Due Date_A Baby Contract Romance

by Emily Bishop

  “It’s not really what we planned, anyway,” Wesley offered, slipping toward the center of set. He wheeled back toward Eric for a final note. “I mean, Jesus. I’ve technically done my part. Get her pregnant. Give her the cash.”

  “But man, she’s got your baby in her,” Eric said.

  “Think I don’t know that? I just, man, I just don’t know how to keep being myself. If I have to do that, too.”

  I was something like fifteen feet away, lurking behind several pieces of camera equipment. My eyes moved from Wesley to Sam, who joined the men in the center of the church. Wesley knocked a cocky head forward to mutter something to Sam. Something I couldn’t hear. My heart burned with a jolt of jealousy. Confusion.

  Why the hell had he agreed to be in my movie? I’d known he hadn’t thought it would take so much time to get going. Explaining to him the effort involved in securing permits, in aligning actors’ schedules, was colossal. Yet, he’d often muttered about taking a “final trip” before the baby arrived, even flirted with the idea of coming back just a few days before the baby was due. “How could he do that?” I’d whispered to myself, countless times, while falling asleep. “How could he abandon us?”

  “He’s just getting cold feet,” Sam had said often, speaking haughtily. “I mean, come on. He was on his own for twelve years. He can’t just turn off his human nature.”

  On set, the crew grew restless. I fumbled toward the director’s chair, my cheeks burning. Even after four months of occasionally making love, it was clear to the cast and crew that Wesley wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t anything but the man who’d knocked me up and was now financing my movie. It wasn’t like you could keep things like that under wraps in such a small crew. Rumors sped like wildfire.

  “All right, everyone. Let’s find our places!” I called out to the cast and crew. As I spoke, Wesley’s eyes darted toward me, catching mine. I gave him a sour look, my hands growing into fists. But I knew that tearing toward him and ripping him apart in front of the cast and crew would only waste all of our time. I made a mental note to articulate my feelings to him later—my finger digging into that muscled chest, my large pregnant belly growing between us.

  Finally, I found the strength to speak. “If we start the shoot now, we can break by two.”

  I barely recognized my own voice. Anger, resentment throttled through me. This wasn’t the man I’d cuddled against, just weeks before. This wasn’t the man who’d whispered that it would “all be all right,” when I’d had that minor freak out about, you know, the “big leap” of becoming a mother. The incredible intensity of bringing another life into the world.

  But I couldn’t waste another moment. This was to be one of the final scenes with Wesley, and one of the final scenes, period.

  The scene in the church, between Sam and Wesley, involved a great deal of sexual tension, of power play. Sam’s character, Hallie, had dated Wesley’s character, Mark, throughout high school, just before her mother had left her behind. Now, Mark has returned to San Francisco and discovered Hallie’s dive bar, beneath the bed and breakfast. He’s struggling with it, thinking that Hallie could have been so much more.

  “What the hell did you think, hiring a stripper to populate your fucking bar, huh, Hallie?” Wesley spewed, as Hank.

  “She’s a professional,” Sam said, lifting her chin high. “And you know what? She brings me in at least an extra one hundred fifty bucks a night. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a lot to you. But around here? Jesus, Mark. I still have to eat. And now, I have to feed my mother.”

  “I keep telling you. You should kick her out,” Wesley answered. “She wasn’t a part of your life for almost a decade, and now she’s trying to destroy everything you built.”

  “Hmm. That sounds pretty fucking familiar, Mark,” Sam said, her eyes burning. She had the perfect face for this closeup camera work. Her face told a story, her eyebrows arching and her chin set. She almost didn’t need the words.

  “Just because I wanted to get out there and actually make something of my life,” Wes scoffed. He slid across the screen, stopping at the church pulpit. He stared up at it, his eyebrows lifting. Much like Sam, the camera absolutely adored him—made him look like an old Hollywood star, all muscle and deep, penetrating eyes. Eyes that seemed filled with boundless emotion.

  “Don’t you remember when you said you wanted to get married here?” Wes, as Mark, finally said, turning toward Sam. “When you said getting married to me was the only thing you wanted in your life? That we could have a family?”

  * * *

  “Sure. Fuck it. Of course I remember,” Sam shrugged. “But that was a million years ago, Mark. I’ve had to grow up. Learn a better way to make money. And dammit, this is the only thing I’ve come up with.”

  “CUT!” I cried from behind the camera. My heart simmered, knowing we’d gotten a very good take. Slipping from behind the camera, my hand pressed against my stomach, I joined Wes and Sam in the center of the set, my eyes still focused on Wes.

  The words—yes, the ones I’d written—churned in my head, bringing back a million horrific memories. How we’d bickered about “making something” of ourselves. How we’d so yearned to live these volatile, fiery lives. Well, Wes still thought he could have that, while I remained here. Pregnant. My body giving way to his father’s desire for an heir. Yes, I had my movie—was cinching up the last minutes of it over the next few days—but I still didn’t have Wes. He was a curse, a black cloud over the past fifteen years of my life.

  “How was it?” Wes asked. His eyes were wide, innocent, like a child who’d done something wrong and was struggling to get away with it.

  “Brilliant,” I said, my voice hard. I watched Sam strum her fingers through her hair, watching us. I sensed that the cast and crew wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t take Wesley to the side. If I didn’t line the rules out before him, explain to him that this thing we were all working on, it wasn’t just a “casual” thing he could drop in for whenever he wanted.

  “Mind if we head outside and have a brief chat, Wesley?” I asked, my voice formal.

  Immediately, Wesley sensed the darkness. He twitched, his own eyes tracing across the cast and crew. Everyone kept their heads down, like wild animals, hoping not to be hunted. He slid a hand across his brow and took arrogant steps toward the large church door. “All right, then. If you don’t want to get another take out of that.”

  “We’ll do another take when I say we do,” I said, my voice electric.

  I struggled to keep up with him, my legs wobbling beneath me. Wes’s face was stony, his tongue ready to fire anger at me, but he paused, ensuring the walk through the door was fluid, easy. On the stone step, gazing out at the Mission District, he allowed the door to click closed.

  Now I was ready.

  “Nice flowers back there,” I said. “As if they could make up for all the lost time the other day. What the hell were you doing, wasting everyone’s time? Wasting my time, Wes?”

  Wesley brought himself up to his greatest height. He towered over me, his nostrils flared. “I told you. I was busy.”

  “Yeah? Well, I just heard you telling Eric back there that you just decided you wanted to be ‘free’ or whatever that day. What the hell does that mean, Wesley? Does it mean that I’m not ‘free’ enough for you? Does it mean that this commitment of knowing me, of getting me knocked up for your own personal gain, is too much for you?” I was seething now, struggling to catch my breath. “Because I didn’t have to do this for you, but I did.”

  “I didn’t have to be your goddamn actor in your movie, Remy, but here I am!” Wesley said, his voice growing lower, wilder. “Ever since this all began, I’ve felt fucking belittled out there. Like just because you’re behind the camera, you can arrange my entire schedule? You can tell me where to be, what to do, every second of every day?”

  “Wes! That’s kind of the fucking point of being the director!” I howled. “If you don’t align yourself with the rest of the
cast, then how do you expect us to film?”

  “I sincerely doubt some of those assholes in there have anything going on, Rem. I think they can change their schedules like that.” He snapped his finger, cockiness making his smile grow crooked. It was handsome, like a movie villain—the one who was endlessly sexy but also there to ruin you.

  “Jesus Christ, Wesley! This isn’t about you. It’s about the film!” I cried. “I asked you to give me this, before running off on another one of your adventures. Tell me, Wes. Did you ever actually learn anything about yourself on those trips across the country? Did you ever actually grow as a person? Because sometimes I feel like I’m here talking to a seventeen-year-old version of Wesley. And I’m almost thirty-one years old. I don’t fucking need that.”

  Wesley strode down the steps of the church, staring up at me with that same arrogant smile. His eyes burned with a mixture of anger and amusement. “Tell me you get off on being angry at me,” he said finally, shoving his hands into his pocket. “Tell me you were just waiting for me to fuck up your movie so you could yell at me out here.”

  “That’s not true.” Rage made my stomach grow tense.

  “Fuck off, Rem,” Wesley said, walking across the street now. “I just need some space, OK? You’re making me feel like I can’t breathe.”

  “You’re exactly the same as you always were.” I said, watching as he disappeared behind the school across the street. My voice echoed down the street.

  I was shuddering when Sam found me out on the front stoop of the church. My hands stretched out over my belly, and my shoulders sagged. Despite months of feeling seconds from crying, I forced my eyes to remain dry. I continued to stare out after Wesley, my tongue sharp.

  “What the hell happened out here?” Sam asked, breathless. “I mean, I haven’t heard you guys fight like that in years.”

  * * *

  “Oh, we were due for a big fight,” I stammered, still spinning with anger. “He can’t just treat me like that. He can’t treat his son like that. Abandoning him? It’s out of the question.”

  “But didn’t he have you sign that contract, saying he didn’t have to be involved after the birth?” Sam asked, lifting her eyebrow high.

  I whirled toward her, on a rampage now. I shook my head back and forth, my nostrils flared. “That was before. Before he heard his baby’s beating heart, for crying out loud. Doesn’t he have a soul? Doesn’t he see what this could be?” Sweat beads streamed down my cheeks, and my eyes felt glassy. I knew I wasn’t logical. That Wesley had no obligation to me, to us, according to this damn contract.

  I’d known it would come down to this. That he would prove himself to be the Wesley Adams I’d always known. But I still quivered with anxiety at the fact of it, knowing that—barring a huge shift in the universe—no one would ever change. You couldn’t get off on trying to make it happen.

  “Well, shoot,” I said, shrugging to Sam. I swept my hands along my cheeks, trying to draw myself back to the present. I was the director, the dominant force on set. I couldn’t be anything else. “Good thing you guys killed that scene. I think we got it in the first take. Which means we don’t need Wesley on set again.”

  “Do you think you’ll see him again soon? Let yourself cool off a little bit?” Sam asked, leaning against the wall. Her dark blue eyes studied mine. I’d spoken to her countless times, post-fight with Wesley. She seemed to look at me as if she already knew the answer.

  “Maybe it has to be done,” I told her, crossing my arms against my chest and letting out a big sigh. “I’ll always be connected to him. I’ll always have this child. But Wesley, he doesn’t have it in him to be a father figure, nor a partner in anything.”

  * * *

  “He’s not good enough for you. He never will be,” Sam affirmed.

  With that, she strode back through the door of the church, whipping her arms into the air and calling out across the cast and crew. “Seems we’ve lost that asshole for good!”

  I remained on the steps, listening to Gwen and the others cackle at Sam’s outrageous announcement. As much as I hated the thought of him—as much as I wanted to tear into him, declare that he was the worst possible person in my life—I still kept my eyes at the street corner where he’d disappeared, wondering if he’d dart back around with an apology already brimming on his lips.

  I waited two minutes more, my shoulders growing heavier, my knees folding up. He still didn’t appear. And I knew, in the back of my mind, that the show had to go on without him. We still had hours of filming left to go for the day. And that night, I would fall asleep alone, knowing I’d done the best I could—in my art, and for my child.

  20

  Wesley

  I hopped onto my motorcycle on the other side of the street from the old elementary school, kicking up the engine. Just behind the school, I still felt the burning eyes of old Remy—staring after me, wanting to wrap me up with another round of angry, volatile words. “Sexual tension,” or something very much like the cousin to that word, “love,” was so often obliterated between us by outrageous anger.

  I’d known I was fucking up when I missed three hours of rehearsal. But I’d woken up with a sweeping wave of anxiety, a feeling that—over the past four months—I hadn’t taken a single moment to myself. I’d been a slave to my phone, diving for it every time it buzzed to see that Remy had a new doctor’s appointment, that Remy had a cold. That Remy needed me on set “just one more time for the week.”

  I felt like a dog on a leash, yanked from one corner of San Francisco to the other. And every time I’d brought it up with Remy, she’d gotten all weepy-eyed, yet angry, insisting that I’d agreed to be in her movie. That she needed to be able to rely on me.

  I suspected that the anger was linked to something much bigger. That she was starting to want me to stick around once our son was born. And truthfully, I’d flirted with the notion a few times. Imagining us raising our little baby together, me with the little guy while his momma got some sleep.

  But those daydreams weren’t rooted in reality, and I knew that. My legs felt achy, all cooped up. As I barreled down the wide road toward the cabin, I resolved not to call Remy for a few days. Let her stew. Maybe let her know that this was to be the future—that I wouldn’t just be a phone call away. I’d given her the cash money. I’d held her hand when we’d heard the baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

  A fucking religious experience, that had been. Sure. Imagining that little baby—half of me, a son—swimming around in there, awaiting his future, had made me feel a wave of paternal instincts. Of nurturing. I’d even flirted with the idea of praying that night to try to make sure our baby would be healthy. Making a deal with God. Like that was something you could do.

  But now, no. I had to eliminate all thought of a father-son relationship with this kid. How could I be a father when all I knew was freedom and my own hours? It wasn’t possible to change. An old dog never learned new tricks, right?

  When I reached the cabin, I tore toward my large backpack leaned against the far wall of the bedroom. It’d been untouched for months, still lined with a crummy towel and sweatshirt from my last trip. I brought it across the bed and began to toss things into it, still unable to decide on a place to go. Southern California? Texas? Where had I last felt like myself? Where had I last felt free?

  My phone began buzzed on the top of the bed, making the bag quake. I glanced at it, spotting my dad’s name. As “partner” of the tech firm, I hardly did a single thing for the company—showing up at random benefit concerts, standing in a suit at some of the bigger meetings, that sort of thing. My dad asked about Remy almost constantly, rooting me to this idea of marriage, of family.

  And over the past few weeks, Dad had been asking after us, wanting us to come for dinner. “I haven’t seen Remy since she was only three months pregnant!” he’d said the previous time. “I want to get to know your future wife, Wesley. She’s a part of the family, and she’s about to deliver my grandbaby int
o the world!”

  * * *

  After ignoring his call, I was surprised to see it buzzing all over again. Normally, he took the hint—sensing that the “Wesley” he’d thought was in the past was still lurking somewhere beyond. Wanting to get the old man off my ass—maybe even tell him that the marriage was off, or some shit—I brought the phone to my ear.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice firm.

  “Wesley. Hello,” my father said. His voice sounded oddly strained, like he was in the middle of some sort of anxiety attack—something he often had in those first few weeks after Hank had passed. We didn’t talk about those times. In fact, since Remy’s pregnancy, we’d hardly spoken about Hank at all. Mostly in the “remember when” context rather than bemoaning the fact that, at the core, I wasn’t Hank and never would be.

  It was kind of fucking nice, to be honest. Not being constantly compared. Being appreciated. Although I knew it was bound up in a lie.

  “Dad?” I asked, my heart feeling squeezed for a moment. If it was a panic attack, he knew to take his meds. They were right there in the top drawer of his desk, awaiting him. Helping to pull him back to the “shore” of reality.

  “I think you should drive on over to the office,” Dad said. His words were articulate, without panic, yet strange.

  “Did I miss a meeting?” I asked, my eyebrows high. I gazed out across the ocean, my other hand still holding onto the backpack. I was five minutes away from getting back on the bike and tearing across the state. I could be a hundred miles away in ninety minutes. I could be free. If it was a meeting, I was seconds away from telling Dad to stuff it. I couldn’t hack another business meeting.

  * * *

  “I don’t want to explain over the phone,” Dad continued. “But I think if you don’t come down here, we’re going to have a serious problem. She’s threatening to go to the news.”