by Lauren Rowe
“Oh, it’s okay,” I manage to say, tears pricking my eyes. “Maybe another time.”
Colby holds my gaze for a long beat until finally shifting his attention to Dax.
“This cake is great, Dax,” Colby says. He rests one of his muscled forearms on the table. “Thanks for making it.”
“Actually, I was hoping the cake would put you in such a great mood, you’d let me borrow your truck tomorrow? I gotta haul some gear.”
Colby chuckles. “Sure. But only for a couple hours. I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“And thanks for the spaghetti, Mom,” Colby says. “It was fantastic, as always.”
“You’re welcome, honey. I made extra sauce so you can take some home with you and put it in your freezer. The birthday boy always gets extras.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Can I have extras, too, Mom?” Keane says. “I’ve been living on Taco Bell.”
Mom laughs. “Yes, I made extras for you, too, Keaney—and also for Kitty Kat. It’s in the fridge with your names on it.”
“What about me?” Ryan says. “You’re not gonna give extras to your favorite kid?”
“You got extras last time,” Mom says. “I’ll make extras for you and Daxy next time. And, by the way, you’re all my favorite kid.”
“Keane got extras last time,” Dax says. “He shouldn’t get ’em this time.”
“Hey, that’s right,” Ryan says. “And the time before that, too. Why does Keane always get extras?”
Mom grabs Keane’s hand. “Because Keane always needs them.”
We all roll our eyes and Keane shoots us a “fuck you” look. “Thank you for understanding that, dearest mother,” Keane says, flashing a mega-watt smile. “You’re an exceptional caregiver to us all.”
We all roll our eyes again, even Dad.
Mom has obviously caught wind of all the eye-rolls going on around her. “Stop it, guys,” she says. “I know Keane’s a brown-noser—I’m not an idiot.”
Everyone bursts out laughing, even Keane.
“But it doesn’t matter. The boy needs extras. He can’t even boil water.”
“And who’s fault is that?” Dax says. “Whatever happened to personal responsibility?”
“You’re an enabler, Mom,” Ryan says. “Plain and simple.”
“Don’t listen to ’em, Mom. You’re doing great,” Keane says.
Mom squeezes Keane’s hand again. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit I parent each of you guys differently. For each and every one of you, I’m the mother you specifically need.” She looks at Keane adoringly. “And when it comes to extras, Keane needs them.”
The table erupts.
“Enough,” Mom says firmly. “No arguing about extras, guys.”
We all grumble quietly for another long moment, especially Ryan.
“Hey, Ry, you can have my extras,” I say. “I don’t need ’em.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Ryan says. “I’ll happily steal extras from Peenelope Cruz with a clear conscience, but I won’t steal ’em from Spunky Brewster. I’ll wait my turn.”
Mom’s face lights up. “Spunky Brewster? Finally, a sweet one. Now was that so hard?”
Ryan’s expression is absolutely priceless right now. “No, Mother Dear,” he says piously. “It wasn’t. In fact, it was really quite easy.”
Mom looks at me lovingly. “I love it. It sure fits our Kitty Kat. I can’t think of a better word to describe her than spunky.”
My brothers are absolutely dying right now.
“Yep,” Ryan says, his nostrils flaring. “That’s our Kitty Kat for you: full of spunk.”
Everyone at the table bursts into raucous, tear-filled laughter except for poor, clueless, adorable Mom who’s obviously never heard that particular slang term for cum before.
“What?” Mom asks, her eyes wide. “What’s so funny? Am I being dumb?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Dad says, laughing his ass off.
“Am I being dumb?”
Dad shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later, Louise.”
But we all know he won’t tell Mom a goddamned thing. Not a single one of us, including Dad, would ever dream of throwing our hilarious Captain Morgan under the Mom-bus—he’s just too goddamned entertaining.
“So when’s your next gig, Dax?” Dad asks, obviously trying to change the subject. “Anything I might be able to catch?”
Dax wipes his eyes from laughing. “Uh, sure, Pops. Friday we’re playing at that Irish pub downtown, and Saturday we’re playing at a street fair in Bremerton...”
Normally, I love hearing every last detail about Dax’s upcoming gigs, but at the moment I can’t concentrate on what Dax is saying—not when my oldest brother is staring me down, drawing my attention like a magnet.
When my eyes lock onto Colby’s, he makes a sympathetic face—and, just like that, my eyes water. I look away, my lower lip trembling. Damn, that Colby—even when Josh isn’t here, Colby can sniff him out.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Josh.
“Are you at Colby’s birthday dinner?” Josh writes.
It’s all I can do not to scream in frustration. For crying out loud, it was only last night I told Josh I needed a few days to think and regroup after being blindsided at the karaoke bar. What does he think has changed in twenty-four little hours? (Okay, yes, in point of fact, every goddamned thing in my life has changed in twenty-four little hours, thank you very much—but Josh doesn’t know that. And, anyway, discovering I’m pregnant with Josh’s accidental spawn has only made me feel less prepared to talk to him any time soon, not more.) Gah. If only I could talk to Sarah. She always helps me find clarity in the midst of any shit storm. Unfortunately, though, talking to Sarah isn’t an option, at least not for a few weeks. She’s starting her final exams on Monday and right after that, she’s heading off to Greece to get engaged (unbeknownst to her).
I tune back into the conversation at the dinner table. Ryan and Colby are talking about the second season of True Detective.
“I agree it isn’t as good as the first season,” Colby says. “But I don’t know why people are trashing it. It’s still one of the best shows on TV.”
“It’s just that the first season was so epic,” Ryan says. “Everyone’s expectations were just so high after that.”
Under-promise and over-perform. That’s what Josh once said is one of his many life mottos. Is that what Josh was doing by not telling me about Seattle? Under-promising? I’m guessing yes. So, hey, maybe I should take a page out of Josh’s under-promising playbook and hold off telling him about the accidental Faraday gestating inside me for a bit? Given the timing of when we were in Las Vegas together, there’s no way I’m out of my first trimester yet, which means my chances of miscarriage are still relatively high (especially, I’d think, in light of my boozing and weed-smoking and Sybian-riding).
If nature winds up taking its course and this pregnancy doesn’t stick, then I’d be awfully bummed if I’d stupidly told Josh about the situation early on. And on the other hand, if this pregnancy does wind up sticking—if I actually do wind up giving birth to Josh Faraday’s lovechild—oh my fucking God—well, then, there’d still be no rush in telling Josh about it, right? Because if we’re ultimately gonna have a kid together some time this year, there’s no reason Josh needs to know about it tomorrow versus, say, in a month... right?
I suppose if I thought Josh would ask me to get an abortion, there might be a different analysis about timing, but I already know (based on a surprisingly deep conversation we had about religion and spirituality one night on the phone) that Catholic-raised Josh wouldn’t ask me to do that; and, for myself, I’ve already seriously considered and rejected that option, anyway. Which means, under any scenario, it makes no difference if I tell Josh about my accidental bun in the oven now or a month from now.
A feeling of relative calm washes over me.
I think I just
made a decision: I’ll wait a month to tell Josh about the baby, just in case natural selection takes care of things between now and then. And in the meantime, I’ll just try not to think about it (other than taking pre-natal vitamins and picking up What To Expect When You’re Expecting).
Yep. That’s the plan.
Okay.
Whew.
I take a deep breath and tune into the conversation at the table again, feeling oddly relieved.
“So it turned out it was just a little brush fire,” Colby’s saying. “And yet there we all were, geared up for the Apocalypse.”
Everyone laughs.
“I always get so nervous every time you go out on a call,” Mom says to Colby.
“I know, Mom. But I wouldn’t wanna be doing anything else with my life. I love it.”
“I know you do, honey. We’re so proud of you.”
I look down at my phone and stare at Josh’s text, the one asking if I’m at Colby’s birthday dinner. I suppose I should answer the guy.
“Yeah, I’m at the party,” I write. “Sitting at the dinner table with everyone right now, as a matter of fact. We’re eating Dax’s carrot cake, which is utterly DELICIOUS, bee tee dubs. Too bad you had to miss it.” I press send on my text and look up from my phone. “Hey, Mom, can you cut me a little slice of cake, after all?”
“Sure,” Mom says. “Does that mean you’re feeling a bit better?”
“Mmm hmm.”
My phone buzzes with Josh’s reply: “I wanted to be there, but you UNINVITED me.” He attaches a sad-face emoji.
“Are you in L.A.?” I write.
“Yeah. I took the first flight home this morning.” Another sad-face. “Did you tell your family why I’m not there?”
“No. I told them you had to return to L.A. for work.”
“Why didn’t you tell them I’m a total asshole?”
“Because it’s none of their business you’re a total asshole,” I write. “WHICH YOU ARE.”
Everyone at the table laughs uproariously about something Keane is saying.
I glance up from my phone to find Colby staring at me, his eyes full of sympathy.
Damn, that Colby.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaping up from the table. I sprint across the house toward my mom’s office, intending to close the door behind me and continue texting with Josh, but my sudden movement has made me feel horrendously queasy all of a sudden, so I hang a sharp right and bolt into the bathroom.
Gah. Thar she blows.
Bye-bye, carrot cake.
Lovely.
So far, being a mommy is super-duper fun.
I rinse out my mouth and run cold water over my face and then sit on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands. I can’t believe this is my life. I quit my job yesterday, thinking I was gonna spend the next year building a business—but, instead, it turns out I’m gonna spend the next eighteen years unexpectedly raising a kid. Without any desire to do so, I’ve trapped Josh exactly the way he’s always feared some gold digger would do—and at a time when he’s so unsure about our potential future as a couple, he didn’t even tell me about his impending move to my city.
I put my hands over my face. This is a freaking nightmare.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
I wipe my eyes and look down at my phone, my vision blurred by tears.
“This ‘total asshole’ just booked you a first-class flight to L.A. on Thursday,” Josh writes. “I get why me not telling you about Seattle hurt your feelings. You’re entitled to that. But I’m not gonna let you torture me with it forever. Go ahead and ‘think and regroup’ all you want for exactly five motherfucking days, but that’s all you get, Madame Terrorist. After that, I’m gonna fly your tight little ass down here and give you no choice but to forgive me.”
Chapter 3
Josh
I crane my neck, scrutinizing the passengers filing through the gate, my skin buzzing with anticipation, my heart clanging in my chest. Not her. Not her. Not her. Did the entire city of Seattle board Kat’s flight to L.A.? Jesus.
I can’t wait another minute to see her. I’m wrecked. Out of my mind. These past five days, I haven’t been able to sleep. Think. Eat. Laugh. I fully expected Kat to break down and call me at some point this past week—or at least text me—especially in light of all the ridiculously expensive flowers I’ve sent her every day—but she didn’t. Nope. I didn’t hear a goddamned peep out of Kat (unless, of course, you count texts that said: “Thank you for the beautiful flowers and for continuing to give me time to think and regroup.”). Fucking terrorist. I’ve been physically sick with loneliness and yearning and regret all fucking week. If she wanted me to know what my life would feel like without her in it, well, now I know: it’s fucking torture.
Not her. Not her. Not her. I’m dying here. I shove the bouquet of red roses I’m holding under my nose and inhale deeply, trying to calm myself down with a little aromatherapy. Where the fuck is she? She was seated in the first-class cabin on the plane—so she should be one of the first people off the flight. Is she waiting to de-board just to prolong my torture a bit more? Motherfucker, I’m dying here.
Oh, good God, no—I just had a horrible thought: could Kat possibly have missed her flight? Or worse, did she decide not to come to visit me, after all? Oh God, that would crush me. In all honesty, it might even kill me at this point—I’m just that desperate to see her.
All I did this past week was play and replay our post-karaoke conversation in my head—only not the real conversation as it truly happened, but a revised, fantasy-version in which Kat said, “My heart’s on the line, Josh,” and I smoothly took her into my arms and replied, “My heart’s on the line, too, babe.” If only I’d said that, maybe things would be different now.
My heart stops. Oh, thank God. There she is. Katherine Ulla Morgan. The one and only. My unicorn. Long legs. Golden mane. Head held high. Just the sight of her jumpstarts my aching heart and makes me feel half-alive for the first time in five days.
“Kat!” I yell. I wave at her. “Kat!”
She looks toward the sound of my voice and her eyes light up when she spots me. Oh my God, I feel euphoric. She’s here. Thank God. She didn’t leave me for good. My heart can beat again. Everything’s gonna be okay.
“Kat,” I say when she reaches me.
But she looks upset. She’s pressing her lips together. Her face is tight. Her eyes are moist.
I hand her the flower bouquet, wrap her in my arms, and kiss her deeply, crushing the flowers between us. Oh my fuck, she tastes like heaven. Minty. Like she just brushed her teeth. I press myself into her and devour her lips, feeling like a junkie who’s finally, blissfully, blessedly getting his next fix.
When we finally pull away from each other, Kat’s eyes are dark with desire and I’m hard as a rock.
“Josh,” Kat breathes, her cheeks flushed. She licks her lips and tilts her face up like she wants another kiss.
I put my fingertip under her chin. “I know we’ve got a shit-ton to talk about, but please give me one night to—”
“We have nothing to talk about,” Kat says curtly, cutting me off.
I shoot her a look of blatant skepticism.
“I’m serious, Josh,” Kat says. “From this day forward, all I wanna do is be in the moment with you. No talking about the future. No talking about our feelings. Just kiss me and let’s pretend this past week never happened.”
Chapter 4
Kat
“Scrabble?” I ask. “Not quite what I was expecting as our first activity of the weekend.”
Josh puts the game box on his dining room table and crosses his arms over his muscled chest—and much to my surprise, he’s not flashing a smart-ass smirk. In fact, he looks completely earnest. “You were upset we never do normal, real-life stuff like play board games—so that’s what we’re gonna do. All. Weekend. Long. You want real life? You think I’m addicted to excitement, and not to you, personally? Fine. This entir
e weekend, I’m gonna be every bit as boring as Boring Blane or Cameron Fucking Schulz. No booze. No weed. No poker chips. No ‘numbing the pain of my tortured soul.’”
Ah, there it is—he flashes the smart-ass smirk I was expecting a moment ago.
“From here on out,” Josh continues, “I’m all about Scrabble and Monopoly and adamantly not trying to escape the pain of reality in any way.”
My mind is racing with a thousand emotions all at once, but the one that seems to be rising to the top of the heap is relief. The entire plane ride to Los Angeles, I was stressed out, wondering how the heck I was gonna deflect attention away from my newfound aversion to alcohol—I am the Party Girl with a Hyphen, after all—and now, in an unexpected turn of events, Josh has just made club soda this weekend’s beverage of mutual choice.
“But... we’re seriously gonna play Scrabble?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Yeah,” Josh says, spreading the game tiles onto the table. “We’re gonna find out if we’re every bit as addicted to each other when we’re playing a board game as when we’re saving the world or smoking weed or drinking martinis or fucking in a sex dungeon. I’m willing to bet anything we will be—but, apparently, you’re not convinced. So, here we go.”
“I’m not convinced? Are you on crack? You’re the one who didn’t want me to know you’re moving to Seattle.”
“Oh my shit. Really? That’s the story you’re telling yourself inside your head? That I ‘didn’t want you to know’ I’m moving to Seattle? That’s an interesting spin on reality—and when I say ‘interesting,’ what I mean is ‘completely delusional.’”
I open my mouth to protest. Is he seriously picking a fight with me? We just walked into his house from the airport not five minutes ago and he’s already laying into me? Why the hell did I come all the way down here to L.A. if he’s just gonna ‘dick it up’ and not even try to convince me he’s sorry for—
“Babe,” Josh says emphatically, cutting off my internal rant. “I didn’t tell you I was moving to Seattle, which is a whole lot different than me ‘not wanting you to know,’ because I’m a total flop-dick who’s scared shitless about the intensity of my feelings for you.”
