by Alexis Angel
I looked back at him, nodding. I could live with the fact that he just viewed this as sex, if it came to that.
“But I’m in love now,” he continued, apparently not noticing my near complete emotional collapse a second earlier. “With this amazing girl I know.”
And, yes, hun. He really did just call me a girl. Not a lady. Not a woman. A ‘fucking hot girl’.
I should have stopped him there, but he wrapped his arms around me and turned to his side. “She’s cute, and funny. She makes my fucking dick so hard I think it’s going to break,” he said to me.
“So romantic, geez,” I said back, rolling my eyes. But I was blushing.
“She’s sweet, kind, and makes me want to protect her,” he kept going, not bothering to care what I said or did in response. “And I want to be with her for the rest of my fucking life.”
“Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?” I asked him, smiling.
“No,” he replied to me and then grinned. “But I lick my stepmom’s pussy with it all the fucking time.”
I gasped. It still puts shivers down my spine as I imagine him telling me that. It’s sinful. But so delicious. It was noon. The sun was streaming in onto our naked bodies. And he was telling me he loved me.
But he was also smirking. And without another word, he pivoted his face lower, showing me with kisses as he traveled down my body.
He kissed down my breasts. And my stomach. Until he reached the folds of my pussy. I sighed. Then gasped.
All of a sudden, he stopped, and looked up at me.
“I love you, Jocelyn,” he said to me. And I still remember the giant smile that went through my face. “In case you didn’t get it from before. You’re that girl.”
I can’t remember much more after that because he made me cum so hard I think I blacked out for a few moments. But I do remember that. And that’s all I need.
Three.
That’s how many days ago Lance and I were out, having lunch at Per Se, when a reporter from the New York Daily Journal stopped by.
“You’re Mrs. Anders,” he said. “Mind if I take a picture with you and your lunch date?”
I know that it was a common term. Lunch date doesn’t have to mean a romantic date. Two people can enjoy lunch together and make a date of it. But is that how Michael would interpret it? Would it hurt the campaign?
All of a sudden, the feeling of absolute joy that I felt a month ago as Lance told me he loved me began to evaporate. Instead I saw the scandal. The newspaper headlines. Michael divorcing me. Running my name through the mud. One thing I knew for sure is that Michael excelled in the politics of personal destruction. And Lance. He would try to go after Lance. And Lance would fight back.
They say there’s a big reason you shouldn’t cheat. I honestly don’t consider myself to be cheating, hun. But I still lied, I think. And it made me feel sick.
I barely managed to excuse myself and make it to the bathroom where I ran into a stall and threw up, heaving until I was exhausted. It wasn’t till at least twenty minutes later I came out again.
One.
That’s how many hours ago I realized that I may have gotten a panic attack three days ago and gotten sick, but it didn’t explain the next morning. Or this morning, for that matter. And I know my body, I can tell when something is different. And the fact that I’m late.
Ten.
That’s how many minutes ago I checked the pregnancy test I bought at Duane Reade. It’s the second one I’ve checked. I went ahead and went downstairs and bought them an hour ago after feeling like it was something I needed to do.
Zero.
That’s exactly how many ideas I have as to what the hell I’m going to do now that I’m pregnant.
Jocelyn
It's been an entire week of worrying myself sick, and honestly, I'm physically sick even without all of that worrying. If I smell coffee—something I normally love—it has me running to the bathroom with wave after wave of nausea. If you've never experienced morning sickness, consider yourself lucky. Seriously. It's brutal. Why do they call it 'morning sickness' anyways? Morning, night, afternoon—it doesn't discriminate. It'll hit you whenever and where ever it wants to. And let me tell you, even ordinary things like toothpaste and my favorite perfume make me sick. I tried to set up a spa date with one of my old friends—I thought that maybe I needed to get out, get my thoughts cleared, pamper myself a bit, and re-connect with the people I've been close with—but I couldn't have been more wrong. I had to apologize to the massage therapist for vomiting in her waist basket when I knew I wouldn't make it to the bathroom. I swear, the smell of all those candles with the fragrant lotion just sent me over the top. It was overkill.
I wish I could describe that smell to you, or any smell that gets jumbled to your senses when you have morning sickness because I know what you're probably thinking—spas smell great—and you're right, they do unless you're suffering from an extreme case of morning sickness. But do you want to know what my body thought of the scent? My body treated it like it was the smell of belly-button lint on a hot summer day, or the cognitive dissonance that happens when you think you smell a slice of peperoni pizza, but realize it's someone's body odor. You see what I mean? Not good. Not good one bit. All I can say is that this last week has been a total life adjustment, and the constant worrying just amplifies it a thousand times. I've been feeling so sick every single day that when I saw Michael reading the newspaper this morning during breakfast, it hit me. I have to tell him. I can't put this off any longer. He thinks I've just had a touch of the flu or something all week. How long can I keep that ruse up? You can only lie for so long before it catches up with you, and besides, you want to step off a sinking ship before it's underwater, right? I'd rather sit down and tell Michael what's going on, than have him find out some other way. Honesty is the best policy. I've always believed that. I know you probably don't believe me, given everything that's transpired between Lance and I, and I can't blame you. But I mean it.
I can hear Michael sitting at his desk in his study. My heart is thumping in my chest like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. I'm quietly pacing the hallway. I know I need to just do it. I need to gather every ounce of courage I have and walk into his office. It's now or never, but every time I reach for the door, my hand shakes and I pull it back. What's wrong with me? I've always prided myself on being a strong woman. I need to pull it together. I need to own up to the truth of the matter and speak honestly with my husband. Right now. Do this Jocelyn. I have no idea how he's going to react, but I can't worry about that right now. I step toward the door again. I can hear that he's just finished taking a call and has said goodbye to whoever was on the other line. Now's my chance. I need to step in before he's distracted with something else. I take a deep breath, ignore my hammering heart, and I push the door open.
Michael looks up from the book in front of him. It's a self-help book of sorts about effective leadership. I can tell he's confused. I never walk in here, so I'm sure he's wondering what the hell I'm doing in her now.
"Can I help you?"
The way he asks is so impersonal. It's as if I were walking into a store and a clerk asked me the same thing. It's like we're strangers—guests living under one roof and sharing a bed, but outsiders to one another.
"We need to talk," I say. As soon as I say it, I wish I had used a better set of words. Whenever someone says they need to talk, it casts an ominous shadow over a conversation before it even starts. But I couldn't help it. It was the fist thing to tumble out of my mouth. Can you blame me? It took every ounce of courage I could muster to even get this far. And sure enough, I see Michael frowning. His brow is furrowed into a deep crevice across his face.
"What could you possibly need to talk about right now? Can you see I'm busy? This campaign requires my full attention, Jocelyn."
I feel my entire body twisting into knots. I see that small talk isn't going to work with him, and besides, I don't know how much longer I'm going to last und
er his penetrating gaze, so I just come out and say it.
"I'm pregnant."
It's like an intense weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and for what seems like an impossibly long amount of time, there's silence. It's a deep and troubling silence. The kind of utter silence that you get on a dark, snowy night where the wind has stopped and no living thing can be heard or seen. I've been told that snow absorbs sound, and now I also feel that words can absorb sound too. I want Michael to say something. Anything. But my confession is met with an unsettling calm. I sit down in one of the chairs and watch the emotions written on his face. There is a moment of total clarity where he truly understands that this baby isn't his. It's impossible, he knows. But then I can see another moment where his mind is working overtime; trying to figure out whose baby this belongs to. There is a moment of pain when he feels the sting of my infidelity, but that's so fleeting that I almost doubt that I saw it. His face then morphs a final time, and this transformation is terrifying. It's hateful and exacting. He folds his hands together on top of his desk and leans back into his chair, carefully keeping his eyes locked on mine.
"Well then, this is cause for celebration—I'm going to be a father again."
At first I don't know what to say. Do I need to remind him that this baby isn't his? I mean, that goes without saying, right? What kind of a game is he playing?
"Michael, I—"
He cuts me off. There's a sharp glint in his eyes. "This is my baby."
"No, this—"
"Our new son will be named Michael Anders Jr. and this is my baby," he says, banging his fist down on top of the desk, his lips snarled.
"And what if it's a girl?"
He ignores my question and continues. "If I ever hear you say otherwise—if you so much as make a hint otherwise—I promise you'll regret the day you met me. I can, and will, bury you."
I’m silent. Michael leans forward.
“And if you ever want to keep any semblance of a father - one who hasn’t been publicly humiliated worse than you can ever imagine, with a wife that’s left him in his old age - if you want to keep your parents as the darlings of society, then you’ll keep your mouth shut, dear wife,” Michael says quietly.
That was the final dagger. It's no use arguing. This will be Michael's baby, and no one will ever think otherwise. I know Michael's a powerful man. He has wealth, power, prestige, and connections. I don't want anyone to get hurt—especially not my father or Lance. There's no way I'll ever tell him that this is actually Lance's baby. He can't know. I don't even want to think about what he'd do to Lance if he knew. I'll take this knowledge to my grave.
"It's no secret that I don't have any interest in you whatsoever," he says. His voice is cold and distant, and even though I've known this to be true for our entire marriage, it still hurts to hear him say it. "But it's important that we keep up appearances for the public—for the sake of this campaign. You will not compromise my bid for mayor."
I watch as he pulls a cigar from his desk drawer and lights it. I never see him smoke anymore. In fact, I thought he quit. I watch as blue smoke fills the room. On the one hand, I'm relieved to no longer be hiding and carrying this secret from Michael, but on the other hand, I know I've only been partially honest and that still sits inside of me like a boulder.
He exhales and continues, "You can't go public." He's like a lion that has cornered its prey. He can feel that power, and it spurs him on. He's opportunistic, and he's out for blood.
"I understand," I say, resigned and submissive.
"Good. Now let's have this baby."
Lance
I have a bad feeling. A bad fucking one. Deep inside of me there’s something gnawing, something poking holes in the happiness I’m feeling. I’ve never been a fucking superstitious kind of guy, but I can’t help it… I’m fucking worrying and I don’t even know why. It’s just a bad fucking feeling.
I have no reason to feel like this, though: I’ve met the perfect woman and everything’s going just great between the two of us. We had a rocky fucking start, that’s for sure, but things are better now. Sure, it’s not a fucking perfect situation, with my father and all… But as long as we have each other, everything will work out. Right? Yes, that’s fucking right.
Of course, life never does what you fucking expect it to do.
Worry turns into a sinking feeling in my stomach the moment I get home; Jocelyn is leaving my father’s office, looking down at the floor with an expression that tells me there's bad fucking news coming my way. She shuts the door behind her and heads down the corridor, not even noticing I’m here. I reach for her, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her to me.
“Hey, hey. What’s wrong? Something happened with my father?” She stops, dead in her tracks, but doesn’t even fucking look me in the eyes. “Are you okay?” Slowly, she raises her eyes and faces me; her pursed lips a distant impression of her smile.
“Everything’s okay, Lance,” she says, ice coating each one of her words. She takes one step back, forcing me to let go of her. “I just don’t know how to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I ask, not liking the fucking direction this conversation is taking. What the fuck is going on?
“It’s over, Lance. It was good while it lasted, but…” She licks her bottom lip, pausing while she tries to find the right words, but then just repeats herself. “It’s over.”
“Over? What the hell are you talking about?” I reach for her again, pulling her into the kitchen and slamming the fucking door behind us, making sure that we’re out of my father’s earshot. We can’t be over! What is this fucking nonsense?
Looking at me, Jocelyn manages a faded smile. “We’re over. It’s time to put an end to it. I know you can’t, so I’m doing it for you.”
I stand there like a fucking asshole, looking at her with an expression of pure disbelief on my face. Why is she saying all these fucking things? This doesn’t seem like her.
“Why?” I ask her, the sound of my fucking voice sounding foreign to my own ears. This can’t be fucking happening. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, almost as if she doesn’t know what to say. Running one hand through her hair, she bites down on her lower lip, and I see her eyes starting to water. I try and reach for her, but she turns her back to me, looking out the window. I don’t even know what to fucking say, so I just wait for her to regain her composure.
“Just go, Lance. You wanted to leave, didn’t you? To go to Europe? So go. There’s nothing holding you here.” She couldn’t be any more fucking wrong about that. How can she even say this when she was the one that asked me to stay?
“I can’t leave. You know that… I can’t leave you,” I say, my heart racing, and this time it isn’t a pleasant fucking feeling. There’s fear in my bones, fear of what’s happening right now. Fear of losing the best fucking thing that has ever happened to me.
“Not anymore, Lance. Just face it: this was fun, but it’s time we both face the real world. You’re just a kid, and I’m your stepmother. What did you think would happen?”
I take one step toward her, and grabbing her arm, make her turn to me. There are fucking tears streaming down her face, and I brush the back of my hand over her wet cheek. Just seeing her cry makes my heart fucking tighten up, rage coursing through me. I just want to punch whomever or whatever is making her feel like this, and the worst fucking part is that I don’t even know where to direct my rage.
“Do you want to know what I think? I think that I love you. I think that I want to be right here, close to you.” She shuts her eyes, and I feel her close to the breaking point. Somehow, she manages to hold her own, even though she’s on the verge of sobbing. I pull her into me, putting my arms around her and holding her tight, my hand on the back of her head. We remain like that for a whole minute, standing in silence as I hear her heart steadily beating against my chest. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper, not knowing if I believe my own fucking words. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay…
I love you, that’s all that matters.”
She remains in silence, but then two heartbeats after my words, she pushes me away. Brushing away her tears, she looks me in the eyes, an icy kind of determination there. I feel as if the whole world is crashing around me and I can’t do a fucking thing about it. I’m fucking powerless.
“But I… But I don’t love you. I never did,” she says, the words cutting through me like a fucking knife. My heart tightens inside my chest, and I feel my blood turning into ice. It can’t be true… It’s just not fucking possible. She loves me, I know it.
“You’re lying… Why are you saying these things?” I ask her, feeling as if someone was trying to pull the ground from under my feet. This can’t be fucking happening.
“Lying? You’re just a kid, Lance. I never loved you,” she repeats, the words hitting me like a brick again. If someone ran over me with a fucking tank and then shot me in the chest I wouldn’t feel half as bad as I do right now. “You’re nice to look at, and you sure know what you’re doing between the sheets… But that’s all there is to it. What do you think I was going to do? Throw away a stable life because of a fling with a kid?”
I stand there, my feet fucking glued to the floor as I take in her words. I’m listening, but I do not comprehend any of it. Why the fuck is she saying all this? And why the fuck is it getting so hard to breathe?
“Then… why did you pretend? Why did you fake it all this time?”
“I never thought you’d actually believe all that. It was just… a fling. Something to keep myself busy. A fantasy. Nothing less, nothing more. And now, it’s time for it to be over.”
With that, she walks past me, hitting me with her shoulder. I don’t turn as she leaves the kitchen, not even bothering to close the door. I remain there for what seems like forever, not knowing what to do. Everything was going so great… And now this.
I think of going after her, but to what fucking end? She seems hell bent on crushing what we had, and I can’t force her to fucking love me.
