by Kira Graham
I’m hot now, but come on—next to Chilli, that’s like saying that Jen could compete with Angelina. Not that she can’t! I love you, Jennifer! It’s just that some people are hot, and some people are waaaay beyond hot. Indescribably hot. I should punch him. I should just hit him—
“You know, staring is weird,” a voice mumbles, making me yip out a curse and blink back at Chilli, whose gray eyes crinkle at the sides as he chuckles at me.
“I wasn’t staring,” I mutter, flushing guiltily and wondering if it’s okay to make the same mistake twice.
I mean, we’ve already had sex. What harm could a little more do?
“You totally were. Don’t sweat it, though, babe. I get it—”
“Oh my God, you are so vain,” I grumble, resisting when he slings an arm around me and shifts me closer, his nose going to my neck, where I usually have a ticklish spot, but don’t right now.
Huh. It’s almost like my body wants him close enough not to feel—oh my God, just get over yourself already. Just stop pretending that you’re not the one doing the wanting, I hiss at myself, even as I melt into Chilli’s side and try to stop myself from crawling all over him.
“No, I meant that I get it. You’re probably looking at me, asking yourself what you’re doing letting my ass back into your bed,” he tells me, settling me even closer to him when I don’t make a move to get away.
Because I don’t want to, and, despite knowing what a mistake this was—and is—I let him hold me and turn my head to meet his eyes, a little taken aback by the serious way that he’s looking at me.
“What?”
“Are you? Sorry that you let me back in?” he asks, his eyes flitting away as if he’s afraid to hear the truth.
My heart wants me to lie and say no, I am not sorry, and in a small way, it’d be true. Just not enough that I can forget the other part, where I do feel a twinge of regret. Even though that first part of me keeps screaming and reminding me that the sex was so good that I’m still humming from the aftereffects of those orgasms he gave me. See? I’m a lost freaking cause. But an honest one, who isn’t going to lie to myself, or to Chilli, even if lying guarantees me immediate sex.
“Honestly? Yeah. No, don’t say anything and try to laugh this off. I’m trying to be serious with you. I am sorry that we’ve been together, but not because I regret…this,” I say, indicating the bed and my bump that’s sticking up beneath the sheet. “It’s the other stuff. It’s everything that’s happened with us, and the whole reason I panicked. I like you, Chilli. I always have, even when I was pranking the hell out of you, and that’s the problem. You’re a good guy, and you’re great to be buddies with, but on a romantic level, you’re not all that awesome. You don’t do relationships, and if you’d stuck around long enough for me to wake up the next morning, I would have assured you that I wasn’t angling for or expecting one. And then your little panic attack and subsequent cold shoulder showed me that when it comes to romantic entanglements with you, getting into one would just be me shooting myself in the foot,” I admit, hating the way that his brow dips and he glances away, seeming a little hurt.
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I believe you, because we are friends, Chilli. We used to be good friends, who are now still sort of friends, and, on that basis, we’re cool. Being your friend, though, means that I get to be completely honest with you, and that means that I have to tell you that I was pissed at you for assuming that one night in bed with you would turn me into some Chilli-chasing nut, and I was even angrier at myself for not having resisted when I knew that our friendship was on the line. All that being said, though…I have to let the other stuff go and find a way for you and me to be friends again, because no matter what, we’re in this together now. It’s this sleeping together stuff that’s the mistaken, ‘Oh my God, what am I doing?’ part. And that’s because I’m asking myself why I’m letting my body rule me when I need to think with my mind right now. I’m pregnant, Chilli, and amusing freak-outs aside, I have to be smart from here on out. I need to be emotionally ready for these kids to come and invade my life, and I have to make sure that I’m prepared for everything that comes with them. We can be friends and partners in crime, and raise these kids together, but anything else just won’t work,” I say sadly, my chest aching when he flips the sheet aside and rises, pulling on his jeans. “We’re just not…good together when the orgasms fade, and real life intrudes.”
“You’re saying that we won’t ever have anything more?” he asks, his anger seeping through, though I can see that he’s attempting to keep it chained.
“To what purpose? Look, after the way you almost fainted when I mentioned marriage, I’d say with a really large amount of certainty that that’s not something you’re all in on. And if that’s the case, then what else could there be between us? You’re a commitment-phobe—”
“So are you!” Chilli points out, his arm flexing when he pushes a hand through his hair. “I know everything about you, Al, remember? I know that your longest relationship was three months—before you found the guy’s toothbrush in your bathroom and had a mini heart attack.”
Yeah. That was not my finest moment, and I still send Dave a flower arrangement on his anniversary, after having set him up with someone at the ad agency to soften the blow of my rejection. Chilli isn’t wrong. I haven’t had any significant relationships, and I’ve never seen myself committing to anyone long-term, no matter what claim my mom thinks she has on my womb. But that was then. This is now, and now I have to be mature. Even if it kills me and makes my free soul scream.
“That’s true. It’s all completely true, and within that framework, you and I are a stupidly perfect match, if you think about it. It’s ironic, really. Two of the world’s most commitment-phobic people should not be having babies together, and yet here we are. Having babies! But here’s the thing—I can’t think that way anymore. I have two kids coming, Chilli. Two little people who are going to rely on me to be mature and logical, and to think with more than just my heart. I’ll eventually have to commit to them, even if I don’t ever commit to anyone else. That’s where the disconnect lies: I don’t think that you can say that same thing.”
“Are you saying that I won’t commit to those babies? That’s bullshit, Al, and you know it. I already love them, for God’s sake, and I’ve already thought about everything that they’re going to need. With one of those things being a dad. I want to be a dad to my children, to be there for them every day, to see them every day, and to make them feel secure in the knowledge that I love them. But I can’t do any of that if you’re looking at me like I’m going to run at any moment,” he says accusingly, his face going hard when I swallow.
Honestly, these hormones are going to get someone killed, because if I start crying now, for no good damn reason, then I may just have to murder Chilli.
“I’m not saying that you won’t be there for them, Chilli, or that you won’t commit to them! I’m saying that you’re looking at me right now and telling yourself that I am included in that idea, but that isn’t true!”
“Bullshit. You’re the mother of my children.”
“But I don’t want to be. Not just that, Chilli! I want these babies, now that I’ve stopped panicking; I really want them, never mind all the scary stuff that comes with it. I want to be a good parent, and someone who is happy so that they are happy. Dammit, nothing is coming out right. Just...I want to be a happy mother who’ll be nice to have around, so that they’ll grow up happily, instead of some bitter troll that no one likes—”
“I can make you happy,” Chilli says softly, causing the lump in my throat to thicken as my emotions threaten to spill over.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be having this conversation right now, and I regret being so serious when he woke up. I should have kissed him and distracted him with sex—
“Al—”
“I know you can, Chilli, and God, I really want to give you the chance to try, but deep in my heart, all I
can think is: what if I don’t make you happy? What if we’re together, and you only stay because you’re a good man who does the right things? What if…we both end up miserable? Sex is great, but it’s not the only important part of a relationship; just ask Cleo and Adonis, or Rosetta and Zeus,” I try to explain.
“I don’t care what they do in their marriages or relationships, Alex. I care about what we do. We’re in this, me and you, and we’ve already proven more than once that we’re awesome together,” he insists urgently, coming over to the bed to take my hands. “We blaze hot and wild together, and we get along. That’s a lot more than a lot of other people have, and it’s a hell of a lot more than what we need to make this work. Don’t regret this. Don’t just push me away before we’ve started. Let me be with you, and let’s build a life together for our babies—and for us,” he pleads, kissing me desperately before I can answer.
I let him, holding back the tears and the doubts and everything else that doesn’t fit into the way it feels when he kisses me. I want this to be how things are. God, I hope that it’s the truth, and that we can be happy.
Because my head keeps screaming at me that this is just a mirage.
********************************************************************
“It sounds like he’s being sincere,” Mindy chirps from the stovetop, her voice sounding so happy that I have to resist the urge to throw a glass at the back of her head.
Nate just grins and shakes his head at me, his own smile turning worshipful when Mindy comes over to place two bowls of some hot dessert in front of us. I hate her, and I want to refuse to eat her stupid dessert on principle, but dammit, it smells so good, and I have no justifiable reason not to like Mindy—not after how great she’s been over the last week.
She’s actually quite awesome, to be honest, and does silly, thoughtful little things for me like making breakfast, or leaving crackers and soda beside my bed so that when I wake up, I can eat immediately and avoid barfing. She’s also awesome with Nate, who seems to have blossomed ever since we moved in together. Mindy drives him to therapy sessions when she can, and makes sure to call him every day, even when she’s hella busy trying to save her business and get more clients.
Sighing, I dig into the hot, cakey dessert topped with homemade custard and almost orgasm when its sugary vanilla flavor fills my mouth.
“Oh my God, marry me,” I moan, shoveling another spoonful into my mouth while Nate grumbles good-naturedly, and Mindy chuckles.
“Told ya you’d like it. Now, as I was saying, Chilli sounds really sincere. I say you give him a chance,” she trills.
Dammit! This is why I can’t stand her. Not only is she way too cheerful, but she’s logical as well. No one likes a freaking know-it-all. She also happens to be right most of the time, though never once has she uttered the words, “I told you so”—which miiight be because I warned her that I would murder her if she did. And she believes it. Because it’s true.
“I say you make him sweat, and then make him work for it,” Nate grunts, avoiding Mindy’s swat to the arm.
“Oh, you! Don’t be like that. I know that Chilli made some mistakes, and while I am not exactly his biggest fan, for obvious reasons, I do think that he’s at least going to try. That’s better than nothing. Besides, you’re not married,” she points out, a little too judgily for my tastes, thank you very much.
Mindy’s a hellfire and damnation kinda gal who truly believes that unwed mothers are all sinners. I don’t like that outlook, but since it’s a free country, she’s entitled to her opinion on that score. I just wish that she’d keep that shit to her fucking self. Before I rip her tongue out.
“Mindy, quit it. We’ve talked about this,” Nate mutters, his tone hard when she opens her mouth to argue.
Not that I don’t think that she has the right to argue her view. Just not to me. I don’t need one more person telling me that I’m a whore, or calling my kids bastards. In fact, the next churchgoing asshat who says anything like that to me will die, and it won’t even be me doing the killing, since Rosetta seems to magically appear whenever she’s needed nowadays.
“I was just saying—he’s apologized, and you seem to be doing okay so far. Put the guy out of his misery, Alex, and make it official.”
“Make what official, exactly? We’re not getting married, Mindy, or have you not noticed that my finger seems to be without a ring? I can’t marry someone who hasn’t fucking asked me!” I hiss, the dessert curdling in my gut all of a sudden.
It’s only been like a month, and in that time, I’ve had a lot of sex but only one doctor’s appointment because—despite the doc’s stalker-like insistence that I come in more regularly—I don’t enjoy having her shove a cold metal object up my vagina while she smiles and hums merrily. Call me crazy, but shouldn’t a normal ultrasound be sufficient? In any case, besides the sex and appointments that Chilli is intent on attending, we’ve just been hanging out. It’s been nice, almost a return to that earlier friendship we shared, only now I get to see his dick and touch it. That’s all, though. I don’t get calls during the day to ask me how I’m feeling, we haven’t been on any dates unless you count sitting on the couch and watching SVU together, and I certainly haven’t heard him mention what our living arrangements are going to be.
For now, it’s just us hanging out and having sex. Which does not an engagement ring make. Which means that no, I am not okay with Mindy constantly harping about marriage, and it certainly is not helping that she’s partly right. I’m Catholic. We believe in marriage before babies. It’s a fucking thing! Why hasn’t he proposed so that I can turn him down?
“Well, uh, I—uh, didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me, Mindy! But it’s a little hard to handle the constant reminders, especially when you consider that I can’t make someone want to marry me,” I point out, my appetite going south, along with my good humor.
Mindy, her mouth hanging open, clears her throat and rises, wringing her hands together in a way that makes me feel like dirt. Dammit.
“I, uh…think that I should…uh, see you guys tomorrow,” she murmurs, looking so hurt that I immediately feel guilty.
Dammit.
“God, I’m sorry. That was unnecessary and wrong, and I don’t want to argue with you. Stay,” I tell her, nearly biting through my tongue when her eyes go liquid with misery, and she shakes her head.
What does she want, an apology written in stone?
“No, I should get going. I wasn’t staying over, anyway. Nate,” she murmurs, stepping back when she tries to help him up, and he shakes her off instead.
I feel like hell when he walks her to the door and sees her out, his deep voice muffled. When he hobbles back, his face pale and lined with strain, I launch into an apology to him, only to have him shake his head in a jerk and cut me off.
“Don’t you dare say sorry again, not one more time, or I’m likely to lose my temper. She should be apologizing to you, Al, not the other way around. If I have to listen to her bullshit views about single parenting and unwed parents one more time, I will say something that I don’t think I can—or would want to—take back,” he mutters, his face strained.
I nod, swallowing another apology, and watch as he clears the table, grabs two half gallons of ice cream from the freezer, and comes back with spoons and some chocolate sauce. Now, this is dessert, my babies silently cry, my mouth already watering.
“I don’t want to be a problem between you and Mindy.”
“You aren’t. She is. This isn’t her home, her life, or her choice to make, and if she can’t understand that, then it’s her problem. I like Mindy—a lot, and I like having the chance at a real relationship, but I would rather not be with her than have to shut my mouth whenever she goes off on another one of her rants. Believe me, I get what annoys you about her,” he tells me, grimacing so hard that I almost want to list my grievances.
It’s not that she isn’t great, because she is. She singl
e-handedly started a Free Rosetta movement when my sister was arrested for several murders she didn’t commit, and she almost died along with Rosetta and Sin when she and Sin went to check on Rose while Hilan was after her. She’s sweet and kind, and she’s a good person, but she has some views that I don’t agree with, and she doesn’t seem to feel obliged to keep them to herself, no matter how inappropriate they are.
“She’s great,” I mumble, feeling bad about blowing up.
It’s these damn hormones. Yesterday, I cried like a baby when I found a gum wrapper in my car, and it turned out to be empty. Imagine my embarrassment when Grange knocked on my car window as I was sitting in the parking lot at work, sobbing over a stupid piece of gum!
“She’s being a bitch about things that she has no business sticking her nose in, and we both know it. Let her have her religious views—I get it, and I respect it—but when she keeps making reference to things that are your business, and yours alone, it pisses me off,” he counters, prompting me to grin and dig in to my ice cream.
“Things not going so well between you two?” I ask.
“Understatement of the year,” Nate grunts around his spoon, his eyes flicking away. “We don’t…you know,” he grumbles, his cheeks darkening to a bright red.
“Don’t what?” I ask, confused until it hits me. “Oh, my God. You guys don’t have sex?” I gasp, very, very surprised because I was so sure that they did.