All the Love in the World: A Holiday Anthology

by Karina Halle

  There’s nothing like waking up to having your toes licked. In fact, when done by the right pair of lips, it’s just as good as having your morning wood primed and pumped. Unfortunately, I knew my toes weren’t being licked by the girl in the room next door. It was the damn fucking dog. Again.

  “Fuck off,” I mumbled into my pillow and shook my foot. Fat Rabbit had been sleeping with Perry for the last few nights, so my morning-addled brain couldn’t figure out why the bastard was in here anyway, munching away on my toes like they were doggy popsicles.

  Then I heard a supressed giggle.

  I slowly raised my head and looked over at the door. Perry was staring there like some heavenly wet dream. I mean, she was wet. Her hair was cascading down her face like inky trails, beads of water glistening on her shoulders and collarbones as she clutched my tiny towel to her chest. I’d never been so happy to have such woefully undersized towels in my life. It turns out she didn’t feel the same way.

  “Dex,” she said, eying me with impatience, as if the fact that I was still in bed at 10a.m. was just the tip of the iceberg. “You need new towels.”

  I sat up, not caring how close I was to being fully exposed by my duvet cover. Two could play at this barely concealing ourselves game and from the way her eyes were fighting to stay at my face and not drift down to the poke-your-eye-out zone, we were evenly matched.

  “My towels are just fine,” I told her as Fat Rabbit made a futile attempt to jump on the bed. “Is this your not-so subtle attempt to seduce me, because I have to say it’s working.”

  She rolled her eyes and tried to tighten the towel around her chest. Her chest argued back. “I can seduce you just by tying my shoes.”

  “It’s because when you’re bending over, I get a great view no matter where I am,” I said with a wag of my eyebrow. Man, I loved annoying her.

  Her eyes narrowed briefly, but I knew she was loving it. At least, I hoped she was. I could never be too sure these days, especially since I was still in the proverbial dog house. I guess it was fitting that Fatty Rab was in the same room as me, farting up a storm.

  “Look,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. Oh, I was looking. “I’ve been living here for long enough and if I’m seriously going to be your roommate for the next little while, I have to make my influence felt.”

  I had to admit, it stung a bit when she emphasised “little while.” There was nothing I wanted more than to Perry to just put her roots down here, in this apartment with me, where she belonged. But it seemed like less and less of a possibility as the days went on. My attempts to win her over, to win her back, were shoved away by whatever damage I had inflicted on her heart.

  “Okay,” I said and decided to get serious. I pulled up the blanket around my waist and looked at her straight-on. “You know I’ll do whatever you want to make you more comfortable here. Is it just the towels?”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Damn, she was fucking beautiful without a stitch of makeup or pretention. These moments, like the ones before, always caught me off guard, always reminded me of what a fucking mess I had created and the garbage disposal I was falling in.

  “No, it’s not just the towels,” she said lightly. “But it’s a start. They’re like a million years old and been air-dried one too many times. Not to mention their size. Maybe it worked to be parading around half-naked with Jenn, but it’s not going to be the same with me.”

  Damn. A Jenn mention combined with a rejection uppercut. She wasn’t playing very nice this morning. Round and round the disposal I went.

  “All right,” I conceded, wiping my eyes awake. “We need new towels. Anything else?”

  “New bedsheets, not the ones you borrowed from Rebecca. Something nice for the room. I’d also like a small chest of drawers for my clothes, maybe something charming for my jewelry and shit.”

  “That can be arranged,” I said. “You know, if you want you can move in this room. I have no problems sleeping in the den. This can be your room from now on.”

  A wash of sadness came over her blue eyes. Her gaze fixed on the floor. “No, thank you, but I like the den. I’ve slept there before…it’s the only place that really feels like home to me now, you know?”

  I did. “They opened up a Target downtown recently, want to go check it out?”

  That put another smile on her face. I fucking hated Target with a passion, but I’d gladly endure the blank-faced, jogging pants and screaming children, soulless money-trap to see those dimples again and again.

  Target was the newest blemish on downtown Seattle’s increasingly gentrified face. It was like the city said, “Sure, suburbs, come rest your fat asses on our gritty, thought-provoking pores, we don’t mind.”

  I regretfully expressed this very sentiment to Perry and she told me I was nothing but a hipster. Ouch. She was really going all out today.

  Luckily, Perry isn’t as wiffle-waffley as you’d think when it comes to shopping. Ask her about her favorite band, her favorite movie, or how she feels about one Dex Foray and you’d get a million different, indecisive answers. But once Perry hit the glaring lights of the fluorescent showroom of death, she was sucked straight toward the homewares department like she was in their tractor beam. Ten minutes later, the red shopping cart was drowning in a sea of fluffy towels that I swore were made out of poodles, a silky blue bedset, a faux-wooden set of drawers that looked like they were salvaged from IKEA rejects and frou-frou girly things that made my head spin. I had to give her credit; in this case, she knew exactly what she wanted and she was getting it.

  “Wow,” I said, leaning oh-so casually against the cart’s handlebars as she piled in a bunch of smelly candles. “Now that you’ve put a whole sweatshop back in business, do you need anything else? Lingerie, perhaps?”

  She snorted and started walking down the aisle, her boots squeaking. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

  I shrugged and pushed the cart along. “Not really for myself. I find thongs are a bit too binding around my balls. I need gentle cupping action, not dental floss down the seam.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said over her shoulder. “I think you’d pull off pink lace very nicely.”

  I wished I had a rebuttal for that, but all I could think about was her in something pink and lacey. Perry was one of those girls who was built to fuck. I know, I know, it sounds crude and maybe it is, but there’s something extremely poetic about it. She thinks she’s heavy and plus-sized, but she’s perfectly sized. She’s short enough that I can just pick her up and show her who’s the boss. Yet with her hips, her curves, those fan-fuckingtastic breasts, she’s the one who calls all the shots. She’s oblivious to the power she has over men and it was only recently that she began to clue into the power she has over me.

  It’s too bad she doesn’t know what to do with it.

  She slowed down, the sexy sashay of her walk keeping my eyes glued to her ass, then she suddenly ducked down one of the aisles. It was the pet department. Not exactly where we needed to go.

  “Perry,” I warned.

  “I’m seeing if there’s something cute for Fat Rabbit,” she said, stopping near the shirts.

  “Don’t you dare,” I said, ramming the cart against her ass. As I suspected, it bounced right off.

  “Ow,” she said absently as she went through the racks of embarrassing dog outfits. Hey, I loved Fat Rabbit as much as a guy can love a small, furry poop-machine, but there was no way in hell any dog of mine was going to look like slobbering Honey Boo Boo.

  “I know I said you could make yourself feel more comfortable, it just can’t be at the expense of my dog’s comfort. Fatty Rab will hate you if you put him in any of these shirts.”

  “Oh, whatever,” she said dismissively, examining a polka dot parka. “Fatty Rab can tell me himself, plus it’s still winter. It’s cold out.”

  “You can justify it anyway you want,” I said shaking my head, “but – “

  “Mommy!” a Nazgul-ish s
hriek emitted from the other side of Perry.

  We both looked over. A tiny, sniveling little boy of about three or four years old was running toward Perry with his arms open wide. This was a new development.

  She stared down at the boy, afraid and perplexed until the boy stopped a couple feet away and looked at her with a matching expression.

  “You’re not my mommy,” they boy whimpered. Poor little fucker.

  Perry immediately put the parka back on the rack and crouched down to the boy’s level.

  “Are you lost?” she asked, her voice soaring to sugary heights that made my heart pang.

  The boy wiped his nose and his eyes, smearing snot all over his face. Yet, Perry soothingly patted the boys head as if the snot wasn’t there. I had to admit, seeing her act like a mother-in-training was actually gutwrenching. It made me think of things that I tried so damn hard not to think about.

  “I think so,” the boy said. “I want my mommy.”

  She continued to pat the boy on the head, taking his hand in hers. “Well, I’m not your mommy but I’m sure I can find her for you. Would you like me to do that?”

  The kid sniffled and nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tyler,” he squeaked out.

  She gave him a kind smile then looked over at me.

  “Dex, can you look after him while I find his mother?”

  Uh. Fuck no?

  “Don’t look so scared,” she hissed under her breath, glaring at me while she led the boy my way. I felt like I was stuck to the ground. “He needs to stay here in case his mother is looking for him.”

  My mouth flapped open but no sounds came out. Perry deposited the boy at my feet and the two of us stared at each other uneasily.

  She quickly patted me on the shoulder and with the same soothing tone she had given the Nazgul, said, “I’m just going to the cashier to let them make an announcement, I’ll be right back.”

  And just like that, Perry left and I was put in charge of some stranger’s snotty, strange child.

  A child that was starting to cry again.

  “So your name is Tyler, huh?” I said in an extremely feeble attempt at conversation. “That’s a good name.”

  Tyler continued to cry. He was starting to attract the attention of people passing by. This wouldn’t look good. I was wearing a Black Flag t-shirt and combat boots. My expression was of a million jangled nerves begging for respite. My mustache was starting to grow back in. I might as well start talking about the giant white van I had outside, full of candy.

  But kids liked candy, didn’t they?

  “Tyler,” I said, crouching down, trying to look him in the eye. “You like candy don’t you?”

  He sniffled some more and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Nasty.

  “What’s your favorite candy?” I went on.

  Tyler thought about it. For once, he looked calm. In fact, he looked like he was in his element, picking out the sugary sweets that would lead to his early on-set diabetes.

  “I like Whatchamcalits,” he said. Which was a total lie, since the only reason people liked Whatchamacalits were because of the name. “And Butterfingers.”

  “Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger,” I said in my best Bart Simpson voice. Okay, now the kid was looking at me like I grew an extra head. I pitied the generation who grew up without Bart as a role model. “All right, how about I promise you all the Whatchamacalits and Butterfingers in the world, if you stop crying and start manning up.”

  “Do you have a doggie?” he asked, ignoring me, his eyes now focused on the pet stuff around us.

  “Uh, yes,” I said, somewhat proudly. “His name is Fat Rabbit.”

  “I want to see him,” Tyler said, sounding more forceful by the second. He even stamped his foot a little.

  “Well, how about we wait for your mommy and then I can take you back to my apartment where you can pet my dog and I’ll give you lots of candy?”

  “Really?” he cried out, his smile wide and all gap-toothed.

  I straightened up. “Uh, yeah, totally.” Oh, I was going to hell.

  “Mommy!” Tyler suddenly cried out and barreled past me. I whipped around to see a pregnant young mom in purple velour and bling staring at me utterly horrified. She held her arm out for Tyler, who jumped into her, wrapping himself around her leg.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked, a stack of magazines in her red basket. “What the hell were you doing with my son?”

  She had all the tact of a viper. I immediately raised my hands in defense and starting cursing Perry for leaving me alone with the munchkin.

  “It’s okay, I was just getting to know Tyler here,” I told her. Apparently I worded it wrong, because her eyes narrowed into reptilian slits and I knew I was about to get bitten.

  “What were you doing with my son?” she asked again, spitting out the words like ninja stars.

  I tried to put on my most handsome face, which usually worked with women. Not with her though.

  “He was lost, my girlfriend…well, no my friend. Roomate. My partner! Yes, my partner, she went to go get help, to see if we could find you.” I could not sound stupider if I tried.

  “Mommy,” Tyler tugged at her terry-cloth sweatshirt, “Mommy, he told me he’s going to take me away for some candy and I can pet his fat dog.”

  The next thing I knew, a handbag came swinging at my face. I only had seconds to react. I did not use those seconds wisely. The handbag in all its Guess monogrammed glory met with my forehead and I nearly went flying into the row of dog parkas.

  “You sick freak!” the woman shrieked. By the time I could straighten myself and see again, she was gone, storming down the aisle in a huff, her Nazgul a leech at her side.

  And there was Perry, passing by them with a smile on her face. They did not return the smile. She shrugged and kept walking, stopping in front of me.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, completely amused. Not one ounce of sincere sympathy.

  Now it was my turn to glare. “What happened? You left me in charge of Satan’s spawn and then Satan herself showed up, that’s what. I thought you were going to make an announcement.”

  She was trying really hard not to laugh, her hand at her mouth. “I was, but the line was so long and I saw them together, so…”

  I shook my head. “Figures.”

  She punched me lightly on the shoulder. “And here I was under the impression that my roommate was a ladies’ man.”

  “You’ve caught me on a bad day,” I told her smoothing my hair back. We got out of Target before some other mothers could accuse me trying to corrupt their children. Perhaps I wasn’t the biggest ladies’ man that Perry had thought I was, but at least she called me her roommate. And for now, being any kind of mate of hers, was good enough for me.

  The Baby—A Steph & Linden Story

  “Are you all right?”

  I knew it was a mistake the moment I opened my mouth. I’ve been saying nothing but variations of “Are you all right?” for the last week and every single time I’m met with a withering stare or an irate grumble that makes me feel like a wanker.

  Because my darling, gigantic wife Stephanie is 42 weeks pregnant and miserable as fuck. And I’m miserable as fuck in return because I feel so horrible for her, the fact that it was my damn sperm that got her into this situation and there’s nothing I can do about it. I mean, bloody hell, I had no idea that you could even be 42 weeks pregnant. All this time we’ve been worrying about an early labor and it turns out our child is a hermit that refuses to come out.

  “If you ask me that one more time,” she threatens, the frustration rolling through her words.

  The reason I asked – this time – is because she’s lying on her back and half off the bed, an expression of utter madness on her face and the contents of spicy vegan Pad Thai over the front of her tank top and not in the takeout food container where it should be.

  “Well, baby blue, you’ve got food a
ll over your shirt,” I say delicately as I step into the bedroom. “And that’s supposed to go in your mouth.”

  She makes a grumbling sound and closes her eyes, breathing up and down. I watch her big belly rise, looking utterly hypnotic, like some alien life force about to unleash. Dangerous and strange.

  Of course she looks beautiful. I’m supposed to say that. And it’s true. I think there’s some kind of hormone that pregnant women give off or maybe it’s a pheromone or whatever it is, it’s enough to fool the husband or sperm-donor or hapless partner to stick around. Somewhere in the back of my head I know I’m looking at a bloated, sweaty whale of a woman who looks ready to blow and yet I’m still managing to find her wildly attractive. If that’s not messed-up, I don’t know what is. Or maybe it’s just what you call love.

  In fact, I’ve been so attracted to Stephanie during her pregnancy that I’ve been trying to lure her into sex every chance I get. And every time I do that, she shoots me down. Not even an ounce of tact for my feelings. It’s just “Don’t you fucking touch me” or “Don’t even think about it.” Occasionally it’s peppered with a “I’m so disgusting, you’ll never want me again” which is then followed by me trying to make-out with her, which then goes back to the “don’t touch me.”

  It’s been a trying nine months to say the least.

  Also, we both know that having sex can sometimes induce labor, though she still refuses to try it. All I’m wanting is to give her a bloody orgasm so she can at least relax but none doing. It doesn’t help that when we went to her OBGYN the other day, they said her cervix was as locked down as Fort Knox. No one is getting in or out.

  “I got too tired to eat,” she says, opening her eyes to look at me while I stand above her. “So I gave up. And now I can’t get up.”

  “Do you want to get up?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “No. I just want to lie here. Linden…why does the baby hate me?”

  I can’t help but laugh. I crouch down beside her. She smells like Pad Thai sauce. “Steph, the baby doesn’t hate you. It loves you. Too much. It doesn’t want to leave. Your womb is like…”