by Tara Sivec
The girl I’ve been fantasizing about for two years is having some other guy’s baby, and instead of doing what any normal guy would do, I offered to pretend to be the father. I’ve lost my goddamn mind. I can’t be a fake dad to someone else’s kid, even if I AM hot for the woman carrying said kid. My dreams of Molly included seeing her naked and asking her to help me test out a few new ideas for my next cookbook, not watching her hot body turn into an alien WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S KID.
She didn’t say much on the drive over to the diner aside from letting me know the girl with the long, dark brown hair who has a strange aversion to soup was her older sister, Charlotte. She pretty much gave me one-word answers to every question I asked, or flat out refused to answer them. Dinner isn’t going much better, no matter how hard I try to get her to talk. As much as I don’t want to know about the other guy she was seeing, I still think she’ll feel better if she talks about it, and it will give me a way to ease into telling her I made a big mistake.
“I can’t do this,” Molly suddenly mutters, dropping her fork onto her plate.
Oh, thank God. Thank the good sweet lord I don’t have to go back on my word and tell her I changed my mind.
“You’re the sweetest guy in the world for doing this, but…I can’t,” she whispers with a shake of her head.
Good, because I still want to put my penis in her, but I don’t think I can stomach it knowing some other dude’s baby would be looking at it, judging it and saying something like, “My dad’s was bigger than yours, asshole.” She still looks like she might throw up. I need to say something nice and comforting.
“Okay. Want to order dessert?”
Yeah, real smooth, buddy.
Molly sighs and I wonder if she’s mad I gave in so easily or because the diner’s dessert selection sucks. What self-respecting diner doesn’t serve apple pie?
“Stupid, selfish, irritating moron…” she mumbles, resting her elbows on the table and dropping her head into her hands.
So, I guess it’s me, then.
“Look, I’m sorry, Molly. I really like you. Like, really like you. You’re smart, beautiful, and the most amazing pastry chef I’ve seen come through that school. I like you too much to be able to just sit back and be okay with you….you know.”
I wave my hand and move my eyes down in the general direction of her stomach.
“I think my services would be better served if I…I don’t know, beat the shit out of the guy who did this to you,” I continue, talking faster so she doesn’t hate me too much for going back on my word to help her. “Give me his name, and I’ll make sure he steps up to the plate for you. I can roundhouse punch his face and give him a nice left hook kick to the kneecaps.”
She slowly lifts her head from her hands and stares at me.
“Have you ever been in a fight?” she asks skeptically.
“Uh, hello? Have you seen these guns?” I ask, flexing my bicep and giving it a nice little pat for emphasis. “I’m a fighting machine.”
She doesn’t need to know the one and only fight I participated in happened in the fourth grade with Tommy Knittle when he called me a sissy for bringing in a plate of cookies I’d made to share with the class. I showed him, though. He said he’d give me two black eyes if I didn’t eat all three dozen cookies myself in front of everyone on the playground. It only took one black eye, thank you very much.
“That’s sweet, but it’s roundhouse kick and a left hook punch,” she informs me, trying to hide a smile.
“I’m Italian. We do things a little more hardcore where I come from.”
“Aren’t you from Ohio?” she asks skeptically.
“I meant my mother’s house. If you can dodge a wooden spoon, you can dodge a fist,” I inform her, trying to maintain as much coolness as I can. “Enough talk about me, let’s talk about the scum bag who put you in this situation.”
So what if I haven’t been in a fight since elementary school? I can beat the shit out of bread dough and I’m sure it’s the same thing as some guy’s face.
“Did you mean it when you said you liked me?” she whispers.
I can’t believe that hasn’t been obvious over the last few years, especially from the number of times I leaned over her shoulder to compliment whatever she was making just so I could smell her hair. She always smells like cinnamon and apples and it drives me crazy. Now she’s going to smell like cinnamon, apples and someone else’s sperm. I don’t know who this loser is, but I’m sure his spunk smells like toxic waste. I shouldn’t have waited so long to make my move. She stuck with toxic waste spooge when she could have had pineapple spooge. (Page 35, Section 2 of Seduction and Sugar: Pineapple Dump Cake and Making Your Jizz Taste like a Tropical Island Getaway)
“Yes, of course I meant it,” I tell her, saying good-bye to my fantasy of Molly telling me I taste like a Piña Colada while I take a big sip of ice-cold water to cool my libido.
“Why do you have to be such a nice guy? Why can’t you be a jerk like that cookbook author, Alfanso D., who hates kids?” she complains. “I bet the D. stands for dickhead.”
The water immediately goes down the wrong pipe, and I start choking and coughing, slamming the glass onto the table to smack my fist against my chest. Molly jumps up from her seat and races around to me, sliding into my side of the booth to pat me on the back through my coughing fit.
Even hacking up a lung of ice water, I can’t avoid the scent of cinnamon apples as she leans in close to me and asks if I’m okay. Dammit, why couldn’t she smell like ass and toxic jism instead of a delicious dessert?
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I tell her between coughs, subtly scooting a little bit away from her on the bench.
Her hand drops from my back and she smiles. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who almost chokes to death at just the mention of that guy’s name. If you aren’t following him on Facebook, you should, just to see what asshole thing he’ll say next.”
She laughs and if I wasn’t the dickhead in question, I’d probably laugh right along with her. Molly turns to face me on the bench, tucking one leg up underneath her. My eyes glance down to her flat stomach and I try picturing it all ginormous and gross with arms and legs kicking through the skin trying to claw their way out, instead of how her laugh makes my dick tingle and how if I told her I’m the one saying asshole things on Facebook she’d give me one of those left hook kicks to the nut sack instead of another smile.
“Sorry, I know I’m being weird. Evading your questions, changing the subject, and talking about some idiot on Facebook that pissed me off,” she explains. “I can’t lie to you when you’re being so honest and nice.”
Honesty is my middle name. Right after Lying Dickhead Asshole.
She looks away for a minute, blows out a huge breath, and then turns her head back to me, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.
“Marco, I’m not pregnant.”
Now my eyes move to the general region of her crotch area, and I wonder if I should have paid better attention in health class since I’m guessing she must have lost the baby somewhere between Third Street and the second refill of our drinks, and I had no idea it could happen so fast and without my knowledge.
“Um, do you need to go to the hospital or something?” I ask lamely. “Boiling water or clean towels…I could flag down the waitress.”
I don’t know much about losing a baby, but I’m guessing it’s not as simple as losing your car keys and she probably needs medical assistance at the very least. And why do they call it losing a baby? You didn’t misplace it. I’m pretty sure you know where that thing is at all times.
Molly laughs again and shakes her head, and I’m a little surprised she isn’t more torn up about this. I cried when I lost my favorite star frosting tip. I mean, allegedly. Like I’d really cry over a little piece of stainless steel I found by chance at a garage sale three years ago that made the perfect fleur-de-lis I haven’t been able to recreate with another tip since it disappeared months
ago.
“I didn’t lose the baby, Marco. I was never pregnant to begin with.”
Her words make my mouth drop open and save me from the embarrassment of telling her the tears in my eyes are from allergies and not a frosting tip whose loss I can neither confirm nor deny still haunts me to this day.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth as soon as you offered to help me. I’m not pregnant, and I understand if you hate me for lying to you,” she tells me sadly.
All thoughts of the perfect fleur-de-lis fly from my brain and it’s all I can do not to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.
“Come again?” I whisper.
No, really. I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants when you said you weren’t pregnant and I’d like to do that again, please.
“I’m not pregnant and I never was. I was lying for Charlotte,” she explains. “She’s getting married in a month and just found out she’s pregnant and it’s this whole big mess I got roped into because she doesn’t want her fiancé…never mind. It’s not important. It’s my mess to deal with and I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”
I can hear sadness in her voice and I feel bad she thinks I’d hate her over something that just made me the happiest man on the earth. I can still fantasize about having sex with her without feeling gross. I can still have sex with her without worrying another man’s fetus is giving my penis the side-eye.
Finally pulling my eyes away from her crotch where a baby didn’t somehow escape between courses, past her flat stomach I no longer have to worry about alien limbs trying to claw out of, taking a moment to pause on her tits and only feeling a little ashamed that the one thing I might have enjoyed about this entire shit show is seeing them get huge from the douchebag fetus (because that was something I definitely paid attention to in health class), my eyes finally land on her face.
“So, what you’re telling me is I can ask you out on a date now and not feel weird about you carrying another man’s child?” I ask happily.
She raises her eyebrow and glares at me. “Seriously? That’s all you got out of my confession?”
I quickly backpedal, realizing I still need a way for her to see I’m a good guy and only pretend to be a dick online to sell more cookbooks. I can’t tell her I’m Alfanso D. until she knows the D. stands for something much better than dickhead. Like decent, dependable, desirable, daring, and hopefully delicious (pineapple dump cake jizz, here I come!).
“What I meant to say is, I could never hate you for doing something so selfless for your sister,” I explain, doing my best to let the whole decent and dependable part shine. “How long are you supposed to help her out with this?”
Molly rolls her eyes and turns away from me, flopping her body against the seat back. “Just until the wedding. So roughly four weeks. It’s not that long I guess, but it’s an entire month of my family being disappointed and ashamed of me instead of her. I mean, my family is cool and understanding and they wouldn’t come right out and tell me any of this, but I know they’ll feel it deep down inside whenever they look at me. This is supposed to be the best time of my life. I just graduated and I have my whole life ahead of me, and instead of celebrating, I’m going home to lie to my family. I keep trying to tell myself it’s for a good cause. I’m helping my sister, as selfish as she is, get her shit together and figure out a way to break the news to her fiancé so they can live a long, happy life together. Right now, it doesn’t feel like a good idea thinking about what will happen when I walk in that door.”
Now that I know there’s no chance of her pregnant-puking on me, and I don’t have to fight the delectable smell of her skin and how it makes me want to lick every inch of it, I slide across the bench until our thighs are touching. A month is perfect. It’s plenty of time for me to charm the pants off of her and hopefully take the pants off of her, blinding her with passion and bedroom skills until she has no other choice but to fall for me AND Alfanso D.
“I’m still in, if you are,” I tell her softly, leaning in until her long, dark hair tickles my nose and I can take a big, completely innocent inhale of her scent.
“Did you just sniff my hair?” she asks softly, her face turning towards me and our noses are almost touching since I moved even closer while I got a whiff.
“Yes, yes I did smell your hair, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” I inform her, hoping she’ll see this as daring that I didn’t cover up my obsession with her sweet fragrance. “I’ve noticed you always smell like cinnamon and apples and I like it.”
She runs her hand nervously through her hair and I watch as the cutest blush highlights her cheeks.
“It’s an essential oil I use for stress. Apple cinnamon oil. You’re supposed to put it on the inside of your wrists and the back of your neck to relieve stress and anxiety,” she rambles. “I took to bathing in it the last two years of school just so I wouldn’t lose my mind.”
I stare into her eyes and smile when I see the color on her cheeks deepen and she laughs uncomfortably, pulling her face back from mine and scooting away from me this time. She shakes her head and huffs in annoyance.
“Stop distracting me with your stupid dimples and tell me if I heard you correctly a minute ago, or if you’ve been sneaking hits of crack under the table,” she speaks, a little snark mixed in with her words.
I’ve caught a few glimpses of her fiery attitude over the past couple of years when she didn’t know I was watching, and it’s something I looked forward to seeing and hearing whenever I was around her. I like a woman who speaks her mind and doesn’t get all giggly and shy with a guy. I like a little ball-busting from a woman, as long as it doesn’t result in the actual busting of balls because I kind of need those things to live.
“Did you really tell me you’re still in if I am?” she continues, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I probably have. I’m sure I lost it somewhere after the meatloaf and before I found out she didn’t really lose a baby in between the seat cushions and realized she was no longer chock full of infested, smelly-ass sperm from some no-name douchebag I’d no longer have to hire someone else to beat up.
“I did, and I am,” I reiterate. “I have two sisters myself that drive me insane, but I’d still do anything for them. If you want a baby daddy to take some of the heat off of you, I’m am ready, willing, and able to be your baby daddy.”
She shakes her head rapidly back and forth. “I can’t let you do that, Marco. I know I said my family is cool and understanding, but they’re straight up insane. You have no idea what you’d be walking into with them. Hell, I’ve known them my entire life and I don’t even have a clue.”
Unable to help myself, I reach up and brush her hair off of her shoulders, mentally sending words of warning to my dick that now is NOT the time to jump around with his hands in the air when I find out her hair is as silky and soft as I thought it would be.
“Molly, I want to do this. Believe me, my family is certifiable,” I tell her with a laugh. “There is nothing I haven’t seen or heard before when it comes to family. I can handle whatever they dish out.”
For a second there she looked like she might bite off my hand when I touched her, and I’m not gonna lie, that it turned me on. My mind starts churning out ideas of adding a little BDSM to the next cookbook, maybe some light whipping while your partner whisks egg whites into cream…
“You don’t have to do something like this just because you feel sorry for me,” she says in irritation, pulling my head out of the gutter where Molly was wearing a black leather apron and nothing else while I held a riding crop in my hand.
“Did you miss the part where I told you I like you?” I ask her, realizing she thinks I’m still offering to help her out of some sort of guilt. “I really like you, Molly, and I’d like to spend more time with you. If that means I have to be the fake sperm donor to your fake baby, then so be it.”
I wisely leave out the part where my dick is now handing out “It’s not a boy OR a girl” c
igars to my balls in celebration that they still have a chance with this girl.
“You have no idea what you’re agreeing to….” she tells me, trailing off as she scrunches up her face while she thinks it over.
The waitress drops off our check and I leave Molly to her thoughts as I pull out my wallet and count enough for the bill and a hefty tip, even if I’m still pissed about them not having apple pie. Smelling Molly’s hair cured me of my need for it anyway.
Pushing against Molly’s hip with my own to get her to move out of the booth, she slides out and stands next to the table to wait for me to follow. Returning my wallet to my back pocket, I grab her hand and slide my fingers through hers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Come on, let’s go tell your family the happy news.” I smile, tugging her towards the door. “I can practice my apologetic looks and fake happiness over this pretend blessing on the ride over and you can tell me more about your family.”
When we get out to the parking lot, I add a little more decency to the D. in my name by holding the passenger door open for her, quickly realizing I might have pushed it a little too far when I made a grand, sweeping gesture with my arm and called her m’lady, going by the annoyed snort and eye roll she gave me.
Making a mental note that she doesn’t seem to like being treated like a princess, I round the hood of the car and get in behind the wheel, looking over at her as I pull my car keys out of my front pocket.
“So, what’s the first thing I should know about your family?” I ask, sticking the keys in the ignition.
“Don’t do all that mushy, girly stuff like hold my hand or open doors,” she begins. “My family will know you’re lying right away because I’m not into all that PDA shit,” she begins. “When my dad starts cracking his knuckles and talking about how he trained as a kickboxer for twenty years, don’t show any signs of weakness. But if he gets his gun out of the hall closet, run.”
