Due Date_A Baby Contract Romance

by Emily Bishop

  I grinned to myself, reading these final messages. Tyler had proven himself as no kind of man. As a kind of flickering “what if” that I could immediately dismiss. He’d been nothing to me, except a potential escape. Now, fully out of the arms of San Francisco, nearing the description “dirt broke” and feeling the baby grow from apple to avocado, I could dismiss Tyler as an affliction of a greater problem. I wanted Wes, and Wes didn’t want me. Period.

  27

  Wesley

  California. It was always our promised land, the moment we arrived into the world—but Los Angeles had always been her ticket to freedom. To the film industry. As I churned down the highway on Quintin’s bike, I fell into a flurry of memories, thinking about the pair of us, lost in one another’s bodies. “Don’t leave me!” had been her final words, before I’d returned to find her on that Santa Monica strip of beach, after we’d “run away.” When we’d returned to San Francisco, we’d known not to bring back up any mention of being together after graduation. We’d known that our worlds had to open up separately.

  But now, we were older. Thirty years old, with a baby on the way. What the hell was standing in our way, if we wanted to build something together? My fingers gripped the handles a bit too tightly, my knuckles turning a bright white. The sun was beginning to ease up on the eastern horizon line, bringing a layer of light over my left cheek.

  At a rest stop, I called Quintin to make sure everything was going all right with Maria, my girl. Quintin’s voice was sure as he echoed back. “I don’t know how she made it, without being a crazy lady like that Connie back there. But man, she’s as cute as can be. Passed right out the minute I tucked her into bed.”

  I grinned at this. “Do you know what you’ll do today?”

  “I don’t know, man. Old Connie’s probably gonna be hungover as fuck and hard to handle, what with you going down to get Remy back and everything.” Quintin paused. There was a hesitation between us, with a million unsaid things swirling. “Hey, man. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “It’s fatherhood, I guess,” I said

  “Man, you promise you won’t leave your family like that again? My sister? Even, hell, your dad? I ran into him a few weeks ago at this thing I was bartending for, on the side, and he mentioned that this new baby had given him more hope than he’d had since Hank passed. Listen, man. You’ve got people counting on you.” He paused for a long moment. The sun glinted against his motorbike. Across the road, I watched as a semi crawled into the gas station and a sad, burly man fell from the front seat. Was life on the road really what I had wanted for all those years, when I could have had Remy?

  “And plus, man, I want you around,” Quintin finally said, his voice lowering. “It fucking sucks not having you around. You’re my best friend.”

  The level of honesty between us had never gotten to such depths. I sighed heavily, hating the person I’d been before. Hating that I’d never been able to be enough for these people.

  “I know. I’m going to change this time,” I said, really believing it. Hearing the depth of my own voice. “I just have to get down there and find her.”

  Quintin wished me well. I swept my leg back over the bike and continued, stretching out the last several hundred miles. Already, it was one, then one-thirty, and my brain frizzled with dehydration. Something in me needed to see that Santa Monica beach, where we’d first fallen into one another after running away. I sped further, faster, my fingers gripping the handles tighter. “We have to go,” Remy had whispered to me, en route to our strange, otherworldly “run away,” our escape. “We have to move. Together. Maybe this is our last chance.”

  It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

  I pointed the motorbike out near the pier, peering out over the boardwalk. The sand was a glossy white, beaming the sunlight back to me. Walking near the waves in my black boots, I remembered all those forgotten days on the road, days when I hadn’t been able to remember my own name. Days when I’d been too drunken, too wild, too charged with adrenaline—bobbing between other women’s beds and other people’s opinions of me.

  They had to end, now. With Maria. And with Remy’s and my son. A son I knew she assumed I didn’t give two shits about.

  A woman was staring at me from the other side of the pier. Her thin legs stretched out before her on the sand, and her belly was large beneath her black sundress. Wild curls whipped in the wind behind her. With a surge of hope, mixed with fear, I realized it was her. It was my Rem. I’d mapped out the course of our runaway, only to find her at the end of it. Like we were meant to find one another here all along.

  Remy stood as I approached. Her black dress blew around her thin legs, and her face was somber. The sunlight made her eyes sparkle, catching the reflection of the waves as they crashed along the shore. I couldn’t imagine what the hell we would say to one another when I reached her. In some ways, I felt sure that I’d walk that stretch of beach forever.

  But all too soon, I reached her. I stopped two feet away, staring at the gorgeous woman: her belly pregnant, full with our son, and her hands folded over it. Her chin was set, her eyes questioning. Was this truly happening? Was this it?

  “Hi,” I finally said, knowing that would never be enough for us.

  “Hi,” she responded. The sound of her voice made me strangely weak and strong, all at once. I sniffed, stretching my shoulders back. I towered over her, yet she seemed dominant, as well—a force of nature, just from the light in her eyes. I’d never been enough to handle her.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I finally asked, shaking my head. Behind me, the waves crashed down once more against the sand.

  * * *

  “I should ask you the same question,” Remy said, crossing her arms over her chest. This was the first sign that made me realize she was shaking. She was fearful. “Don’t you have a—a new girlfriend, back in San Francisco? A new daughter you were keeping from me all this time?”

  “No,” I said, my voice firm. “The daughter, well. I just met her for the first time. Just learned about her. Maria. Maria Murphy Adams. Remy, she’s—she’s amazing.”

  Remy turned her head toward the water, her eyes filling with tears. It was clear she’d written me off as gone from her. That she assumed I didn’t want her in my life. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  “Being with Maria made me realize what an idiot I’ve been,” I began. “About our son. About you, too. Watching her learn. Watching her grow. I can’t believe I’ve already missed so much.”

  I stepped forward, eliminating the distance between us. Remy looked so stricken, her eyes still wild with fear and anguish. I placed my hands on either side of her cheeks, wanting to bring her closer to me. My thumb caught a tear as it descended down her cheek.

  “I don’t want to miss a single fucking day with you or our son, Remy,” I told her, my voice firm. “I want to be here every single time our son sneezes. Every single time our son crawls. I want to see your face light up when he smiles. And I want to know if I’ll be a good father to him. God, I so want to try.”

  Remy’s chin quivered with this news. She dropped it toward her chest, drawing herself out of my embrace. Shaking her head, she muttered, “No. No. I know you, Wes. You aren’t the type to settle down. I so wanted you to be with me, all those years ago. But we didn’t force it then, and we shouldn’t now.”

  “Remy!” I cried out, watching as she spun back toward Venice Beach, scampering across the sand. Her sandals slipped along, making her knees knock together.

  She waved her hands toward me, crying out. “We can’t do this anymore, Wes! I’m too tired. I don’t want to feel like I’m not enough for you anymore!”

  Using my last jolt of energy, I bolted toward her. I brought my larger form in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulder. She blinked up at me, fully weeping now. She was the girl I’d picked out, all those years before in high school. The girl who’d waited for me outside of the high school. The girl who’d t
aken my virginity with a wild humping session just outside of the school. And the girl who’d broken my heart, when she hadn’t come with me on my journey across the continent.

  “What do you want me to say?” she finally whispered, licking her lips. “Do you want me to say that I’ll take you back? That I trust you? Because it’s a lie, Wes.”

  “I don’t expect you to trust me all at once,” I answered her. “I just want you to know that I’ll be there for you and the baby every single day. That when I awake in the morning, I’ll fight for us, and for him. And for Maria. I know I’ve been selfish for too goddamn long. I’m done taking care of myself. I want to be something more.”

  Unable to resist her a moment more, I brought my lips over hers and kissed her—wrapping my thick arms tightly around her back and hugging her close. I felt her rabbit heartbeats against my chest. She fell into me, resisting at first with a small pat of her fist. But soon, her arms were around my neck. I lifted her up into me, and her legs wrapped around my waist. Between us, we held onto our son. We lifted him.

  When the kiss broke, we gazed into one another’s eyes, speech unmanageable. Knowing nothing more than we needed one another. Immediately, without pause, I placed her back on the sand and strung my fingers through hers.

  We darted into a small hotel near the beach. In the shadow of the hotel room, I watched as Remy slipped off her black sundress and slipped her engagement ring back over her finger. It glinted with the light of the lamp. I leaned forward, and I kissed the diamond, then her finger, then her arm, guiding my lips toward hers. I eased her against me gently, bringing my hands along her stomach and then against the brown tart nubs of her nipples. She moaned quietly.

  Her body was even more perfect than it had been when we were eighteen. I stretched her out on the bed, shrugging out of my black pants and black shirt. My massive, throbbing cock thrust from my boxers, red and rock-hard. She let out a small, wonderful note of approval at seeing it again. I saw the way she ached for it, bringing her legs wide. Her pussy was shining, wet with need and peachy, soft, this kind of innocent pink.

  “You want me to fuck you, do you?” I asked her from above, bringing my fingers against the light nub of her pussy. Her perfect clit, hard against my fingers. Stroking it made her eyes close tightly.

  “Baby, I need you to fuck me. Fuck me until I don’t remember that we were ever apart.”

  I eased into her, before making a huge, volatile thrust against her—careful to move above the baby. She cried out with pleasure, her face breaking into a wide grin. I began to huff above her, feeling her tits graze over my chest. She nodded wildly, sweat trickling down her cheeks. Her eyes were alight with passion. When we kissed, her tongue licked against mine, and her lips tried to inhale me. As I fucked her, she brought her teeth along my neck, biting at me. Hurting me. My brain felt fizzy with feeling. My cock moved me, I didn’t move it. And I fucked her hard and fast, feeling her juices move around me and drip along my balls.

  When we finally did come, we collapsed on the comforter, each sweating and gasping. My head throbbed with the pleasure of it, aching for more. I knew we would continue to fuck deep into the night, and then into the morning. She curled up into me, her face pressing against my chest. This girl. This woman. She was my everything.

  “I’m so glad you came back,” she cooed at me, her voice like a string. So soft. “I didn’t want to live this life without you.”

  28

  Remy

  Six months later, Wesley and I moved into the large log cabin along the water—draped on all sides by a large, thick pine tree forest. Each trunk was long, thin, a light brown, bobbing back and forth with the wind. The cabin had five bedrooms, a large stone fireplace, and a terrace that looked out over the ocean. To the right, you could see Wesley’s father’s place. We often joked with him that we would wave before we went to bed every night. I imagined that Maria and Henry would stand on the terrace, gazing out at the waves—sending well-wishes to their aging grandfather. They would have years with him. Years and years. He was in the greatest health he'd been in years.

  The birth of Henry had been the single greatest event in our lives and it had happened on Mother’s Day of all days. A day I’d cherish for the rest of my life, just as I’d cherish my son.

  Wesley held onto my hand tightly throughout the eight hours of labor, whispering sweet nothings into my ear and mopping at my face. “You’re prettier than you were at prom, you know that?” he’d muttered.

  “Wes, we skipped prom to smoke weed and make out behind the basketball gym,” I told him, gasping with laughter. “You know that.”

  “Still. If we’d gone to prom, you’d still look better now,” he’d giggled back.

  We were the product of years and years of inside jokes. And now, we’d produced this child. Henry. Seven pounds, nine ounces, and a jet-black wave of hair in the nursery room. He looked remarkably like Quintin, even now, yet also had Hank’s eyes. We often marveled at the fact that both Henry and Maria had succumbed to Hank’s eyes.

  “It’s like he’s telling us he can still see us,” Wesley had said.

  The large log cabin would be a perfect fit for our family, especially now that Maria was staying with us every week, and visiting her mother every other weekend. Connie had had a tough road since Maria’s birth, and she was grateful for the days off. She loved her daughter dearly, yet she needed to figure out who she was, as an individual. This gave her the space to do that. She was taking college classes, manning a bar, and, of course, accepting money from Wesley. Enough to keep afloat. She thanked us frequently, still a bit sheepish after she’d attempted to break us up. But as far as I was concerned, everything between us was kosher. Cool.

  We couldn’t go back. We could only move forward.

  I finished editing the film a month before Henry was born, and I spent the better part of the months after Henry’s birth either nursing, sleeping, or calling various agents across California. When I’d finally found someone to support me, the movie had begun to make its rounds through various indie channels and movie festivals. Already, my name was buzzing about Los Angeles. People who’d spurned me as “just another actress” were calling my name.

  Often, in this new life with Wesley, I felt like I was floating. I’d gotten everything I’d ever wanted—my dream career, my perfect, wild-eyed husband, a gorgeous son, and a step-daughter who seemed open to the strange, meandering paths this life offered us. Each day, she taught me something new, pointing at a bird in the sky, or making faces at Henry when he began to cry. She filled my life with wonder, imagination. Already, I spotted an artist in her.

  On that first night in the cabin, with the kids sleeping upstairs, Wes and I stood out on the balcony, marveling at the life we’d crafted. With his arm over my shoulder, I allowed my head to fall into him.

  “Did you think it would all work out so well?” I sighed, pressing my breasts against his firm, muscular chest. Still, he turned me on—making me ache for him, despite the long, arduous days we spent together, raising our brood.

  “With you, Rem, I couldn't have imagined it any other way,” Wes said, kissing the top of my head.

  “And you don’t still think about it? About leaving us? Finding your own adventure?” I asked him. My voice caught in my throat. My heartbeat pattered and stomped wildly, anxious.

  Wesley gazed down at me, his eyes large, deep, like pools. “Every day is an adventure, right here with you, Rem. This is my dream. It just took me a while to see it.”

  The sun disappeared down over the ocean waves, bidding us good night. Just to the right, Wesley’s father’s lights flickered, reminding us he saw us—and we were safely home.

  Thank you for reading Due Date. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing Remy and Wesley’s story!

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  Prelude

  Scarlett

  I’m dead – ten seconds from it, at least.

  This guy’s going to kill me.

  My legs pump. My thigh muscles scream, and I ignore them. Rough denim chafes my skin, and my blouse sticks to my sweaty chest. A red curl falls into my face, but I can’t be bothered to brush it aside. My feet pound against the pavement.

  This can’t be it. This cannot be the end. I’m only twenty-six years old. I am not going to die chased down by some asshole in a ski mask.

  My chest heaves but my lungs are already filled to capacity, splitting with pain.

  I have to press on. I have to keep running.

  I look over my shoulder. He’s at end of the alley, loping after me. I’ve gotta shake him. Who is he?

  I turn a corner and slam into a chain link fence.

  Great. Just great.