Due Date_A Baby Contract Romance

by Emily Bishop

  “The news? She? Is it Remy?” I asked, my throat tight.

  “Remy? No. Don’t tell her anything yet,” my father continued, sounding increasingly cryptic. “What do you mean, though?” he continued. “Why would Remy threaten to go to—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I was mostly joking,” I stammered, realizing I’d almost given the game away. Jesus, what was I thinking? I stood in the center of the bedroom for a long moment, pondering.

  What the hell? I dropped the backpack on the bed, my eyebrows stitching together. Tearing toward the door, I hurried to my bike. “All right. I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I told the old man, deciding to be true to my word, this time.

  When I stopped out front at the tech company—that eyesore glass building just outside of the city—I saw nothing unusual about the place. My father’s sports car was parked in the front, its windows gleaming and its red paint sporting a fresh coat. Bolting through the door, I found myself face to face with Monica, the bright-eyed wonder of a secretary, whose face folded up upon seeing me.

  “Monica? What’s going on?” I asked her, my voice low. I was conscious of the tech nerds around us, eyeing me curiously. I liked to think that they assumed I had total control over their jobs. I had the metaphorical scissors and could snip and snap wherever I liked, just because I was an Adams.

  “You should come with me,” Monica said, her throat tight. Whirling from her desk, she cut across the lobby and toward the elevator, stabbing the button with her manicured fingers. Once inside the sterile elevator, I glanced at her. She shifted her weight from leg to leg, clearly anxious.

  “Do you want to give me some kind of hint of what’s going on?” I finally asked her, sounding arrogant, almost wild. I was still high from my fight with Remy. I was ready to attack anything, anyone.

  Finally, Monica’s eyes flickered toward mine. Just before the elevator doors burst open, she whispered, “Do you remember someone named Connie? Connie Murphy?”

  The name banged around my skull for a long moment. I gaped at her, feeling like I was staring into a long well of memories. “Connie Murphy?” I asked. The name tasted flavorful against my tongue. Like something I’d said many times before. “Jesus. Wait. I think I—”

  “Well, she’s here to try to ruin your life, as well as your father’s,” Monica said, interrupting. “Your father always said you were wild. That he didn’t know what the hell you were up to while he and Hank were keeping the company going back here.”

  Monica’s judgment smacked across my cheeks. She’d ordinarily been nothing but a vibrant airhead, delivering coffees and doughnuts. But now she glared at me, the person slicing a dagger through her boss, my Pop’s, career. Monica’s entire life was inextricably tied to the company and to my dad. Now, she was the barking dog. And I was the deliveryman.

  We walked down the hallway toward my father’s office in silence, my heart churning with anger and fear. Connie Murphy. The name illuminated an image of a blonde-haired beauty way back in Alabama? New Hampshire? A laugh rang out through my memories, a pleasant one, if a bit ditzy.

  As we approached the doorway to my father’s office, I heard that familiar laugh once more. It echoed through the halls, against the glass, and it made my stomach clench with apprehension. Her voice—almost like a Southern California Valley girl’s—squeezed out from a too-tight throat.

  “And that’s when I told Wes, I told him—hell, he couldn’t outswim an alligator. Not if he was the strongest guy I’d ever met. And back then, I mean, his muscles. They were huge, sir. He could lift me over his head and carry me like a kid. But anyway, we were down there at the bayou, basically a swamp, and he suddenly leaped into the air and let out a wild scream and dove into the water. The waves went all over the place, making our little boat quake back and forth. He didn’t come up from beneath the black water for like, oh, two minutes! He did it just to freak me out, you know. I was sure I was going to find some alligator gnawing at his head. But then, suddenly, he burst back up and swam back onto the boat. Sure enough, just about ten yards away was one of those alligator monsters I’d warned him about. We laughed and carried on about it for days after that. Till he skipped town all over again.”

  Connie. Connie Murphy. Of course.

  I stared down at her from the doorway. A slim, leggy blonde woman leaned back in my father’s expensive antique chair, her blonde hair curling down her back. She was tanned, a bit too skinny, with her shoulder bones jolting out from her skin. She wore what she probably assumed was a “nice” dress, with glitter making lines up and down the front. And as she told this story of our day at the bayou, she used her hands to illustrate my dive into the water and smacked her hands together to show the alligator’s massive jaws.

  All the while, the old man seemed almost captivated by her. She was certainly one of the less-refined people my father had been around in the previous fifteen years. If I remembered correctly, she’d grown up in poverty just outside of Orlando. I’d met her as a twenty-three or twenty-four-year-old kid on one of my trips south. The air had been muggy, making my hair, which I’d worn long at the time, curl wildly down my back. I hadn’t bothered with a shirt most days, and my muscles had cut into the humid air, glistening with sweat. I met her at a bar just a few miles away from the old Disney World. As she poured my pint, she pointed to her Mickey Mouse shirt, stretched across her large tits, and said, “Don’t tell me you’re making your way to Disney World, are you?”

  I said of course not. That I was always on the road to somewhere else. And that I’d never give my cash to such a big, asshole corporation. She’d liked that. Said that most men who trudged in and out of the shit dive bar had just unlatched from their families for a few hours for a pint or six. “Before they have to return to their screeching wife and their howling kids,” she’d sighed, batting her eyelashes at me.

  I’d been lonely. Achingly so, probably. At that time, I hadn’t spoken to Remy in years, yet she’d been a constant figure in my imagination. Telling me, mid-dreams, that I should return to California and find her. That things weren’t working out just the way she’d planned. They certainly weren’t for me, either.

  “Well, there’s the old devil now,” Connie said now, turning her bright face toward me. She rose from the antique chair and stepped her high heels closer to me, swinging her hips. Behind her, my father also rose. His eyes were difficult to read. Every second felt singed with confusion. Connie raised her hand to mine, and I shook it. I was conscious of how much bigger I was than her, perhaps wider, stronger than I’d been as a twenty-four-year-old man.

  “Connie,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Connie whirled her head back toward my father, drawing out an alligator smile. “Well, I was just telling your daddy about that. Seems he’s pretty fascinated about all your years on the road. Didn’t know what the hell you were up to out there. Says that he was just back here working away at his tech company. Damn, Wes. You told me that your dad and brother were successful. But I didn’t make the connection that you were one of them Adamses until I saw you on the news a few weeks ago. Said you’d become partner at the ‘richest tech firm’ in the entire country. And I knew I had to come find you immediately.”

  I stepped a bit closer. My eyes moved from Connie to my father and back again, hunting for the connection. That’s when I spotted the little blonde ponytail, bobbing in the corner. A young girl, no more than five or six, squatted over a large coloring book, holding onto a bright green crayon. She drew careful lines through a large cartoon animal, humming to herself.

  “You brought your daughter?” I asked, incredulous.

  Connie’s eyes burned into me, and I felt the air shift, as both she and my father waited for me to make the connection. I staggered back against the wall, feeling the weight of the world fall to my chest. Adrenaline boiled through me.

  “Holy hell,” I whispered. “She’s—she’s mine?”

  Connie swung her head through the air, giving a slight
cackle. “You look just as shocked as I was when I found out. Of course, that was six years ago now. I’ve had to grow up since then. Become someone’s mother. While you sped off across the country, never to be seen or heard from again.”

  I reaching for the door and pulled it closed—separating Monica from the conversation. I heard her stubborn footfalls as she stomped away, back to man the desk downstairs. I sank into the chair along the wall and watched this girl in the corner, who continued to draw on, unaware. My daughter? Really?

  “What’s her name?” I murmured, hardly able to recognize my own voice.

  “Maria,” Connie said. “Maria Murphy. Maria Murphy Adams, that is.”

  I drew my hands over my eyes. All this time, while I’d been a selfish asshole, tearing myself from one side of the country to the next, I’d had this daughter waiting in Florida for me. Growing. Learning how to walk and run. Deciding on a favorite color. Telling people that—hell. She didn’t have a dad. She’d never known him.

  “I tried to track you down,” Connie said. “Only, you didn’t leave any sort of message when you left that last morning. That was typical you, all my friends said it. But I still thought maybe one day you’d be back.”

  My father interjected, then. I’d almost forgotten he was there, waiting in the wings to leapfrog into my life. “You know, Connie, Wesley’s about to be married. He’s having a kid properly, with a girl he’s loved since high school.”

  Connie’s eyes flickered. I couldn’t comprehend if it was anger or just an intake of information. Regardless, I drew back, waiting. Tension filled the room. What had Connie expected, coming all the way here to find me? Surely money. It was always about money. But questions continued to spin in the back of my mind.

  I stepped toward my daughter, Maria. Crouching down beside her, I watched as she traced the outline of a cartoon pony with a purple crayon.

  “That’s really pretty,” I told her, my voice softer, more welcoming than I’d ever heard it.

  “Thanks,” Maria said back, her voice high-pitched and angelic. “Horses are my favorite animal. After that, I like pigs, but Mom says they’re ugly.”

  I turned my head toward Connie, my head swimming. “Do you mind if I—if we—go somewhere else? Just to talk?”

  I didn’t want this conversation to exist under the watchful owl eyes of my father. Connie nodded, a layer of understanding shadowing her face.

  * * *

  “I think that would be nice,” she said. “And I think Maria’s hungry, anyway. Let’s hit the road.”

  After bidding goodbye to my father, who just gave me a stern wave, muttering, “We’ll talk later,” I walked into the foyer with this strange, sudden, pop-up family. Connie and Maria, Maria and Connie.

  As I held open the door for them, watching Maria’s ponytail bouncing playfully, I felt a surge of fear. Suddenly, skipping town was a thought far, far from my mind.

  Rather, I churned with a new question. What the hell was I going to tell Remy about all of this? How would she react to the fact that I’d had a kid all this time—one I’d abandoned, without knowing it? And now that Remy thought I was kicking her to the curb, something I’d been very aware I was doing minutes before, what was I supposed to do next?

  21

  Remy

  Quintin propped open the door of Station to Station, lifting his arms and hugging me against him, careful of the baby bump. I allowed my head to rest on his chest for a long moment. A wave of fatigue crashed over me, a reminder of all the shit I’d forced myself through over the previous few months.

  “Pregnant. Picking back up with your asshole ex. And directing an entire film,” Quintin said, chuckling. “All I wish is I could pour you a beer.”

  “Ha.” I sighed, falling into a stool at the bar.

  I placed my hands over my stomach, watching as the new bartenders Quintin had hired continued to set up for the party. I was hosting the wrap party for the cast and crew that night. Already low on funds—and far too frightened to ask Wesley for anything else, because I wanted to begin distancing myself, even more, emotionally—I’d had to cut back. To have the wrap party at a “free” place. To pay Quintin all I could for the beer and wine and food they would take in.

  “So. Is he coming?” Quintin asked me, leaning his elbow against the counter. “Because I haven’t heard from him in days. Which means he really fucked up.”

  “He really fucked up,” I repeated, my tongue slipping across my lips. “I don’t know if we can repair it this time.”

  “Come on. You’ve said that so many times over the years,” Quintin said. “I can’t believe you anymore. It’s like the two of you get off on pissing each other off.”

  “It’s different this time, Q,” I whispered. “There’s a baby coming into this world, and I don’t think he’s ready for it. I don’t think he cares that this was mostly his idea. And that this idea—while it did get us the cash to do whatever we want—links us forever.” I trailed off, my brain burning. I ached to fall back into bed and bemoan the fact of Wesley abandoning me again. “Do you think he left on his bike again? He could be all the way in Colorado by now.”

  “I stopped over there the other day. No sign of him,” Quintin said, his voice lowering. “I think you should do like me and Sam keep saying, Rem. Just decide how you want your relationship with this baby to be. And take what you want from it. You’ve already made your movie. Now, what’s next?”

  “Editing. And submitting it to the indie circuit,” I said, trying to draw up strength in my voice. “I have just a bit of money left for all of that. And then, I’ll have pretty much nothing. I’ll have to take this bar job all over again. Can you imagine, raising an Adams son and also having a bar job? Jesus.”

  “Seems a life of contrasts,” Quintin said, trying to make a joke. “But it’s good, really. Like the kid will be able to see both sides of life.”

  “While Wesley’s off barreling across the mad American night like some Jack Kerouac wannabe,” I said.

  About an hour later, just past seven-thirty, the cast and crew began to arrive. Sam was first to arrive, wearing a glittering black dress. Her ego filled the room, and I couldn’t help but smile. Making her the main character of the movie had put pep in her step in ways I hadn’t seen since we were twenty-one, walking in stiletto heels through Los Angeles clubs and flirting with whomever was around. We’d ruled the world.

  “Hi baby and baby,” she said to me, kissing me on the cheek like some kind of Francophile. She perched on the stool beside me and eyed the window, the spot where Wesley’s bike was ordinarily parked. “I suppose you haven’t heard from him?”

  * * *

  I gave her an ominous look, my lips pursed. “Maybe I was too harsh on him?” I asked, recognizing that I sounded sheepish, weak.

  “No,” Sam scolded. “He tried to fuck up your movie. And he treated you without a single ounce of respect. If you call him first, I’ll be so angry at you, Rem. You need to focus on making edits on this film and on resting up for the baby. Nothing more.”

  I knew she was right. Although my head swam with fear and sadness, I forced myself to rise from my stool and greet the cast and crew as they arrived. Gwen arrived wearing a long, glittering yellow cape. She wrapped her soft palms around my cheeks and stared into my eyes, unencumbered.

  “You,” she sighed. “You gave me hope, with this movie. Hope that maybe I can keep acting until I die.”

  “If you don’t,” I swallowed, “It will be a huge disservice to all of art. You’re impeccable.”

  Throughout the next hours, the bar filled with the sixteen people, minus Wesley, who’d been involved in the yet-untitled production. I found myself forcing laughter alongside them, reminiscing about our long days on set and quoting lines from the film.

  Gwen ordered a line of tequila shots for her, three of the camera boys, and Sam, and the five of them tossed them back, pressing limes between their lips. Just when I thought Gwen had maybe had a few too many, she
ordered another round—making Sam guffaw with laughter. Everyone seemed full of vitality and excitement for what we’d created. I tried to fly with them. But I felt constrained, held back. More than once, I heard some of the crew inquire with one another about where Wesley was. The answer was always hushed. “He and Remy got into another fight. I mean, can you imagine two more volatile people making a baby together?”

  * * *

  I dropped myself into the street for a breath of fresh air. Outside, Quintin leaned against the red bricks, smoking a cigarette. He blew the smoke away from me, scratching at his scraggly beard.

  “I just can’t believe he didn’t come,” I said, trying to laugh at my own hopelessness.

  My words were filled with so much emotion. My throat felt squeezed. Quintin dropped his cigarette to the sidewalk and pressed on it with his shoe, marching toward me and wrapping me in a hug. It was the first time I’d really given into this constant fear that Wesley might not be returning to me. Months and months of being sure that I was fighting my feelings for him came crashing down over my shoulders. My movie, this baby. They mattered. But who was I kidding? Wesley mattered, too. He always fucking had.

  “Look at all of them in there,” Quintin said, pointing through the window of the pub. We watched as the cast and crew bantered away, Sam gesturing wildly as she told a story we weren’t able to hear. “You know you brought them all together, right? That you formed a world for them. Sam? All she was doing was dating deadbeat assholes on Tinder. And Gwen? She thought she was washed-up. Most of the cameramen were considering taking jobs to make commercials, soon. But you? You hired them. You helped remind them that they’re capable of making art, dammit. What else is time good for, if not this?”

  I nodded my head against him. I remembered those lost days, just after Wesley had sped off on his bike, when Quintin had done just this. “You’re going to fucking kill it in Los Angeles, Remy. They won’t know what hit them.” He hadn’t been correct, of course. But the sentiment had been dear to my heart. Words were never enough. But they were a kind of drug, pushing you to the next moment. You had to move forward.