by Max Monroe
More better?
Meh. Tomato, tomahto.
These are my final words ever, and I majored in books. No doubt, I’ll come up with something grand.
Milo
My Tuesday started at the crack of dawn. After a lengthy interview with Rosemary, and an even lengthier phone call with my mother, I didn’t have the brain power left last night to prepare for the list of meetings I have today. But I couldn’t go into them unprepared, and thus, the necessity to be an early riser was born.
I’ve never seen a more hideous baby.
But despite the exhaustion and the insanity that is my busy-as-fuck day, I carve out time around ten a.m. to head to St. Luke’s Hospital to meet my cousin Emory’s brand-new baby girl—who I’m absolutely positive will be a whole lot prettier than her metaphorical relative.
My mom texted a few pictures of Hudson Blair Black as soon as she was born a few hours ago, but it’s so hard to see any real distinguishing features in the shaky pictures of joy that come immediately following the miracle of new life. I’m hoping to take a few of my own that don’t look like they’ve been shot mid-parajump from a 747.
The elevator dings its arrival on the fourth-floor maternity ward, and a herd of excited family members with balloons and stuffed animals and flowers steps out in front of me. I wonder briefly if I should have stopped in the gift shop to get something for Emory and the baby, but then I remember who I’m dealing with.
Emory is a good person, but she’s also snooty as all hell. If I was going to get her a gift she’d appreciate, I should have done it well outside the walls of this hospital.
Crying babies and busy medical staff create a chaotic background melody as I get buzzed through the secure doors that provide a layer of protection against babynapping, and a swirling mix of bleach and sterile medical equipment rounds out the olfactory element of the ambiance.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping up to the nurses station right inside the doors.
The obviously busy brunette nurse at the computer keeps typing but looks up at me at the same time. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Emory Black’s room. Room 407?”
She nods and gestures to the right with just her head. “It’s right down the hall there. It’ll be on your left.”
I smile as I say “Thanks,” but I’m already nothing but a memory. She’s got shit to do, and it’s all a whole lot more important than dealing with me.
I head the direction she instructed, and after a short walk down a long hallway lined with black-and-white photos of newborn babies, the room is there, on the left, just as she said it’d be.
The door is cracked a tiny bit, so I push it open slowly, knocking lightly at the same time. I feel like I have to announce my arrival somehow, but being the asshole who wakes up a sleeping newborn doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I want to add to my resume.
Emory’s best friend, Greer, is the first to notice me from her spot next to Emory’s bed on the other side of the large room, and she waves me in with a friendly hand.
She’s been in Emory’s life almost as long as I have and has spent more than her fair share of holidays with our family. Up until two or three years ago, she was always a part of Christmas Day.
I smile, jerking up my chin in greeting, and walk slowly through the crowd of people toward the bed.
“Well, well, well…look what the fucking cat dragged in,” Caplin Hawkins says loudly from the corner I couldn’t see when I came in. He is way less concerned with the consequences of waking a sleeping baby than I am, apparently. “If it isn’t Mr. Forbes Billionaire.”
As a reflex, I give him the finger. As my company’s lawyer, Cap’s been a part of my life since I was twenty-three. He has a brilliant mind and a real knack for corporate law, but he’s also a pain in the ass. Which is probably why he’s morphed so easily from the role of lawyer only to my friend.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” I tease back. “Always having to compare yourself to me? Do I need to arrange a strategy with your assistant for hiding articles when they come out about me?”
Cap laughs in a way only Caplin Hawkins can—maniacal and calculating and a sure sign I should expect some form of ridiculous payback—but I refocus on the reason I’m here.
My cousin and the beautiful baby she created.
“Congratulations, guys,” I say, stepping toward the hospital bed. One peek at a now-sleeping Hudson in her father Quincy’s arms, and I grin. “Goddamn, what a beauty.”
Perfect, angelic skin, full pink lips, jet-black hair, and long dark lashes, this little lady makes the Gerber baby look average.
“Obviously, she gets her looks from me,” Emory says, but her best friend Greer is more than ready to offer a sarcastic retort.
“Honestly, it’s hard to tell with all that makeup you’ve got caked on your face.”
Emory’s responding look is a glare that could penetrate walls. “At least I met my daughter without looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
“You and I both know that is exactly how I will meet my future daughter.” Greer laughs. “And you know I’m just kidding, Em. You look gorgeous. Kim Kardashian’s glam squad fucking wishes they could make her look that good post-birth.”
I roll my eyes. This is a typical Emory and Greer snark-war. I’ve been witness to it more times than I can count.
Greer’s main squeeze, a guy I’ve met only a time or two, Trent Turner, grins at her adoringly. I snort under my breath. Obviously, he’s painfully in love.
Cap laughs, this time innocently, as far as I can tell, but Emory snaps. “Don’t even start, Cap.” One more wrong move by my buddy and I might have to find a new lawyer.
“I didn’t say a word,” he says defensively, raising both hands in a show of submission. I bite my lip to stop a laugh from escaping, but the pleasure I get out of the exchange must be evident on my face because both Emory and Cap glare.
It’s safe to say my favorite cousin is a little quick on the draw this afternoon, but all things considered, it’s understandable. The woman just had a baby. In my book, that’s the ultimate free pass.
It isn’t long before the conversation switches back to the baby, and I take the opportunity to get back in Emory’s good graces. Hudson is still in a doting Quince’s arms, but I address Emory directly. “Can I hold her?”
Emory nods at Quincy, and I jog over into the corner to put some sanitizer on my hands. Quincy is waiting when I get back and doesn’t hesitate to make the transfer as I hold out my arms.
Hudson sighs the sweetest little baby sigh as I arrange her in my arms and pull the tiny warmth of her body into my chest.
God. How can something so tiny make my heart feel so big?
Like it’s programmed to do it, my body develops a small bounce and sway as I stare down at her gorgeous face.
There’s a whole story—a whole goddamn world of events—that led up to the creation of this perfect human being, and the cosmic power of it all makes my chest squeeze.
I glance up at Emory and Quince and then back down at the baby. This moment feels so acutely destined.
I’ve never focused on fate. Hell, I’ve never even focused on love.
But ten minutes of holding the result of human connection has me wondering what the world could have in store for me.
Hudson gets a little fussy, waking from her slumber and turning her lips down in disquiet. Quincy jumps to take her back, and Greer informs us it’s time for everyone to exit the room. “Okay, it’s time for you bastards to get out of here. Emory needs to get her tits out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Emory mutters. “Stop saying that, G.”
“Fine. Emory has to get her boobs out.”
Emory rolls her eyes. “I have to breastfeed.”
I grin and step forward to give Em a kiss on the forehead. “Congratulations, cuz. I’m so happy for you.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Milo.”
With my congratulations officially given, Cap and I are the first ones to leave t
he room and head down the hall, back out the special doors, and over toward the elevators.
“Where are you headed now?” he asks.
“Back to work.”
He groans and taps the down button for the elevator. “That’s fucking boring.”
I laugh as the elevator arrives, and we step on.
“Is Evan really getting married?” he asks, and something about the tone he uses makes me tilt my head and meet his eyes as the doors close shut.
“Yeah.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
I search his eyes. “I mean, he’s been engaged for nearly a year. Seems like the natural next step.”
“First, Quince. Now, Evan and Trent.” Cap sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Goddamn everyone’s dropping like flies.”
I laugh at that. “Well, if that isn’t the worst way I’ve ever heard anyone describe marriage…”
“You know it’s true, dude. Marriage. Babies. Shit is going down within our friend circle.”
“Aw,” I tease. “You feeling left out, sweetheart?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cap retorts on a chuckle. The hall from the elevator to the lobby is surprisingly empty, and in a weird way, it makes his words seem even more dramatic, like I’ve found myself a party to an after-school special. “I’m terrified…for them.”
“Oh…” I pause, and a smirk makes itself known on my lips. “So, you’re just scared for them. Not scared in general? Or projecting your commitment fears on to them? Of course, that makes total sense.”
“You bet your ass, it does,” he says without a second thought. “I don’t have any fears of commitment. I just prefer not to commit.”
“So, this is more of an altruistic kind of concern you’re harboring, then.”
He nods. “Exactly.”
“If that isn’t a good friend, I don’t know what is,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes.
“You know, I almost forgot how much of a fucking smartass you are.”
Truthfully, I’m just getting warmed up. His remarks have given me so much ammunition. But luckily for him, my phone pings three times in quick succession from inside my jacket pocket before I can give him any more shit. I pull it out to check the screen.
Maybe: Great day, dear gentleman.
Maybe: Are you there, good sir?
Maybe: I appropriate your time and constipation in this matter.
What in the ever-loving hell is happening right now?
Why is Maybe texting me? Did Evan give her my number too?
And what the hell is she talking about?
Before I can even try to decode the messages, another one comes through.
Maybe: I may be but a mere innocent maiden, but I have desires that flow deeper than deep. I want to jump in your pool water and float on your big noodle raft.
And another.
Maybe: I have a delicate, desiring request to ask of you, good gentle sir.
And then, she drops a fucking bomb.
Maybe: Deflower me, please?
“What the hell?” I question out loud before I can stop myself. Cap’s overly curious gaze moves to my phone.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I shake my head at the same time. I stare at the screen, trying to make sense of it, but impressive article in Forbes and billion-dollar company or not, I’m coming up blank.
Cap’s curiosity only grows the longer I stare, though, and he moves strategically to try to get a glance. I bend it like fucking Beckham to ensure that doesn’t happen.
“What the fuck, dude?” he questions in near outrage. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
He grins. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Trust me. It’s nothing.”
Nothing I can make sense of and absolutely nothing I’m going to share with Caplin Hawkins.
He holds out his hand. “Let me see.”
“Fuck no.” I lock the screen of my phone and slip it back into my pocket. I may not know what’s going on, but now, while I’m so closely located near the billionaire equivalent of a peeping tom, is not the time to try to figure it out.
“Someone sending you titty pics?” he asks with a grin, and the sheer thought of Evan’s little sister sending me pictures of her breasts has me choking on my own saliva.
“Don’t be a fucking dick.”
“What?” he asks and raises both of his hands in the air like he’s the most innocent, well-mannered man who’s ever lived. “It’s a valid question.”
In Caplin Hawkins’s world, it is.
And, hell, maybe a few years ago, it would’ve been a valid question for me too.
But not now. And not Evan’s little sister.
Good God.
When I get out of the hospital, away from Cap’s prying eyes, and inside the privacy of Sam’s Escalade, I pull out my phone and reread her messages. Instantly, an absurd laugh escapes my lungs when I read the last one.
Deflower me, please?
Maybe Willis is a virgin?
No. I shake my head. Surely, this is just some sort of fun prank…right?
But the simple idea of Maybe, Evan’s little sister, sending out these kinds of text messages, no matter the reason, to random bastards in this city makes my gut churn with discomfort.
I guess it’s a good thing Evan asked me to reach out to her…
I’ll be contacting her sooner rather than later, that’s for damn sure.
Maybe
The sounds of a garbage truck slamming trash cans around startles me awake, and I pop up like a freaking jack-in-the-box to look at the clock.
A bright, glowing, red eleven shines back at me.
Holy moly. It’s already 11:00 a.m.?
Thirty-six hours since my surgery and I’m finally starting to feel like I’m no longer a cast member of The Walking Dead. I’m still a little groggy, but I’m more aware of the real world.
And apparently—and this really is news to me—I’m not dead. What I thought was the lobby for heaven was actually the recovery room, and as it turns out, God does not, in fact, look like Bruce and drive a Hyundai Elantra.
Who would’ve thought a single tooth removal could turn into such a shitshow?
Yesterday, I slept for sixteen hours straight and only woke up to pee, take some meds, and sleep-eat a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Being comatose came in pretty handy though, I can see now, as my mom evidently texted forty times asking me to “rate my pain” on a “scale from one to ten.”
Thankfully, the pain is subsiding, so I make a mental note to switch out this morning’s dose of Vicodin for Tylenol.
I toss my phone down on the pillow of my bed and slide over to the side to put my feet on the floor. My body protests as I drag it off the mattress, but by the time I make it over to my dresser to reread the doctor’s post-op instructions, everything seems to be limbering up. Now that I’m lucid, I can feel a layer of filth from the trauma covering my skin, so I make my way into the bathroom to gargle with some salt water and wash my face.
One glance at my reflection and I startle like that possessed chick from Paranormal Activity is living inside my mirror.
Holy mother of dragons. I touch my image cautiously. I look like shit warmed over.
My lips and cheeks are puffy, I have what must be two days’ worth of drool dried to my chin, and don’t even get me started on my hair. My brown locks are tangled on top of my head and down my shoulders in a fashion reminiscent of Edward Scissorhands.
Seriously. If Ratatouille were into styling hair, he’d sure as shit nest his way inside this catastrophe.
Without a second thought, I turn on the shower water and hop under the warm spray.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m scrubbed and rejuvenated and, thanks to the expensive leave-in conditioner I procured from my mom’s bathroom on one of my visits, the bristles of my hairbrush glide through my wet locks with ease.
I grab my phone from my room and head into t
he kitchen to make some oatmeal, but before I can get a verse and a half into “Wild Oats” by the Rainmakers—the song I always sing while making oatmeal, obviously—the stupid smartphone pings from its spot on the counter.
I grab it cautiously, a niggling feeling that it contains evil forming in my belly and swelling.
A text message. From my mom.
I roll my eyes, smile, and breathe a sigh of relief at the same time. I mean, she’s being a pain in my ass, but a caring pain in my ass.
I don’t know why, but I thought it was going to be something much worse. I’m not sure what, but—
I lift my finger to tap on her name in my text inbox, but I stop in midair when I see a new message thread two rows down. With Milo Ives.
What in the ever-loving crapola is this? Did he text me?
Oh hell. I glance out the window quickly to see the sky looking eerily red. Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. My heart pounds wildly inside my chest, and I start to wonder if he somehow put two and two together and figured out I was the “new employee” at the shop the other day.
Jesus, that would be embarrassing.
Still, I can’t not click open the conversation.
This is Milo Ives. My longest, deepest, most wildly inappropriate crush, and he’s texting me something.
Unfortunately, when I get a look at the messages within the thread, my heart pretty much stops beating.
I am horribly, terribly, catastrophically wrong.
He didn’t text me. I texted him.
For the love of everything, what did you do?!
I scroll furiously, reading the evidence of my self-sabotage with a painfully earnest self-awareness. Harry Potter in a handbasket, I asked to…to ride his pool noodle?
I drop the phone onto the counter and my head straight into my hands and let out one of the most painfully pitiful groans known to man.
I am an idiot. The idiot to end all idiots, and for the love of Pete, I think there might be more messages.
I grab the phone again, swift and purposeful like the removal of a Band-Aid, and scroll down to the end of my text ramble.
