Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  And my blood pressure is hitting the roof at the idea of any jackass coming near Daisy.

  And by jackass, I basically mean anyone who has any intentions of getting her into bed for any reason.

  Male.

  Female.

  Rich.

  Poor.

  Secretly a serial killer.

  Volunteers for Doctors Without Borders or the Peace Corps.

  All jackasses who better not lay a fucking finger on her.

  Shit.

  I have a problem. I know better than to have a problem, but I’m definitely developing a problem.

  All three of my morning guests grin at me.

  “This will be so fun to watch,” Jude says.

  Beck nods in agreement.

  “Gentlemen. You know Daisy doesn’t date. Don’t torture the poor man with making him think he has a chance.”

  “You’re so fucked,” Remy tells me.

  Okay, not really.

  But he does give a loud coo that ends in a grin that’s nearly identical to the three loony lovebirds cheering for my demise.

  A crack of thunder rumbles across the ground outside.

  “Look, here’s the deal,” Derek says. “We’re actually here to offer you our friendship, because of the four women who built this community, well…we’ve already gotten the best three. And we’re sorry you got the leftovers.”

  “What?”

  “Daisy’s no Luna,” Beck says.

  “Or Cam,” Jude agrees. “And you’re not even getting to sample Crazy Daisy in the sheets, so—”

  Baby or not, I have one hand wrapped around the giant’s neck while I shove him against the nearest wall. “Do not. Ever. Say that again,” I growl.

  He grins again.

  Beck snort-chuckles.

  Derek smooth-chuckles.

  “Yep, he’s clear,” Jude declares. “We can be friends. And he’s fucked.”

  He grabs my hand off his neck and twists my wrist until it almost snaps.

  “Forked,” I correct, and I sweep his feet out from under him, laying him out flat on the ground. “Don’t say fuck in front of the baby, and don’t forking make me take you down again. Ooh-rah.”

  These assholes are all still grinning.

  Jude leaps back to his feet and Beck shakes his head at all of us.

  Derek claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck with the baby today. We’ll be at Emily’s house. Cristoff’s been leaving her shrimp and crab dishes all week since he can’t leave them here for Daisy. Might be enough for you if you get bored and lonely.”

  Well, fuck.

  That’s actually a damn good offer.

  “Poker?” I ask.

  “And beer,” Beck says. “And cheeseburgers.”

  “We can play for this.” Derek holds up a wallet, and—dammit.

  Fucker lifted my wallet.

  Jude grabs him by the collar and lifts. “Give it back.”

  “You know I do this to all my friends.”

  Now it’s Beck’s turn to clap me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, man. Welcome to the club.”

  Twenty-Four

  Daisy

  Mordecai’s is blurry.

  Or maybe that’s my eyes making the dimly-lit bistro seem fuzzy and glowy around the edges as Emily, Cam, and Luna steer me to our usual booth in the back. Normally it’s shaped like a horseshoe.

  The booth, I mean. Not the whole bistro.

  Today, the horseshoe is a big blob that either looks like half a heart or a cocoon where I could happily curl up and pull a Sleeping Beauty, depending on which eye I use to look at it out of.

  “Am I wearing clothes?” I whisper to Luna while I scoot in deep so I can make sweet, sweet love—in the form of sleep—to the soft cushion.

  I think I whisper, anyway, but Lady Raquel, our favorite server for Drag Queen Brunch, whips around and looks me over. Today, she’s in a sequined white jumpsuit and matching white platform boots, à la The King of Rock ’n Roll, with her hair in a blue Marge Simpson ’do that looks utterly fabulous on her. Rhinestones sparkle in both her ears and nose, and I suddenly want to hug her, but I can’t, because she has at least nine inches on me and my head would basically turn into a shelf for her fabulous boobs if I did.

  Plus, there’s a table between us.

  “Girl, you’re a mess,” she says. “A fabulous mess—love that sequin tank, darling—but you know better than to drink the cheap stuff before brunch. Sit your tush down, and I’ll cover up that Fireball with a bloody margamosa that’ll put your whole world to rights.”

  “I don’t know what a bloody margamosa is, but I want seven,” I tell her.

  “She’ll have pancakes,” Cam interrupts.

  “Alcohol,” I whine. “I want to part-eye.”

  “Part…eye?” Emily repeats.

  “I’m too tired to say part-ee.”

  “Oh, honey.” Luna pets my hair, which I may or may not have combed. I can’t remember. All I remember is Remy crying because I forgot to put the powdered formula in the bottle before I fed it to him, so he just got a bunch of water, which is apparently really bad for babies since they don’t know when to stop drinking water, or so said one of those parenting books, but I can’t remember if it was the parenting book I believe or the parenting book that’s full of bullshit.

  I can’t remember if I’m being a bullshit parent.

  “Is it…that bad?” Emily asks.

  “I am so tired I confused Lichtenstein with Frankenstein during a telecon and I couldn’t understand why we were talking about building a city center inside a fictional monster. I am so tired that I called Alessandro to have him order a chocolate-covered strawberry basket for himself for his birthday, instead of calling Tiana like I should’ve. I am so tired that I tried to brush my teeth with diaper cream this morning. Ladies. Ladies. I think—I think my TPE is drying up.”

  “Your TPE?” Emily asks.

  “Tight pussy energy.”

  Luna winks at me. “Or maybe your TPE has never encountered this kind of big dick energy.”

  “Fascinating,” Cam murmurs.

  “What?” I ask.

  “TPE plus BDE divided by forced cohabitation to the co-parenting power…I’m pretty sure the solution to that equation is an explosion.”

  “A big explosion,” Luna agrees.

  “This has nothing to do with the size of West’s dick energy. It’s all about parenting. I’m tired. So tired.”

  “Is he not pulling his weight?” Cam demands. “Do I need to go talk to him? Do I need to call Jude to talk to him? Jude is super scary when he wants to be. He could make West piss himself. That’d serve him right for making you so tired.”

  “No, no, he’s taken as many shite nifts—night shifts—as I have, but…like…having a baby is stressful. And not in a ruling the world kind of stressful, but in a…this little thing that can’t communicate but has needs has to have those needs met every hour of the day even when I don’t know what those needs are and when he’s not with me, I’m thinking about him, and when he is with me, I’m thinking about him, and every minute that I’m thinking about him, I’m also wondering if West is judging me for being a horrible parent and if I’m going to utterly flunk this parenting test and if my grandmother will disown me and if I’ll end up living in a cardboard regatta boat in the Everglades while panhandling with the crocodiles and pythons and raising the next Tarzan the Everglade Jungle Man. Is that a napkin or a pillow? I need a pillow. And for Anthony and Margot Roderick to disappear and drop this ridiculous challenge to the will. And for our meeting with the social worker to go amazingly well. And a pancake. Cam. How did you know pancakes sound sooooo good right now?”

  “Can I oh, honey her again, or is that too much?” Luna whispers.

  “Shh!” Emily hisses, and I bolt straight upright and open my eyelids as far as they’ll go, because I know that shh.

  That shh means my second favorite part of Drag Queen Brunch has arrived in the form of four
romance authors that we low-key stalk here every month.

  Related: I have a secret library full of all of their books, though I prefer to listen on audiobook, because I can do that on a plane, or in the car, or in the shower, or while I’m pretending to be on a conference call when my grandmother pays her weekly visits to my office.

  Also related: my grandmother thinks I’m working on a deal in Monaco with a man named Salvio who’s having personal problems, but that’s actually part of the one author’s long-running series that I cannot get enough of.

  Plus, Teddy Hamilton narrates the books, and his voice is to die for.

  “Did you meet your deadline?” the one in the taco shirt asks the one with the big blue glasses.

  “I said fuck it, wrote three blow jobs, and called it a day,” she replies.

  “Speaking of saying fuck it,” the one in the stained unicorn shirt and sloppy half-bun says while they scoot into the booth beside us, “my third-grader asked me the other day if a cunt is the same thing as a vagina.”

  The other three romance authors that we eavesdrop on at Drag Queen Brunch for the last forever all suck in shocked breaths.

  My three friends and I all suck in shocked breaths.

  Even me.

  And I’m hard to shock.

  But I’m suddenly seeing my future.

  Remy, sitting down to dinner, asking if his penis is normal and what he’s supposed to do if it stands up in the middle of him giving a presentation on elephants in sixth-grade science class.

  I somehow don’t think own it, big guy will be the right answer.

  The woman in the Coffee is the answer T-shirt leans forward and grips unicorn author’s hand. “Did you tell him the truth?”

  “I told him to go ask his father,” she wails. “I write romance novels, but I can’t talk to my children about vaginas!”

  “You should say vagina ten times a day until the word loses its mystique,” the author in the blue glasses says.

  “And then take him out to tacos for the talk-o,” the fourth author chimes in.

  “Penis,” I whisper to myself. “Testicle. Balls.”

  Wait.

  I don’t have this problem. There’s very little I won’t say. I can even say—well, something that’s not appropriate even for me at Drag Queen Brunch.

  “Shh,” Cam whispers. “I feel like I need to take notes. In case Jude and I ever have babies.”

  “I don’t care about Salvio in book five anymore,” I announce. “I need life advice. I need parenting advice.”

  Three sets of hands grab me before I can slide under the table and attack the authors.

  “Daisy! If you go over there, you’ll scare them away, and our men can only work so fast at stalking to find out where they go instead, since it’s technically illegal,” Emily hisses. “We can handle this. We’re the vagillionaires, remember? We’ll get you through Remy’s baby years.”

  “I don’t know what Julienne was thinking when she wrote her will. And there were witnesses. She and Rafe had to at least be able to fake being sober. No one leaves me a baby. An eleven-year-old who can brush his own teeth and whose biggest problem is deciding which flowers to send his—no, probably not an eleven-year-old. Okay. People can leave me teenagers who need spectacular life advice—huh. No. Probably not that either. Wait. I’ve got it. People can leave me twenty-eight-year-olds who need dating advice and some coaxing to get out, party a little, try the go-karts, and definitely go skinny-dipping with a woman in The Dame’s pool.”

  Emily laughs. “You’re going to be fine, Daisy. You love people. He’s a people. He’s just a small people.”

  “I cracked my egg baby in health class in high school. Plus, I’m a little inappropriate for the under-twenty-five set, you know? But I feel this…connection with him. Like he needs me, except I’m terrified I’m going to break him and I don’t think a baby can live off hugs for his entire life. Like, I need to feed him and wash him and teach him to talk.”

  And not fuck up so badly that my grandmother takes him from me, fires me, and disowns me.

  I’m not actually kidding that the thought of losing Remy is more important to me than the thought of being disinherited.

  I’m starting to feel like someone to the little guy, but…it could all go away.

  In an instant.

  “I read somewhere when I was researching the effects of high-speed travel on humans that babies are more durable than we think,” Cam offers. “But you’re still not supposed to drop them on their heads.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “It’s just like taking care of a dog,” Luna says. “Put out food and water, pet them some, toss them a ball, make sure they get plenty of time to do their business in the yard, and they’ll grow to love you unconditionally.”

  “So that’s where my parents went wrong.”

  Oh, hell.

  And now I’m fighting a smile as my three friends crack up at the idea of raising Remy the Dog Man.

  Because they’re right.

  We’re going to get through this. They have my back, and they will, even after West leaves.

  My heart rolls over and pangs, because despite how little I’ve seen him this last week, I like him. And not in a we should have a weekend fling in Bermuda kind of way.

  But in a he could be one of my closest friends, if I knew how to be real friends with anyone other than these three, kind of way.

  “Maybe you and Beck should wait a few years before kids,” Emily says to Luna, and we all erupt in giggles again.

  “Oh! Oh, you guys! I have pictures. Do you want to see pictures?” I dive for my purse, my exhaustion forgotten as I remember the best part of parenting.

  The baby smiles.

  And Remy has the cutest baby smile.

  I’m flashing photos on my phone when Lady Raquel returns with a round of pink drinks in margarita glasses. “Food coloring,” she whispers with a wink. “The name and the disguise make tequila in the morning more acceptable. Oooh! Baby! And who is that handsome hunk of a man?”

  “I really need to see Jude holding a baby like that,” Cam sighs dreamily.

  “Total ovary-melter,” Emily agrees. “When Derek plays with his nieces and nephews, I can barely stop myself from jumping his bones right there.”

  “That’s how I feel about Beck and the dogs.” Luna’s smile is so sappy and sweet that she manages to outshine Cam and Emily together, which is an impressive feat.

  It’s not often I feel lonely with my friends, but they all have their someones.

  And I have a baby I barely feel competent with, a social worker coming soon to make sure he’s safe since the Rodericks are calling both me and West unfit parents, pressure from my grandmother because Remy is all she has left of Julienne—yes, she’s obnoxious, but she does care in her own way—and a very familiar tingling in my cooch and nips every time West knocks on my door with Remy for a handoff.

  “West preps the diaper bag every morning,” I blurt. “And he leaves little notes about milestones and Remy’s mood and how many times he was up overnight on his nights, and I feel like I’m missing half of Remy’s life and I want to ask him if we can do more stuff together, but I don’t know how to be a normal person who has a guy as a friend.” I leave out the part about our agreement that he’s temporary.

  “You don’t be friends with men who look like that. Not unless you’re getting benefits,” Lady Raquel says sagely.

  All four of the romance authors are leaning toward us.

  “Plot twist,” coffee lady whispers.

  “Total blow job in waiting,” Blue Glasses says loudly.

  Taco author nudges her. “Shh!”

  “Thank god I’m not alone,” the unicorn says. “Lady Raquel! We need some of those pink drinks.”

  “For inspiration,” the taco author agrees as she pulls out a laptop.

  “Maybe you should try the blow job,” Luna tells me. “Could a blow job ever make anything worse?”

 
“It never has before.” We clink glasses.

  And I remember that I’ve promised West I’ll quit hitting on him, and just how screwed both Remy and I will be if he decides we’re not worth it.

  And what’s keeping him here?

  Really?

  A promise he made to a woman who didn’t deserve it.

  I owe him what he’s asked for.

  “How’s Derek coming with Julienne’s computer?” I whisper to Emily.

  “They’ve been through every electronic device they could find at the house, and there’s no video evidence of Julienne and Rafe making their will. But they did find emails dated about six weeks ago with correspondence to their attorneys that clearly spelled out they wanted you and West Jaeger to be co-guardians. Hang in there. He’s digging deeper into the Rodericks’ past too. He’s confident they’ll find something useful for court.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey. Chin up. It’ll be okay.” She squeezes my hand. “We’ve seen each other through way worse than this. You and Remy are going to be just fine, very soon.”

  I hope she’s right.

  But for the first time in my life, I’m actually worried that I’m going to fail at something that matters.

  Twenty-Five

  West

  Thursday night, I hit every red light and traffic jam and rude driver in Miami on my way back to Bluewater from a small job in Coral Gables, which I was late to since Daisy’s replacement house sitter for me found a leak in the bathroom sink of the beach house, and I had to fix that first thing this morning. The weather reports suggest a late-season tropical storm is forming in the Atlantic. And Becca is asking if she and the girls can come bring the baby a present this weekend, since diapers and formula don’t really count.

  I weave through the picturesque Bluewater streets, trading waves with residents out for walks with their dogs or switching out the chalkboard signs outside their shops. Everything’s bright and colorful and happy here, but I’m so run down, I can’t appreciate it.

  Despite how familiar all the faces have become, from the women Daisy calls the Wealthy Widows, to Frank the cussing parrot and Steve the three-legged alligator, to her best friends’ boyfriends and fiancé, this isn’t my world.