by Kat Addams
“Oh shit.” I ugly-cried. My face contorted into painful shapes. “I’m going to have a baby, and this isn’t how I planned on it happening, Mama. I wanted to be married. I needed that white dress and flowers. I was going to have swans at my wedding. Swans! You know, everything I have in the wedding planner I’ve been carrying around since I was eight. Then, after a few years of wedded bliss, we could have kids Now, no one will want me. I thought I’d be excited to have a baby but not like this. Which makes me feel terrible!”
“Mom guilt. It comes on quick. How far along are you?” my mom asked, steering me toward the patio and setting me into an armchair.
“Three months-ish.”
My dad sucked in his breath.
“Barbara, I’m going to let you two have some time. Layla, I love you. Everything is going to be okay,” my dad said, leaning down to kiss my forehead.
“Will it?” I looked up at my mom, who guzzled down her wine and settled into a chair beside me.
“Yep. Life is all about curveballs. Once you’ve had enough of them, you’ll learn how to cope. Remember that time your dad and I planned our vow renewal and that damn pandemic hit? We were quarantined for half the year. Curveball. Or, I know I’ve told you this, but when your dad and I got engaged, the stock market crashed, and he lost his job. We lost our savings for the home we’d been hoping to buy. Curveball. But good things come from those. Your dad and I learned we could live through quarantine together and not get divorced, and his landscaping business was born out of that other curveball. You’re going to look at that baby and think it’s the best damn curveball life could have thrown you.”
“She. It’s a she,” I said, placing my hand on my belly.
“I could tell early on too. But to know for sure, we need to get you to the doctor. I’m assuming you haven’t gone yet. How long have you known?” My mom rubbed her temples, closing her eyes for a brief second before realizing she’d left mom mode. She sat up in her chair, turning her full attention to me.
“I found out today. I’d thought I was just having a wonky period, like normal, and I’d skipped the last two. Three. I don’t even know anymore. I’ll call Dr. Beringer tomorrow.”
“That old fossil? No way! We’re going to do this properly. I’m calling this midwife I know. She’s part of the motorcycle club, and she’s amazing. Delivers babies all the time. Her name is Celeste.”
“What? You think I can push out this baby without pain meds? Mom! I don’t even like to get a paper cut. I get squeamish.”
“Celeste can give epidurals! If you need it. I don’t think you will. I raised a little badass. Just consult with her tomorrow and see what you think. She will get you in ASAP. She owes me,” she said, tucking her feet under her lap and rubbing her palms together. “Now, let’s come up with a plan. You’re going to have the baby in the autumn, so … school.”
“Yes, school,” I sighed.
I had planned to finish up my credit hours and graduate before Christmas. Except now, I couldn’t attend in the fall. How could I possibly remain in school and juggle a newborn? Not to mention, the labor and delivery. Natural birth or not, popping a watermelon out of my cooch was going to give me a lengthy recovery period. I shuddered.
“You’re not quitting. Not this time.”
My dad came outside again, dressed and carrying a wine bottle. He twisted the cap and began pouring a refill for my mom, who looked up at him with her doe-eyed smile. I was lucky enough to have parents who were the best example of a loving relationship I’d ever seen. I’d never come close to experiencing that myself. My past boyfriends were friendly but passionless. When we did it, we did it. There hadn’t been sparks or fire or chemistry like I’d had with Aiden.
Aiden …
“Who’s the father?” My dad paused, filling up my mother’s wineglass.
“What? Oh. Well …” My voice trailed off.
“Maybe she doesn’t know. Don’t put her on the spot! It’s okay, honey. As women, we can have a healthy sex life and still respect ourselves. Women in my day fought for that.” She reached over and rubbed my knee before guzzling another glass of wine.
“I know who the dad is! He’s my … friend. Well, he was. He still is, I mean. We just had a rendezvous once. Twice. A few times. After dance lessons. It was stupid. Ugh.”
“Just friends, huh? Does he know?” my mom asked.
“No! Not yet. I’ll tell him. I just have to figure out my plan first. My body is the one having the baby. I’ll be the one deciding on how to make it all work.” I pursed my lips together, eyeing my mother’s wine. I could use a drink or three right now.
“Cheers to that.” She raised her glass.
“Wait. He still needs to know soon. It’s his baby too,” my dad said, gulping wine from the bottle.
My mom and I shot him a glare.
“What I mean is, he might want to experience this too. All of the things you are. Those moments when we first found out your mom was pregnant are some of my best memories. Please don’t let him miss out on that. You said you were friends. I think that’s a good start. Talk to him like you’d tell a friend.”
I scuffed my foot across the concrete floor, swinging my leg out in front of me, staring at it. In just a few short months, my long legs would bear varicose veins, broken capillaries, and enough water retention to turn my toothpicks into cankles.
“Sure. I mean, I guess he can sign up to see me puke in bushes, gain fifty pounds of fluff, and waddle like I’m an eighty-year-old. Sure thing. He’d love that. There go my salsa lessons,” I huffed, pulling my phone out of my purse.
“Don’t tell him on text!” my mom shouted.
“I’m not. I’m asking if he wants to go to lunch tomorrow. That’s it. I’ll play it by ear from there. But right now, I need to work on a plan for me. So, back to it. I have enough funds for night school. But if I have to take double the number of classes in the summer, I’m not so sure. I don’t even know how I’ll survive that and working,” I said.
“Your dad and I can help. His business will be picking up this spring with the warm weather. We’re getting you through school. You’re getting that art degree. You’re pursuing your dreams. We’ll make sure of that,” my mom said. “Right, honey?” She looked at my dad.
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he answered, patting the top of my head.
“Are you sure? I hate asking you two for help. I’m too old to do that!”
“We’re your parents. And you’re about to find out that the love a parent has for their children doesn’t expire with age. We will always help you. We have a little bit of savings. We can afford it. Don’t you worry about us. And you know I’m off all summer, so I can help you with what you need. With school out, I’ll have more time on my hands,” my mom said.
“Okay.” My voice came out small, like I’d turned six again and I had just done something dumb, like paint rainbows on the toilet.
My parents lost themselves in tipsy conversation while I snuck a quick text to Aiden.
Me: Hey. Lunch tomorrow?
Aiden: Hey! Only if I can get some chicken shawarma! I’m craving it like mad.
Me: How about I pick some up and bring it by the restaurant? Late lunch. Like 1? Is that okay?
I hoped I could get in to see Celeste as early as I could. I’d need to text DTF that I couldn’t make it until the afternoon, but they’d understand.
Aiden: You are the best. Lunch on you and a cocktail or two on me. See you tomorrow!
I hesitated, knowing I couldn’t have any alcohol—and ironically when I wanted a drink the most.
Me: Yep, see you tomorrow!
I set my phone down on my lap and stared at it, zoning out into a foggy wave of sleepiness. The drama or the pregnancy symptoms had all caught up with me at once—dizziness, fatigue, nausea. I listened to the murmurs of my parents, cradled my belly, and drifted off into a nap.
TWO
Aiden
I sat in my office, kicking my f
eet up on the desk and leaning back in my chair. I’d been searching for available space for our second restaurant for months, and nothing had come close to the rustic atmosphere I envisioned. I didn’t want an exact carbon copy of our restaurant we had now, Scarlett Herb. I wanted something a little less stuffy or pretentious, as Layla and her friends liked to tease. I’d never thought my place gave off the stuck-up vibe. Back home in Australia, we’d had plenty of fancy diners like mine. But here, in Outer Forks, things were a little simpler. Still, we’d done something right because our reservations were booked well in advance.
I stretched my arms over my head and closed my eyes for a split second, taking in the sounds and scents around me. The familiar clanging from the kitchen and the smell of seared meat brought me back to my childhood. I’d played at my parents’ feet for years while they ran restaurants just like this. I sat up, sighing, and pushed the thought of them out of my head. I missed them terribly, but instead of running from tragedy like my brother, Jay, I blocked the pain out by diving into work and keeping myself busy.
Not only had my work cradled me through the roughest times, but it’d also led me to success. I knew my avoidance method wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with problems. Sticking my head in the sand and waiting on it to pass didn’t heal much, but it at least distracted me enough to get by in life. If it were the other way around and I became distracted with every terrible bit of news in the world, I’d never get any work done.
I considered myself fortunate enough to have learned the ins and outs of the restaurant business from my late parents. I missed home sometimes, but Outer Forks had quickly become my new home during the last year. All the people I’d met were more than welcoming, especially Layla.
The first time I’d set eyes on Layla, my mind had drifted to how delicious she would look, tangled in my bedsheets. I’d pictured her long, wavy hair fanned out around her face while she lay there, lips parted and looking up at me with her bright smile. I’d kiss her neck and work my way down until she let out her soft giggles. Oh, how I loved those giggles. Even now, while being friend-zoned, I melted when she laughed. If there was anything that could rile me up and put me into a good mood, it was Layla and her personality. And that was why we kept our distance—or had kept our distance until the handful of times we hadn’t.
For me to become distracted by an amazing woman such as Layla, I would need to put my work on hold, and that wasn’t happening anytime soon. I needed to expand my business, not press pause. That was the reason I set down boundaries in any relationship. I was only committed to my work. I still had needs to meet, but I wasn’t looking for love. Not yet anyway. If things worked out with the second restaurant and I could afford to hire even more help, then I’d settle down and look for Ms. Right. But for now, I blocked that task out of my head.
I made sure that I didn’t lead Layla on in believing we were more than friends. At least, I didn’t think I had. I made sure to say friend or even mate a lot in our conversations, and I made sure to never touch her in a remotely sexual way—until I did.
How’s my mate doing?
You are such a good friend.
I’m so glad I have you as a friend.
Hey, mate!
Friend, friend, friend.
Mate, mate, mate.
It wasn’t until she’d asked me to take salsa lessons that things began to become more than friendly. I had successfully not felt her up in the movie theater or become drunk enough to kiss her at the bar. We had intimate dinners at new restaurants in town and not played footsie, and I hadn’t pinned her against the wall of that secluded alleyway at the art festival. Although I wanted to do all of those things, I kept boundaries in check and told myself if she wanted to do those things, she would. But she didn’t.
Layla also dropped the friend word—too much.
Hey, friend! What’s my friend up to today?
You’re a friendly friend. I like to spend time with my friends, such as yourself.
What a super friend. That’s your hero name. Super Friend. The friendliest, super-iest friend.
I am so lucky to have a friend like you.
She also never touched me. A friendly pat on the back or a high five was all I received from her.
That was, until those damn salsa lessons. I’d agreed to go with her to Swing, thinking nothing of it. I could use some tips on my dance style, and Layla had said she’d always wanted to learn dance but never had a partner. What kind of friend would I have been if I’d refused to go? She needed me there, and I was Super Friend.
So, I put on my dancing shoes and met her there.
At first, we were paired with different instructors. I had an older, plump lady with a heavy Russian accent, and Layla had a man who looked as if he had stepped out of an underwear ad. He led her around the dance floor effortlessly. I heard those soft giggles from across the room and as they both floated by my aggressive instructor and me.
Anytime I looked down at my feet, my instructor would take my chin between her fingers, jerking it up, and bark “No!” so loud that her voice echoed off the walls, jarring the other dancers around us.
This pairing didn’t seem fair, and I quickly became ready to quit. But after a few rounds around the dance floor with other partners, the teachers finally put Layla and me together and made us practice what we’d learned. I sighed, relieved to be with my friend. I took her in my arms and whirled her around on the floor, surprising not only myself and Layla, but the instructors too. Even Ms. Drill Sergeant stood with her jaw dropped, watching on the sidelines.
My body rubbed up against Layla’s, and our unspoken no-touchy rule flew out the window. Her breath became heavier, either from my sultry moves or the workout from this dance routine. Either way, when I dipped her, she looked at me and giggled. It was the giggle. Damn her giggles. But wait! That wasn’t the worst of it. After that giggle, she locked eyes with me and bit her lip. It was then that I knew we were in trouble. In my experience, anytime a woman bit her lip, she wanted the D.
We waved good-bye to our instructors and rushed out of the studio, diving into the backseat of my car that I’d thankfully parked at the very back of the lot. I’d paid a substantial amount of money for my luxurious gift to myself, and the last thing I wanted was someone slamming their door into mine.
Once we settled into my car, we were all over each other. Something had changed between us back in that studio. I’d become less Super Friend and more Super Freak. Maybe it was the way she’d slid her fingertips up my arm or the pleading look in her eyes before we left. Or perhaps it was how, while leading us toward my car, I’d lowered my palm on her back, trailing it down and over that gorgeous arse of hers. Maybe it had been all of it. I didn’t think or care about our dramatic turn of events at the time. All I’d cared about was hearing that giggle in my ear while I slid myself between her legs.
I grinned, closing my eyes for a moment to relive that first time.
I crawled on top of her, hiking her dress up and spreading her knees with mine. I pushed my dick into her knickers, hard, feeling myself against her warm, wet pussy.
“Dry-hump me, friend,” she said before grabbing the back of my neck and pulling my lips to hers.
I thought her giggles were seductive, but I’d no idea what her lips would do to me. One touch of her mouth to mine, and I paused my hump session and reared back my head. She tasted like a mixture of spring mornings, sunshine, spun sugar, and joy. Pure, positive, uplifting joy. Her breaths came out like a song, luring me into her trance. I’d never felt or tasted anything like her before.
“Why did you stop?” she panted. “It felt so good!” She wiggled her hips, arching them up and into mine.
“You … you’re driving me wild, mate.” I gulped. “I don’t know what we’re doing. But I can’t seem to stop. And it’s probably not right, but—”
She leaned up onto her elbows, pushing her lips into mine again. “Shh. Stop talking. It’s just a friendly, uh … game. If you don’t
want to though—”
“No! I want to. More than anything. I want to slide these knickers to the side and feel your pussy clench around my cock.”
She gasped. “Aiden! I’ve never heard you say anything remotely that dirty! Oh my gosh!”
She giggled, and that was that. I let that giggle carry me into my most primal desire. I became a caveman. Grunting, pushing, and stupid dry-humping.
“Just the tip,” Layla whispered, mid-hump.
“What?”
“I’m not ovulating. I keep track of all that. I’m clean. You’re clean. I think. I trust you. Tell me if you aren’t. Otherwise, slide into me. But just the tip. I don’t have a condom on me. Do you?” Her voice came out hurried, frantic, shaking.
“No, I don’t have anything on me. I was expecting to learn to dance, not fuck like a teenager in the backseat of my ride. I’m clean. It’s been a while for me. Are you sure? I trust you, too, but I want you to be sure.”
She didn’t answer, only unzipped my pants and clutched her fingertips around my dick, pulling me out. Her eyes grew wide as she struggled to wrap her palm around my thickness. Women had told me before that I was thicker than normal. One ex-girlfriend had said getting used to me was like getting used to shoving a stovepipe up there. But I wasn’t too worried about it at the moment. Layla didn’t seem too worried about it either.
“Oh!” she moaned, wincing while guiding the tip of my cock to the side of her knickers and straight into her.
“Fuck,” I breathed out.
The sudden wet heat on the head of my dick caused my knees to shake. I clenched my thighs, forcing myself to not push deep into her. I bounced as best as I could with just the tip inside of her.
“Nope. This isn’t going to work. I need you—now!” she said, grabbing my hips and shoving me into her. She let out a yelp, a moan, and a giggle as she held me there in place, stretching her out.
“That’s not just the tip,” I groaned. My head swam in her giggles.