for his money, what with all the pretty colors and sparkly fabrics.”
“Happened to your Aunt Kathy, too,” Mom adds.
“It doesn’t matter what sex the baby is,” I mumble as the conversation continues around me.
“Of course not. As long as the baby is healthy, that’s all that matters.” Mom smiles.
I hate to admit it, and I feel like the worst person in the world, but it kind of does matter. I’m terrified of having a girl because I am one, and I know how high-maintenance they can be. My dad once told me that having two girls was a sure-fire way of dying from an early stroke. It was around the time we were both in high school and felt the need to disregard our curfew multiple times.
On top of that, I had joined part of an online group made up of single mothers. A lot of them talked about how raising a girl in their teens is difficult and how boys tend to protect their mothers. Now, I don’t know if that’s all bullshit, but one mother posted about her fourteen-year-old daughter running off with her twenty-five-year-old boyfriend one night. I decided then and there that if the universe cared for me at all, just the slightest bit, I would have a happy little boy.
With dinner almost over, the conversation moves to sports, and I leave the table to clear the dishes. At the sink, my mom stands alongside me and places her arm around my shoulders.
“One step at a time, Presley. You have your whole family here to support you,” she reminds me. “And by the look of it, you’ve got Haden’s support, too.”
“I don’t even know him, Mom.”
“Then, get to know him, Presley. He’s going to be in your life whether you like it or not.”
“How is that even going to work, Mom?” I whisper beside her. “He’s getting married. Does the baby stay at his place on weekends? What about when they have their own kids?”
“Honey, you’ll work it out. You always do. You’re my little planner,” she reassures me. “And besides, have you thought about moving back home so Dad and I can help you?”
I try not to laugh. Living with my parents again would only highlight how pathetic my life has become. I am used to being a strong, independent woman, even in my relationship with Jason. I don’t need a man. Hand me a toolbox, and I’m Miss Fix-It. Turn the television to ESPN, and I’ll talk stats with the best of them. No, I don’t need a man, except for sex. Greedy Kitty down below needs more than a flick of the bean.
“The offer is there, Presley. Pride aside, consider what’s best for your child.”
I place my hands in the water and think about what Mom had just said as I listen to the conversation at the table about baseball. When Dad starts to talk about the Yankees, and Haden expresses his love for the team, there’s a shift in my Dad’s voice, and soon he’s calling him ‘son’ and inviting him out to the range tomorrow.
They both ramble on, the conversation turning to extreme fishing. Haden whips out his phone and loads a video from YouTube. Really? Extreme fishing.
With the final plate put away, my mom calls it a night with my dad at her tail. Haden follows me to the living room to join everyone else. Much to my disapproval, Gemma decides to put on a Stephen King movie, and the only seat available is on the two-seater sofa beside Haden. I take a seat beside him and brace myself for the worst.
Honestly, I could kill Gemma and Haden right now with the nightmares that will plague me because of this damn clown. I swear I am so close to shitting in my pants. The moment the face pops up from the drain, I jump in fear, and at the same time, that familiar flutter pokes my belly, and I’m almost one hundred percent certain the baby just moved.
“I think the baby just kicked.”
Gemma pauses the movie, rushing to my belly and placing her hands across it. Melissa is also waiting and places her hands near Gemma’s. I feel like a science project with all hands on me but Haden’s. He looks uncertain and waits for me to allow him to place his hands on there too. I tell him it’s okay, and I guide his hand to the part where I felt the last flutter. Of course, nothing happens, and everyone grows bored, including me, so the movie is turned back on. With the lights turned off and the volume cranked up so loud, my body tenses in anticipation. Then again… that little prod.
I don’t waste the moment, so I inch closer to Haden. Grabbing his hand, I place it on top of my stomach, and within seconds, the baby kicks again.
I hear him gasp, followed by a heartwarming on-top-of-the-world type of smile. With his hand still on my stomach, we watch the rest of the movie until the credits start to roll. When the lights are turned back on, he removes his hand, and I feel an instant loss.
Don’t get attached, Presley.
We all call it a night, especially because Haden is waking up early the next day to go out with Dad.
In my room, dressed in my tank and boxers, I toss and turn, unable to sleep with the face of that fucking clown taunting me. Stupid Gemma. Even as a child, she would do this to me, and the worst part was, she never got scared.
I try to busy myself with my phone, reading some articles on post-partum routines and retweeting some interesting facts, until I look at the clock and see that it’s past midnight. Everything in my room is freaking me out, from the shadow of my curtains to the swaying tree outside. I need to pee but dare not get up for the bathroom. When I am sure my bladder is on the verge of exploding, I run to use it but refuse to look inside the drain, paranoid about a certain clown murdering me.
I am no closer to falling asleep, so I decide to do the unthinkable and send him a text.
Me: Are you awake? FuckingPennywise
That little bubble appears on my screen.
Haden: Yes.
I jump out of bed and, without thinking, walk down the hall and tap on his door. He says to come in, and when I enter the room, I’m surprised to see him shirtless and reading a book. I’m not surprised it’s a Stephen King novel.
Don’t look at his abs, even though they deserve to be looked at.
“I can’t sleep.”
“I figured since you were on Twitter for the last hour.”
“You follow me?”
He nods and pats the bed beside him. I move closer to the edge of the bed, trying to create some much-needed distance between us.
“I hate that movie. Who writes a book about clowns killing children?”
“A very talented author.” He chuckles.
“Our kid is never watching that movie,” I tell him.
He keeps still, and I turn to look at him, wondering why he remains silent. Okay, avoid the fucking six-pack because you know it’s only the hormones. If I wasn’t pregnant, I wouldn’t look at him this way.
“Is the baby moving now?” he asks.
“Uh, no… why?”
“You’re squirming.”
“Oh… just uncomfortable.” Great lie.
His eyebrows raise in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“My back is stiff from the extra weight.” Fantastic lie!
“Here,” he says, then shuffles behind me.
I feel his hands press against my upper back rubbing the spot that needs the most attention. I let out an involuntary moan and regret it almost immediately. The warmth of his breath is only inches from my ear, and I feel the goosebumps settle across my skin.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” I almost choke.
Allowing my body to relax, I close my eyes and enjoy his gentle caress until the baby moves again. Quickly, I grab his hand and move it toward the spot where the baby kicked. He moves in closer behind me until his chest is pressed up against my back. The echoes of our heavy breathing are the only sounds heard, and his soft breaths are inching along my skin, taunting me, teasing me until I am feeling things I know I shouldn’t.
Barely above a whisper and under his touch, I warn him that we shouldn’t be doing this.
“We’re not doing anything,” he murmurs back.
“Are you sure about that?”