by SM Lumetta
I stop, cracking a smile. I’m trying to indicate this is all bullshit, but Fox is not moving. Maybe catatonic. He looks more scared than the time his uncle Jack left him in the company warehouse for four hours before he remembered where Fox was. Jack was never allowed to babysit again.
“Burning nipple twisters, lover, I’m kidding!” I wave my hands in front of his face. I had my fun—and a lot of it. “I just wanted to take advantage of the ovaries before they sputter out like an ancient lawn mower. I wasn’t asking to get all Disney princess up in this bitch. Not to mention, this is not 1958. Ain’t no shotgun weddin’ here.” I’m sure to add my favorite hillbilly accent to the last bit.
His entire body slumps into the couch, his head flopping over the back. I’d have thought he’d fainted if his eyes weren’t still on me. He exhales and pants for a minute like he was holding his breath the entire time I ranted about my perfect wedding needs. “You really scared me, Lolls.”
“First time for everything, I guess,” I say.
“Not the first time.”
“No?”
“When you first told me you were pregnant,” he begins, dead serious. “I realized we were done and I was in love with you. That’s why I—”
“Hey.” I walk over and lean on his thighs. He peers through his lashes at me. “I know why, babe. If you think that’s bad, wait till the kid comes out. We’re both fucked, you know.”
He grins before leaning forward and kissing me quick. “Truth.”
I stand tall and gesticulate wildly to bring the mood back to fun. “But who’d have thought you’d take all that wedding bullshit seriously? It’s like you don’t even know me.” I side-eye him and wink.
“You sold it! I love you and all, but that performance might have—”
“Taken the cake?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Your puns are the worst.”
I agree. “True. But at least you still love me.”
He smirks, but soon it falls. He gets serious. “So do you not want to marry me?”
My face goes slack, my eyes wide. He seems concerned. I realize for the first time that Fox may have a slight traditional streak running through him. It’s surprising but I’m glad it’s not dominant. I like my Fox left of center.
“I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t want to,” I say, moving to straddle his lap. “If I was going to marry anyone, you’re tops on my list.”
“After Chris Hemsworth,” he deadpans.
“Of course, but he’s already married, so I missed out on that one.”
“So you would?”
“If you asked me for real.”
He hums. “A legit, serious business proposal?”
“A business proposal doesn’t sound very romantic,” I quip.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters, grinning.
“You know you love it.”
His face relaxes with contentment, his eyes dancing. “I love you. Impossibly.”
“Not so impossible. Three separate people have said ‘it’s about time’ to me recently.” My upper lip curls into a snarl. “Fuckers. It’s rude, right?”
Fox just smiles. “So you would marry me?”
I smile and kiss him hard before pulling back just enough to tell him quietly, “Yes, I would. When the timing’s right.”
“You think I’m marriage material, then?”
“Absolutely not. But I’m all in, anyway,” I say with a wink before leaning in to bite his earlobe. He groans. I feel one hand lock onto my knee and the fingertips of the other sink into my rear cheek. “Kidding,” I whisper. “You’re the perfect partner to spend my life with.”
He rolls his hips, pushing a denim-clad semi against my pu-swah. “Are you at the horny preggo stage yet?” he asks and runs his tongue over his lips in rapid swipes.
“You mean the extra-horny-all-the-time stage?” I feel the hand on my knee sliding up my inner thigh.
“YEEEEESSSSSS!”
“No.”
His hands fall away. His visible disappointment is heartbreaking… ly hilarious. “Oh. Okay. Just, ya know, let me know. I’m up for it.”
I grip his shoulders and grind on him like it’s my job. “That doesn’t mean I can’t have a high sex drive.”
Fox’s eyes light up so much the hazel one looks like it’s laced with gold. His hands fly to my hips, flexing hard to keep me moving just like I am. “Right now?”
“Right. The fuck. Now.”
“That is, without a doubt, the most beautiful baby that has ever set foot on this planet.”
“Technically he hasn’t set foot on anything yet except my bladder—from the inside.” When I look up to see him glowering, I clear my throat lowly. “Sorry. Yes,” I continue in a whisper, “I agree.”
The bundle in my arms is quiet for the moment, having just fed. The nipple twins may never recover.
“So are we going to pick a name?” he asks, looking awfully like a kid himself. “I still vote for Fox Jr.”
I give him the stink eye. “Be serious. Can’t we be a little more creative? The kid should have his own name. You know? A name is part of a person’s identity.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to go for some ridiculous non-name like one of those dumbass celebrities,” he says with biting disdain. “I can’t have a kid named Vacuum Cleaner or Asparagus or some stupid shit.”
Laughing pulls at my episiotomy stitches, so the reaction dies almost immediately. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “What’s your vote?”
I look down at my son again. His sweet, sleeping face is tiny and perfect and I’m so in love with him my entire body hurts. Of course, I’m still recovering from an epic birth—at least it felt like it to me, so that may be blown out of proportion. Still, I’m consumed. I have a couple of names I really like but only one is sticking out when I look at him.
“Oprah.”
Fox falls backward until his ass hits the chair. He groans. Loud. “Now you be serious.”
“Why would I start doing that now?” I ask, giggling at him, then hissing when I realize I forgot about my damn stitches again. I mean, come on. Literally seconds later!
“I hate you.”
“Really?” Even exhausted, my voice goes pitchy.
“No. Asshole.”
I curl a finger at him to come back over to the bed.
“What?” he asks.
“Oscar.”
“The Grouch?!” he shrieks, startling the baby awake. “Or the wiener? The middle name’s not Mayer, is it?”
“Christ,” I mutter. Luckily the baby falls right back to sleep after a few mild cries. Hopefully that carries over because Fox can bust into that sudden loudness thing more frequently than is convenient. “Fine. Not Oscar.”
“Puck?” he offers, legit serious.
“For real? What? As in, hockey puck?”
He frowns. “I went Shakespearean for that one, thank you very fucking much.”
“That’s like inviting the kid to be a pain in the ass,” I say.
“He’s going to do that anyway.”
“Fair play,” I concede, and look back to our baby. Then it hits me. A name that’s been floating around in my head for a while. I would consider it and then think it was too plain. Then it fit into jokes that I didn’t think I could deal with. But looking at him, our son, it fits. No longer plain or stupid, it expands around me and in my soul with the possibility of the person he will one day become. “Henry.”
“The fuck?”
“Seriously, dude?” I glare at Fox. “It’s like henhouse.” I point to my possibly destroyed hoo-ha. “Get it? Fox in the henhouse? Egg house? Uterus? Ha ha? Funny funny?”
He levels a look at me. “You want to name our kid after a sex joke?”
“It’s not really a sex joke,” I say defensively. I’ve clearly overthought the awesomeness of the joke and let Fox’s signature inappropriateness cloud my tired brain. “It’s an idio
m, a cultural saying, but—”
“No, no,” he says defensively, holding up a hand, “you misunderstand me. I like it. It’s the ultimate prank on the kid. Like, when other kids ask ‘how’d you get your name,’ he’ll go beet red. ‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’ ”
Fox sits back in the chair and briefly loses himself to quiet and shockingly restrained laughter. “That might be your best idea yet.”
“After the sex.”
“Oh shit,” he says. “Yeah, obviously. That was the best idea. Well played.”
“Thanks, baby.”
“No,” he says, his voice suddenly very clear and very serious. He stands and comes back to my side. His eyes find mine and his whole face lights up. “Thank you.”
I narrow my eyes. “For what?”
“For Henry,” he says, the love for his son and his joy all over the newly chosen name. “For falling in love with me. For being the best friend I never realized I had until you asked me to fuck you—”
The tears that had formed in my eyes dry up on principle. “Aaand you just ruined it. Nice.”
“Sorry!” he says, but I see him grinning. “I mean it, though, Lolls. You are my best friend. Falling in love with you ruined my life.”
I look at him like I may well have him killed. “Well, that sounds fun! You’re such a romantic. It’s so easy to see how I fell for you.”
“You misunderstand me.”
“Again?” I ask.
“Yes, again.”
“Did you get a ‘word a day’ calendar recently? I feel like ‘misunderstand’ is today’s tear away.”
He mouths “I will kill you” silently over our gorgeous and cherubic sleeping baby boy. I briefly lose myself to a chuckle because somehow our minds are on the same track. Said laughter ends abruptly when I’m punished by stabbing hoo-hah pain. How do I keep forgetting the consequences if I disturb the region in any way?
“You have a certain lack of a way with words sometimes,” I tell him, which earns me a solid ten seconds of my favorite angry face aimed straight at me. “Fine. My bad. Feel free to enlighten me.”
He rolls his eyes, but then seriously considers his response for a moment. “Well, it’s demolition, you know? There’s explosions and chaos and one hell of a mess—figuratively speaking. But when it’s done you can see everything. So clearly. The smoke dissipates and breathing is easier. I feel freer than I ever have.”
I stare at him, amazed and touched. I feel only slightly guilty for just accusing him of having no tact or eloquence.
“It took falling in love with you to realize what love really is.” He’s serious, so I struggle to bite back a giggle because it’s still sweet. And means a lot. But we’re both barely out of the emotionally stunted-when-dealing-with-serious-feelings phase of our lives. That is, provided we can ever truly exit said phase.
“I wanna know what love is,” I say, my voice wobbling a little. I wonder if he’ll catch the Foreigner reference.
“Do you want me to show you?” He doesn’t miss a beat. Damn, I love this man.
I snort. “Yes, please. But later.”
He smiles wide. “Seriously, though. Love is something you do.”
My face stretches in surprise. He’s either on a profundity tear or setting up for a punch line. “Is it?”
“Yeah, and I’ve only begun to realize that I’ve been doing you for years.” There it is.
I let my head fall back to the pillow and close my eyes. “Just stop talking.”
“Lolls, you should have seen that coming a mile away. Clearly you’re exhausted.”
I shake my head. “Astute, my friend.”
“My love, my friend, my bestie,” he says the last word like a sorority dingbat. Instead of flipping him off, I smile. “You’re now the mother of my child and the love of my life,” he says seriously, leaning over Henry and me. He kisses me gently and brushes at my forehead. Hair is probably permanently stuck to the skin there. My sweat has become glue. “How is that even possible? You’re a goddamn miracle, did you know?”
Well, shit. Tears are back from the grave, reanimated. Zombie tears. I shake my head. “No, I’m not. I’m a mess.”
“You’re human, Lollipop,” he tells me with such a sweetness, I’m still shocked he has it in him. “To be human is to be a mess.”
I’m so taken aback I stare at him. “I forget you’re actually smart sometimes.”
“Just because I’m a screwup doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” I raise an eyebrow. “I mean, not an imbecile.”
I nod. “I never said you were a screwup,” I tell him. “I said you screwed like it was a profession.”
“You’re so hot.”
I guffaw so forcefully this time it feels like my vagina might actually bust open like a dam, letting all my internal organs fall out in a massive, violent crap slide. I cringe, tighten up my entire body, and wait to feel like I’m sitting in a massive wet spot. “Awww, that fuckin’ hurts!”
“Stitches?” he asks.
“Speaking of hot,” I say with evil side-eye.
“Still hot.” He’s smiling at me and I know. I know he loves me. It’s written all over his dumb, stupid handsome face.
“I love you, Fox Adam Monkhouse.”
“I love you, Lolls.” He rests on his elbows on the bed but pushes forward to kiss our son on his forehead. “And I love you, Henry Foxamillion Monkhouse.”
“No.”
“Henry Funky Monkhouse.”
“Very no.”
“Henry Thelonious Monkhouse.”
“Get out,” I say, pointing to the door. He cackles.
“For serious, this time. Henry Dale Monkhouse.”
I stare at him and a smile grows on both of us. The same smile. I nod, fight back more tears, and squeeze his hand—much less firmly than in delivery. “Yes.”
I am warmed to the deepest recesses of my soul. And tired. Let’s not forget that part. I hand Henry over to Fox, either to hold or to put in his bassinet, but he keeps him cuddled against his chest.
I watch him stare at his son for a moment, my eyelids already beginning to droop. Before I fall asleep, Fox looks up at me.
“Lollipop?” he asks softly.
“What?”
“When can we start trying for a girl?”
And that was the last thing Fox ever said. Ever. Because I miraculously leapt out of bed and killed him right then and there like a goddamn ninja. Tits up. The end.
Okay, not really.
“When you’re ready to squeeze a nine-pound baby out of the tip of your—”
“Got it!” he interrupts, but my middle finger makes an appearance anyway. He grins madly, the bastard. My eyes close. “I was kidding anyway. Not that I wouldn’t want to try after a decent amount of—”
“Jesus, Fox, shut it,” I hiss, keeping my eyes closed. I hear him mumbling as he shuffles around, Henry in tow. I hear the fancypants rocking chair by the bassinet creak as he sits. Roz immediately ordered us a similar one because she cried hysterically seeing Fox sit in it with Henry. Ruben was afraid she’d had a breakdown before Mom explained it was happy crying.
The sounds of him cooing and softly speaking to our son are like a lullaby, relaxing away anything left in my muscles and mind that could keep me awake. I hear his intake of breath and wait for whatever ludicrous question he’s about to ask me.
“Sophie,” he begins again, his tone incredibly gentle and warm. There’s something new in his voice, but I can’t place it. It’s somewhere between desperate and extremely content. Whatever it is tugs at the corners of my mouth while sleep hangs heavy on my limbs.
“Hmm?”
“Marry me?”
The End
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This particular story resurfaced out of nowhere. I have no idea why, but I’m so glad it did. I want to acknowledge Erin, because you know exactly where this idea came from. I hope you like how it plays out in novel form.
Mom, for every word and thoug
ht and hug, I love you.
Lisa, …and the flowers are still standing.
To the friends and family who’ve supported and read, especially Daddio and TheHef, thank you. It means so much. I love you!
Helena, for your incredible support and invaluable feedback. Proud to have you as a friend.
Neens, for your generous and often humorous advice and support and friendship.
Collin Stark and Christopher Mason, for hooking me up with one hell of a beautiful cover photo. It is perfect.
The Filets: Helena, Katherine, Debra, Leisa, Erika, Nina, Amanda, Alice—we are amazing and I’m so proud of all of us! Thank you for being there.
Janine and the Write Divas, again, for your red pen and manuscript spotlighting. Thank you!
Marla, as always, for your eagle eyes.
Paul Selvette and BB eBooks, for making my mess of words look professional.
Lauren, Christina, and Ashley, for being my favorite Naughty Librarians who kick ass. Your support is epic.
Last, but certainly not least, to all of the new friends, readers, authors, and bloggers I’ve met since becoming an author—massive hugs, love, and buttgrabs (and all sort of inappropriate comments). Thank you!
