Surprise, Baby!

by Lex Martin

  Or a relationship she doesn’t want down deep.

  Can’t say I blame her. Why would she want to marry the Merritt family fuck-up?

  31

  Drew

  I pause before entering Chez Pierre, a French restaurant where I’m meeting my parents for lunch, and stare at the Cartier jewelry store next door. While I’ve never had a reason to shop there before, the window display catches my eye, the pinpoint lighting making the diamonds sparkle like, uh, diamonds.

  I’m a fucking poet, okay?

  But no matter their brilliance, someone whose name starts with Kendall apparently doesn’t want one from me.

  I’ve spent the past week replaying our conversation with her parents, analyzing it from every angle, and trying to figure out if there are any chinks in her no-matrimony armor.

  It seemed bigger than an offhand remark, which makes sense for someone as fiercely independent as Kendall. She genuinely does not want to marry anyone.

  Especially not me.

  I mean, that’s cool. No big deal. We don’t have to get married.

  Doesn’t mean I want another bastard to touch her.

  I can be patient. Maybe she'll change her mind. Because the alternative—her not being in my life—is too excruciating to contemplate.

  Maybe my parents won’t respond to my news in their typically caustic and soulless ways.

  I look up at the sky. Without a sign of the apocalypse, I realize I should temper my expectations. I’m tempted to put off this conversation, but I promised Kendall I’d talk to them.

  Deep down, I know I’m a fool for hoping they’ll share in my excitement.

  A shimmer from the storefront draws my attention back to rings, and just like that, my focus is clear. I’m doing this for Kendall and our babies, not for my parents. If they decide to be dicks, it’s on them.

  I smile at the thought of what the future might hold with Kendall. At the possibilities.

  I might have to come back and pick out something in the size humongo diamond just in case I grow the balls to ask her.

  When I step into the adjacent restaurant, a huge floral arrangement, a long polished brass and wood bar, and an expanse of black and white tile greet me. The place has been transported straight out of Paris, chock full of shit my mother likes. I’m hoping a Niçoise salad will soften her up.

  Because what I have to say won’t.

  The host seats me at a table in the middle of the busy room, which bustles with patrons and servers. He hands me a wine list. I order a club soda from the guy who drops off the bread—not that any of us will touch it—and tap my fingers on the table.

  A few minutes later, my parents arrive. I stand and kiss my mother’s cheek, then shake my father’s hand. He’s in a business suit, and she’s wearing a tweed skirt suit. Both of their expressions are wary. I suppose that’s to be expected since I’ve never asked them to lunch before.

  After they order drinks, my father turns to me. “Well, how does it feel to be majority owner of the MerrittCo?”

  “Great, actually. I’ve been looking into getting a new board of directors who will modernize our practices. I’d like to use US manufacturing and avoid FOC merchant ships.”

  Contrary to what my parents believe, I plan to make the most of the opportunity.

  My mother sips her water. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “It’s a chance for us to be leaders. Consider how much of our shit is sent here using flags-of-convenience.” That’s a way for shipowners to register their merchant ships in Panama or Liberia, thereby using substandard regulations. Ever since Frankie told me about it, I’ve made sure none of Detention’s products are transported that way.

  My father exhales with an exasperated sigh. “The cost increase is going to be unsustainable.”

  “Human rights violations matter more than costs. So does environmental protection. It’s the right thing to do.”

  My mother sniffs. “Really, Andrew. Do we need to discuss such things at the table?”

  I should know better than to tell my parents what I really think. My father looks at me as if I have lobsters crawling out of my ears. “Your idealism is no way to run a business.” His voice lowers. “You’re going to run this company into the ground.”

  “No. I’m aiming for long-term sustainability. I want to make sure MerrittCo is rebuilt on sound footing. Like my T-shirt company—”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Demerit.” A familiar saucy voice wafting over my shoulder makes my gut churn.

  I twist around.

  This is bad.

  I’ve been with the busty waitress in the biblical sense, but I don't remember her name. I internally shake my head. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get away from my past. Fuck.

  And Kendall wonders why I don’t want to introduce her to more of my friends.

  Because they can list all of my drunken mistakes, point out the women I’ve hooked up with, and show her the commemorative pics.

  No-fucking–thank you.

  My mother shifts her soul-piercing stare slowly from the waitress to me and back again.

  “Hey. Nice to see you,” I choke out.

  “It’s been a while.” The waitress reaches out and touches my sleeve, and I do my best not to jerk my hand back. Dammit. “Maybe we can catch up tonight if you have time.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” I say. “Sorry.”

  Her face falls, and I don’t mean to make her feel bad, but Kendall’s the only one for me. If I could just establish a perimeter around us keeping the outside world and former hookups away, that would be great.

  My parents and I order lunch. Thankfully, after the waitress leaves, we change the subject, and make chitchat, mostly about my mother’s upcoming spring fashion show. When the food is set down, my mom asks, “Andrew, I suppose there was a reason you wanted to meet with us? Or did you merely intend to lecture us about your liberal causes?”

  I’m not taking the bait.

  “I wanted you to know I’m dating someone.”

  My mother rolls her eyes. “Who? The waitress?”

  “No. I don’t know who that is.”

  “Honestly, Andrew.”

  “I’ve changed. I have a new girlfriend, and it’s serious.”

  She takes a delicate bite of her salad. “I’ll believe that when I see it. If the magazines are to be believed, you go through women faster than—”

  The waitress picks that moment to materialize at the table again. “How is everything?” she asks, bending over to give me a front row seat to her cleavage.

  I cough, looking away.

  “The baby potatoes are divine,” my mom coos at her plate, smiling until she glances up and undoubtedly sees boobage.

  “Wonderful.” The waitress bats her eyes at me and drops her hand on my arm. “Hope to see you around, Drew.” And to my horror, she slips a note under my glass, which I’m sure has her number on it.

  For fuck’s sake.

  Clucking, my mom shakes her head. “Is this typical behavior, Andrew?”

  “What?”

  “That woman gave you her number and practically offered her services. But apparently you’re dating someone. Why do I find it hard to believe you’ve changed?”

  I open my mouth, but my father interrupts. “You’re not ready to settle down.”

  “I’ve been making a lot of changes, and I have a great girlfriend. I think you guys should know that she’s the one. Her name is Kendall.”

  My mother’s face screws up like she’s eaten a lemon. “Who are her parents?”

  “They’re wonderful people.” Warm. Welcoming. The opposite of the vampires in front of me.

  The look on my mother’s face tells me that nice people isn’t enough. They need to be listed on Forbes’ Top 500.

  “Have Pearl pencil in a brunch one weekend next month so we can meet her. If you’re still dating then.”

  I don’t miss the dis. “Sure. But you need to know something first.”
>
  Swallowing past the dry lump in my throat, I brace myself for impact.

  Both of my parents set down their silverware and give me their full attention. I can tell by the expression on my mother’s face that she’s drawn the correct conclusion.

  “Oh, Andrew. No.” One wrinkle between her eyes dares to make an appearance.

  “No, what?” Maybe I’m wrong.

  “You got that woman pregnant, didn’t you?”

  Of course she figured it out. There’s really no other reason for me to have lunch with my parents. But maybe I can salvage this conversation.

  “She’s not ‘that woman.’ I’m in love with her.” I’m so fucking crazy about Kendall, I can’t see straight, and I don’t give a shit my parents look like they’re gonna flip out.

  I clear my throat. “And, yes, she’s going to have my children.”

  Two for now. Hopefully more later.

  I rub my face, unprepared for the truth bombs my subconscious is laying out for me right now.

  My mother laughs coldly, derision oozing from her. “Are you going to make her take a paternity test?”

  “No. I trust her. We’re serious.”

  You don’t get more serious than having twins together.

  “You’re ‘serious’ about a woman? You have the nerve to say that ten minutes after you were propositioned by a waitress?” She stiffens like a starched napkin and snarls, “How could you be so careless?”

  “Was this planned?” my father asks.

  I shake my head. “No. But I think—”

  “You never think. What about your inheritance? Now it’s going to—” My mother is getting worked up.

  I aim for a soothing voice, even though my insides are boiling over. “What better place for the money to go than my children? Your grandchildren?”

  She rummages through her purse. Looking for meds. Smelling salts. A hand grenade to lob my way. “Children with someone we’ve never heard of. From some no-name family.” She sniffs. “Andrew, we can trace our family tree all the way back to the Mayflower. Can this woman say the same thing about her lineage?”

  Christ, she’s a fucking snob. “Who cares where her family came from? Listen to yourselves.” I crumple my napkin in a fist. “Kendall’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Hardly. She’s likely some whore you found.” Her eyes narrow. “You should demand she sign a prenup or pay her to terminate the pregnancy. Those are the only two viable options here.”

  That’s it.

  The screech from my chair as I stand makes every head in the restaurant turn toward us.

  Like I give a shit. Let the whole world watch.

  Facing my parents, I toss my napkin on the table. “I tried to include you in my life. In your grandchildren’s lives. But you two are assholes. Maybe it’s better if they never meet you after all.”

  My mother clutches her pearls. Good. Fuck her.

  “I don’t need your approval.” I growl. “And Kendall doesn’t deserve your hatred or snobbery. She’s amazing. Don’t ever say one more fucking thing about her.”

  Turning on my heel, I storm out.

  When I get to my car, I slam the door and dial Kendall.

  Before, I would have called Josh or my Bee. But I want her to be my someone.

  While I need to protect her from my parents, she’ll put this in perspective for me. Maybe she’ll know how to smooth things over some day.

  She should know how awful they are.

  A deep male voice answers.

  I look down at the phone to make sure I dialed the right number.

  “Is Kendall there?” I ask.

  “No, sorry, Drew. She’s with a client. This is Tristan.”

  “Hey.” Why the fuck did he pick up?

  “Sorry, I meant to mute her phone and accidentally answered it.”

  Fuck. Him answering is not what I need today. There’s a reason why this guy gets to me. She spends every waking hour with him. They work together—I get it. But I don’t like it.

  I let out my breath, feeling unreasonably deflated. “Okay. Just tell her I called.”

  Later, she texts me that she’s working through dinner.

  So when Ian messages, wanting to grab dinner, I agree. It’s better than sitting alone in my condo, wishing I could hang with Kendall, who has better things to do than sort through my bullshit problems.

  Ian and I meet in a bar. Of course, I don’t drink, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to throw back a few.

  I watch him, missing the way I used to drink to oblivion. Because I wish I could erase this entire day.

  But I know I can’t deal with life like that anymore. I have too much on the line.

  “You really are a teetotaler now, huh?” he asks, while taking a slug of his gin and tonic. He’s dressed in a Brooks Bros Oxford shirt, khakis, and loafers with no socks. Even though he’s classic East Coast preppy, he’s always hung with me, maybe because I was the bad boy he needed in his life.

  But I’m not one anymore. I do my best to explain it to him, but he slaps me on the back.

  “You don’t have to be so gloomy about it, though,” he says. “If you don’t loosen up, you’re gonna die of boredom.”

  “Fuck off. Just because I’m being responsible doesn’t mean I’m boring.” And I mean that. While it gets old when my ‘friends’ needle me, I know I’m stronger than that.

  He raises his eyebrows like, Wanna bet?

  Clearly, I need better friends.

  “You could try supporting me,” I point out. “Kendall’s pregnant.”

  “For real?”

  “Like I would joke about something like that?”

  He clinks his glass to my club soda. “Well, congrats, Daddy-O. Now you’ve got a whole slew of things to be responsible about. You sure you don’t want something stronger?” His whole face contorts in a grimace. “I’d be drowning myself in booze if I had to think about all the things that could go wrong with a pregnancy.”

  With the club soda halfway to my mouth, I freeze as the hairs on my arms stick straight up.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pregnancy is some scary shit. When my sister got knocked up, my brother-in-law lost his mind researching all of the things that can go wrong. You start reading on the internet, and I swear you begin feeling the symptoms. Even though you’re a guy.”

  Just when I think I’ve got everything all figured out, now I have another set of things to worry about.

  As he talks to me about pregnancy-induced hypertension, gestational diabetes, and all sorts of other shit that makes my balls crawl up into my body, I start to think if I make it through this pregnancy, I should get a medal.

  And Kendall should receive the Nobel Prize.

  32

  Kendall

  Five and a half months later

  A moan wakes me.

  It’s low. Deep. Like someone is in pain.

  That would be me.

  My eyes spring open on a gasp when one of the twins kicks me again.

  Jesus fu—

  Drew storms into my bedroom. His hair is sticking straight up, and his clothes are rumpled.

  “Ken, you okay?” He kneels by my side of the bed and brushes sweat off my forehead.

  “Not really.”

  It’s an honest answer. I’m not fucking okay.

  Exhaustion lines Drew’s face, and I stare up at him, frustrated that I feel so helpless right now. Frustrated that I can’t roll over without first hoisting my belly with both hands.

  “Sorry you’re not feeling well, baby,” he whispers, helping me to sit up.

  Because I can’t sit up on my own.

  The indignity of pregnancy.

  Being thirty-five weeks pregnant with twins is no joke. I barely fit behind the steering wheel of my car when I have the seat cranked all the way back.

  Drew hugs me to his broad chest, and my ribs squeeze painfully with emotion.

  How can he be s
o sweet with me but sleep on the couch almost every night?

  Sometimes he even goes home. He says my bed is too soft, and he can’t fall asleep.

  I want to call bullshit, but it’s eight in the morning, and I’m so tired, I can barely move.

  Heat stings my eyes. Not from the pain radiating from my pelvis, but from whatever is happening between me and Drew.

  He kisses my temple. The bridge of my nose. My lips.

  More tears fall.

  This is also a dilemma. I can’t watch a damn Hallmark commercial and not cry. Where have my nerves of steel gone? Why can’t I handle life the way I used to?

  “I have morning breath.” I turn my face away, choked up by his careful touch and tender tone of voice.

  “You know I don’t care about that.” Gently, his thumbs dab away the wetness on my cheeks. “Sorry this has been such a tough pregnancy, but you’re almost at the finish line. Wish there was more I could do to help, though.” His bear paw rubs a gentle circle over my belly. “What was it this time? Did they jab your kidney again?”

  “My cervix. I swear one of them wants to break a foot through my uterus. It reminds me of Aliens.” I chuckle and wipe my eyes. “Except instead of busting out of my chest, they crawl out of the hidey hole like little commandos going AWOL.” I mean it as a joke, but he shudders, his eyes wide. “I’m kidding.” Obviously. But he still looks a tad green.

  After a moment, his left eyebrow hikes up. “Wanna kick me in the balls to make it even?”

  I laugh because he’s ridiculous, and I love him even though he makes me so nuts sometimes I could scream.

  He smiles back at me, and I open my mouth to say something, to ask him what’s going on, to ask him what’s changed, when the front buzzer rings, jolting us apart.

  Two minutes later, he strides in with a plate of fresh fruit, croissants, and orange juice, which he sets down next to me.

  “From that bakery you like. They deliver.”

  “Thank you. That was thoughtful.”

  He ignores the compliment and tugs on a hoodie. “I have a meeting in half an hour. I gotta jet. Will you be okay?”