Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  “I’m not your roommate right now,” she says. “Just answer the question and I’ll let you go back to whatever it is that you do.”

  “Honestly,” I tell her, trying to find that line between looking enough to form an opinion and staring, “it’s pretty perfect. Not too big, not too small. Good curvature.”

  I really hope she doesn’t remember any of this.

  “Yeah?” she says. “Chad told me that I had a huge butt,” she sputters.

  “Why don’t we just get your pants on?” I ask, and walk closer to the couch.

  “He said a lot of things, actually.”

  “Well, I don’t know who this Chad guy is, but he sounds like an asshole,” I tell her. “Now, you’re going to need to turn around so we can pull these up, all right?”

  Like a foal or a drunken toddler, she slowly makes her way to her feet, her legs shaking and unsteady beneath her.

  She turns around to face me, her pants falling to her ankles.

  Sure, I may sleep with a different woman every night, but I’m not completely without respect, so I avert my eyes as best I can as I bend down and pull her pants up.

  “I’m such a mess,” she says, starting to cry.

  “You’re just drunk,” I tell her. “Once you get some sleep and maybe a bit to eat, you’ll start feeling better.”

  I’m still holding her pants up, as zipping or buttoning them would be a bit too familiar as a platonic roommate. She fastens the button and zips herself up, then falls back onto the couch.

  “What is the matter with me?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “You’ve just had a bit to drink—”

  “I’m drunk,” she says. “Yeah, I get that. I mean, why is it that everything has to be so screwed up? My sexually inappropriate boss just told me that there’s an opening at the firm and that they’d love to hire me on permanently, but he looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel by being decent to me for once.”

  “Leila,” I tell her. “I know you don’t think so right now, but this will all be better after you’ve had a chance to sleep it off, all right? I’m going to bring you a blanket and put on a movie for you. You can sleep on the couch.”

  “I think you’re right,” she says.

  “Good, do you want me to grab a blanket from your room, or—”

  “No, I mean about what you were saying before. When you said that sleeping with someone is what it takes to move on sometimes. That’s what I was trying to do earlier, but that idiot got in a cab and left me there.”

  “He left you?” I ask.

  She relays the story and I do my best not to crack a smile.

  “Some guys are like that,” I tell her. “People can get weird when they haven’t been with someone for a while.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “But do you know what’s going to help even more?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sleep and alcohol wearing off and blah, blah, blah,” she answers.

  “That’s right,” I tell her. “Do you want me to grab you a blanket?”

  “You know, Dane,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe we could, I don’t know.”

  I think I know where she’s going with this.

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

  “You’ve been so nice to me today,” she says. “I always thought you were kind of a jerk, but you’re really taking care of me right now.”

  “Leila, I’ve got to level with you.”

  “What’s on your mind?” she asks.

  I’m not sure whether it’s the guilt from not having told her yet, or if I’m simply trying to change the subject, but I blurt out, “I’m losing my job.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “Well, let’s just say the place where I work,” I start, trying not to throw the fact that I lied about what I do onto the pile of things I should have told her a while ago, “they’re having some money problems. People just aren’t coming in like they used to. My boss told me that he could keep me on for another month.”

  “When did he tell you that?” she asks.

  If this conversation’s going to take a bad turn, it’s probably going to be right here.

  “About a month ago,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Yeah, he hasn’t said anything to me yet, but it’s probably not going to be long. I’ve been putting out my resumé, but I haven’t heard back on any—”

  “Musicians use resumés?” she asks.

  “Everyone does,” I answer.

  “You know,” she says with a knowing look, “I’ve seen your guitar, but I’ve never heard you play.”

  “I like to save that for…” I start but don’t know how to finish.

  At this point, I’m just lying about my job because I’ve been lying about my job.

  “Whatever,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  She has a lot more faith than I do.

  “You look like you were really worried to tell me that,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I was. Still am, actually.”

  “We’ll figure it out, all right?” she says.

  She holds her arms out.

  I don’t know, maybe I should take the hug now and maybe when she sobers up she’ll be less likely to get pissed that I waited a month to tell her that I was going to be losing my job in about a month.

  The logic is blurry at best, but it’s worth a shot.

  I bend down and put my arms around her. She embraces me, and it actually feels pretty great.

  I can’t really remember the last time a woman, drunk or sober, showed me affection just to make me feel better about things.

  Her head starts to pull back and her grip loosens around me, so I start to pull away, but her face turns toward mine. Leila’s eyes are closed and I can feel her hot breath against my cheek.

  When her eyes open, she’s looking into mine in a way I’ve never experienced. It’s like she’s actually seeing me for the first time, really seeing me, and she’s not put off. She’s not scared or disappointed.

  She pulls back a little further and our lips are almost touching when I hear the sound behind me.

  “Dane? Have you seen my panties? I can’t find them anywhere.”

  “Well,” Leila says, pulling away entirely and patting me on the cheek. “I don’t see anything in your eye. You’re good to go.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter; my eyes still intent on Leila.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Wrigley asks.

  I turn, and Wrigley’s standing there in the doorway to my bedroom, naked from the waist down.

  “I’m not feeling so well,” Leila says, getting up, her eyes on the ground. “It’s nice to meet you,” she adds as she passes Wrigley and makes her way into her own room.

  “Too bad,” Wrigley says. “She looked like she was ready to go.”

  What the fuck just happened?

  Chapter Nine

  Cold Turkey

  Leila

  I don’t think I’m going to be drinking again anytime soon. At least, that is, as long as Dane is still living here.

  It’s funny, but I never thought I’d be longing for that temporary amnesia I had after that night in the club with Mike. Given what happened, or almost happened, between Dane and me last night, I don’t think alcohol is the best idea.

  Today’s the first day I’ve called in sick in my life.

  It’s well into the afternoon, and I’m scared to leave my room. I can’t face Dane right now. Not after that.

  There’s a problem, though.

  I’ve had to pee for about the last hour, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to lie in here and avoid reality.

  Usually, this is one of those times when I would give Mike a call and suckle from the teat of his folksy wisdom. Yeah, that’s what he insists on calling it when I go to him for advice.

  I’d much rather just ac
t like nothing ever happened in the first place.

  Maybe that’s my in.

  I get up and open the door.

  Dane is in the kitchen, eating a sandwich, and I pretend that I don’t see him as I walk across the living room to the bathroom.

  “Good morning,” he says, his mouth full and losing crumbs.

  “Hey,” I answer, not looking over or slowing my pace.

  A few minutes later, I’m on the inside of the locked bathroom, and I’m having that dilemma again. He acknowledged my presence, so he’s going to want to talk to me when I come out of here.

  Maybe I can just stay in here.

  I mean, there’s running water to drink—from the sink, mind you. I’m not an animal. Well, no more than anyone else.

  If I’d remembered to grab my phone, I could order pizza and Chinese food and have them come up the fire escape and deliver my sustenance through the smallish bathroom window. Yeah, I’m sure they won’t go for it at first, but I’m an excellent tipper. A pizza box wouldn’t fit through the window, but I can always have the guy pass it through piece by piece.

  I could make a bed out of towels and have Mike run any personal errands that may arise.

  Sure, I’ll run out of money pretty fast as I won’t really be able to work, but maybe I can have Mike bring over a laptop and try my hand at stay-at-home customer service.

  For a bed, I can simply lay down some towels, making sure to double a couple up for pillows, and with the towels that are left, I can cover myself. It actually doesn’t sound half bad.

  My other option is going out there.

  Out there where I’ve got at least five bosses, though I’ve only ever met four, who each make my life unbearable in their own special way.

  Just outside this door, I’ve got a roommate that still bugs the hell out of me, who I pretty obviously came onto just before his mostly naked sex buddy popped her cooch out of his room in a pretty literal sense.

  I’m in the bathroom for half an hour.

  By now, as I haven’t had the shower running, I have yet another reason not to go out there. Now, not only am I the drunk chick who makes inappropriate advances on her womanizing roommate, but I can only imagine what he thinks I’m doing in here.

  There’s a knock on the door about 10 minutes later.

  “Hey, you all right in there?”

  “Just taking a bath!” I call back.

  I know that we don’t have a tub. We have a stand-up shower.

  “Oh,” he says.

  It’s an excruciating amount of time before he says anything else.

  “Okay.”

  Maybe if I don’t flush when I come out, he’ll know that I wasn’t in here doing unspeakable things. Of course, that’ll only work if he’s standing near the door when I do flush. Otherwise, he’s just going to assume that I did, and when the hell did I become so damn neurotic?

  I flush the toilet.

  I have no idea why I flush the toilet.

  Is it better for your roommate to think that you just spent half an hour in the bathroom doing… that, or for him to walk in and find an unflushed toilet with pee in it?

  Am I the only woman who thinks about these things?

  Oh well, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter anymore, and all I can really do is take a breath and hope for the best.

  When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t see Dane.

  Maybe he’s in his room, maybe he left. Regardless, I think it’s pretty clear he was out of flush-hearing range.

  I really need to get out more.

  I’m almost back to my room when I hear him. I can hear his voice through his door.

  At first, I start to think that his little biscuit is in there with him, but he’s responding to an inaudible second party.

  I press my ear against the door the moment I hear my name.

  “…kind of weird. I mean, last night, she was coming onto me and today, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Great. This is just great.

  “No, nothing happened. I mean, Wrigley came out of the room with her vag hanging out, but I really think she was going to kiss me.”

  Wrigley is a stupid name for a person.

  Of course, given the entrance, I’d probably think her name was stupid whatever it was.

  No, Wrigley is a stupid name. Last name: that’s fine. First name: I mean, are you joking?

  “Yeah, she was drunk. What does that have to do with anything?”

  If I left the city today, I wonder if I could join up with the Amish. What’s the rule on that? Does anyone know?

  “Yeah, whatever,” he says on the other side of the door. “I’ll see you in a few hours at l’Iris.”

  I knew that’s the place he was talking about. He even pronounced it correctly.

  I’m sure he’s going there to meet up with Wrigley.

  Stupid, dumb-named, crevice-flaunting Wrigley.

  Wait.

  If he’s off the phone, what are the chances that he’s about to—

  The door opens, and I almost fall into the room.

  “Leila!” he says, jumping back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  I’m stuttering. Why am I stuttering?

  “I got a bit lightheaded on the way back to my room. I drank way too much last night.”

  I’m trying to look casual as I lean against the doorjamb. I have a feeling that I’m not pulling it off.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You were pretty out of it last night. Actually, I think maybe we should talk about that.”

  “Why?” I ask, having no recourse left but pure denial. “What happened? I don’t really remember anything after I got home.”

  “You don’t?” he asks.

  It’s a plausible story, Dane. Just go with it, ya bastard.

  “No. Why? I didn’t try to drive, did I?”

  There is a difference between playing stupid and being stupid. I’m not sure exactly which I’m doing right now, but I’m fairly sure it’s somewhere in between the two.

  “You don’t have a car,” he says.

  Oh, just let me off the hook, will you? I’ve done really well pretending like I don’t hear every tiny, disgusting noise coming out of your room. The least you can do is just let me act like I never came onto you.

  He never mentioned any special skill in reading minds, but I’m hoping that the force with which I put those thoughts through my head is sufficient to communicate my meaning.

  He laughs quietly.

  “Got ya,” he says. “No, you didn’t do anything too far off the reservation. Although…”

  Oh, just kill me.

  “It’s kind of silly,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  We may as well get it over with.

  Let the mocking begin.

  “You were eating peanut butter out of the jar with your hands,” he laughs.

  All right, I guess no one has to kill me. Call off the hit.

  “Really?” I ask. I remember the incident, but only vaguely. Pretty much the clearest portion of the evening involved me trying to—oh my God. I dropped my pants and asked him if I have a big butt.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I had a hell of a time cleaning it up this morning. Never mind trying to help you clean your hands. You weren’t very cooperative.”

  I laugh. Ah, relief, sweet relief.

  There’s no doubt he remembers everything, but we’re not talking about it, and every synapse in my brain is focused on the concept that that’s good enough.

  “Really?” I ask.

  I know I’m just repeating myself, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what might make him bring up the impromptu mooning.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It was like trying to herd cats into a bathtub.”

  “That’s,” I snort. I’m pointing now. Why am I pointing? Crap, I still haven’t finished my sentence. “Hilarious,” I say. “That is hilarious: herding cats into a bathtub.”

  I�
��m laughing way too loudly, and he’s just standing there looking at me. If I close my mouth, I don’t know what’s going to happen, so I just continue to make things awkward on my own terms.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Well, I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Do you know when your last day is going to be?”

  “I thought you didn’t remember anything from last night.”

  I should have just kept laughing. “What do you mean?” I ask, dumbly. “You told me they were letting you go a while ago.”

  Come on, Dane, let’s not make this worse than it already is. Just keep playing along. You know it’s the right thing to do.

  “Oh,” he says mercifully, “I guess I forgot that I mentioned it. Actually,” he smiles, “I’ve been really nervous to talk to you about it. I think that’s why I let it slip last night while you were drunk.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “you already told me. Good memory there, chief.”

  Leila, don’t push it.

  “Right back at ya,” he says.

  The smiles slowly fade off both our faces and it’s a lot longer than it should be before I realize I’m still standing in his doorway, not saying anything.

  “So, yeah,” he says. “I should probably get going. Boss doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

  “All right,” I say. “Go get ‘em, sport.”

  Oh, what the hell are you doing to me?

  “Right,” he says.

  Now he’s just standing there. I thought he said he was leaving.

  “Leila?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, popping my lips for some absolutely unknown reason.

  “I work outside my room.”

  “You’re kind of a weird guy,” I respond.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re standing in my doorway.”

  “Oh,” I say, and move with all the grace and majesty of a giraffe on a tilt-a-whirl.

  To further embarrass myself, as I seem to be incapable of doing anything else in the world right now, I give him the “You may pass” gesture, or whatever it’s called, and he can’t possibly get out of the room quick enough.

  “Yeah, well, you have a good night, Leila,” he says. “Maybe dial it back a little on the sauce.”

  “You betcha!”

  Who am I right now?

  He doesn’t say anything else on his way out.

  Maybe that should have been my strategy: silence.