by Malcom, Anne
He was silent as he watched me open the packet of chips, take the lid off the ice cream and use my chip as a spoon. I expected some kind of reaction, as what I was doing was fucking weird to anyone not experiencing pregnancy cravings.
Wyatt did not comment on the weirdness.
He went to saying something completely insane.
“I’m movin’ in.”
I blinked, ice cream covered corn chip halfway to my mouth. “What?”
“I’m moving in,” he repeated.
“Oh, so I did hear that insane statement right,” I muttered.
I put the corn chip in my mouth, ignoring the face Wyatt made, obviously not furious enough not to acknowledge what I was doing was gross.
“No way in fuck are you moving in,” I said after swallowing.
“I don’t see any other option,” he clipped.
“If you want to stay breathing, then you’ll see that you not moving into my living space is the only option,” I said, shoving my hand into the packet for more chips. “And we’re gonna stop talking about it.”
“How about we talk about you walkin’ around L.A. in the middle of the night to get ice cream and fucking Doritos, and then, when I’m not so furious, we’re gonna talk about how fucking gross that combination is.”
“I’m well aware the combination is gross,” I hissed. “But the baby didn’t seem to get that memo. And I can’t sleep when the baby is acting like its father and being an asshole. So I got up, walked five minutes and got some treats.” I regarded him, realizing the time and his presence. “Why don’t we talk about what you were doing loitering outside my apartment building at two in the morning?”
I only now realized I hadn’t called him out on this when this should’ve been the first thing I started yelling about.
“We were up late recording,” he said, moving forward to shove his hand into the chip packet. “And I know you’re a shitty sleeper at the best of times—Lexie told me that you’re havin’ trouble sleeping with the pregnancy.” He dipped his chip into the ice cream. “I also saw you were online on Instagram. Figured you’d be up. That we could talk.” He shoved the ice cream covered chip into his mouth.
I made a face. “Why did you do that?” I demanded. “I have a reason to eat this.” I pointed to my stomach. “You do not.”
He swallowed, shrugged and snatched another chip. “I want to experience as much as I can with this pregnancy and if it’s eating weird combinations of food that are actually really fucking good, then I’m in.” He put another in his mouth. “Unless it’s something to do with peanut butter.” He made a face. “I hate peanut butter.”
“You can’t hate peanut butter,” I said, gaping. “No one hates peanut butter.”
“I hate peanut butter.”
“You’re a sick and strange man,” I decided.
“You already knew that, but I’ll try to stomach it when I move in if it’s a dealbreaker,” he replied.
I stiffened. “You’re not moving in, Wyatt. We need to establish boundaries. And my space is a big boundary. I’ve never wanted a roommate and the father of my baby is the worst kind of roommate.”
I didn’t add that the father of my baby, the man I kissed a week ago and was in love with, who just so happened to be a rock star was my ideal kind of roommate...if I hadn’t been so emotionally fucked up.
“I disagree, the father of your baby is the only person you should have as a roommate,” he clipped. “Because then I won’t hesitate to go and get you whatever food you want at whatever hour so you don’t have to do it.”
“You can’t move in,” I said, hating that his reasoning was sound. Pregnancy must’ve been screwing with my brain if I was starting to think that Wyatt was right. “What if you want to bring women home?” Saying that made the ice cream curdle in my mouth. Wyatt was a free agent, he was entitled to fuck whomever he liked. I was sure that’s exactly what he was doing—I hadn’t been stalking the trashy news sites because I was too emotional to handle seeing him with another skinny supermodel while my ankles expanded and I stayed home every night.
“I’m not gonna wanna bring women home,” he said immediately.
I raised my brow. “Every tabloid on the planet and my own recollection of evidence to the contrary works as a pretty watertight argument to that statement.”
“That was before,” he clipped.
“Before?”
“Before I decided to stop chasing empty fucks and vapid girls and pay attention to the one woman who I’ve been trying to forget all along,” he said. “Before that kiss that rocked my world like no empty fuck has ever done.”
I almost choked on my corn chip in response to the words.
His face changed to mild panic as he moved forward.
I held up my hand to stop his approach while I coughed.
“If you choke on Doritos and ice cream in front of me I’ll fucking kill you,” he hissed.
I stopped coughing and started glaring. “I’m not going to die of anything so boring.”
He clenched his fists. “Don’t talk about dying.”
I choked out a couple of last splutters. “You started it.”
The concern on his face moved to amusement. “Another reason I’m movin’ in, to make sure I’ve always got someone around to answer back to me. Keeps things interesting.”
“Wyatt, you’re not moving in.” I searched for more reasons. Like I was painfully in love with him and I wouldn’t survive being in my apartment with him without making some bad decisions—I excelled at bad decisions, after all. My eyes touched a pot of paint in the hall. “You can’t anyway,” I said, triumphant. “The guest room has no furniture and I painted it yesterday for the baby. I haven’t gotten furniture yet, but even when I do, I doubt you’ll fit into the crib.”
His face went strange. “You painted it?”
I nodded. “Featherlight Gray. Stupid name, great color.”
He gritted his teeth and strode off in the direction of the guestroom.
I sighed, following him, taking my ice cream with me.
When I arrived, he was standing in the middle of the empty room. I was yet to buy furniture for it. I was still deciding what kind of mood I wanted for my daughter. Definitely not something fucking pink.
“Are you inspecting my paint job?” I snapped. “I’ll inform you that’s my area of expertise, yours is strumming a guitar in front of millions of people and making your melodies.”
And fucking my heart up.
“You should’ve hired someone to do this shit, or better yet, called me,” he said tightly.
I folded my arms. “Why would I hire for something I could do myself? And we haven’t been talking, don’t you remember?”
Fuck, I was meant to be avoiding the unspoken incident at the beach house, not walking right into a conversation about it.
Luckily Wyatt was too busy being pissed, so he didn’t acknowledge my words apart from a brief eye flare. “You and the baby shouldn’t be breathing in paint fumes.”
My back arched. “I wasn’t fucking licking the paint, Wyatt,” I said. “I had a well-ventilated room, wore a mask, I protected my baby, despite the fact you seem to think I don’t.”
He sighed. “I don’t think you wouldn’t protect our kid, Em. I know you would do anything for it. I just...” He trailed off, looking around the room. “I just want to be a part of it. I know I fucked up my right to do that, but I’m tryin’ to make up for it. Can you just let me in?”
I chewed my lip. “I’m not letting you move in.”
His jaw ticked, but he nodded once. “That’ll do. For now.”
I folded my arms. “For good.”
“We’ll get married first, then I’ll move in.”
My eyes damn near popped out of my head. “How much coke have you done tonight?”
His jaw hardened. “None.”
“It’s even worse that you’re suggesting this insanity while sober,” I muttered.
“It’s not
insanity.”
I raised my brow. “It’s not fucking happening.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
I could only roll my eyes. It was the middle of the night and Wyatt still couldn’t stop arguing about something he’d never win. “Whatever. Are you going to leave and let me eat my ice cream in peace?”
The moment I said it I wished I hadn’t. If he left, I wouldn’t be eating ice cream in peace. Yeah, of course I’d eat the entire fucking carton, but the emptiness and quiet of my apartment would scream like the loudest kind of chaos. I wanted to ask him to stay. Fuck, I wanted to take everything back that I just said and have him move in, fuck the consequences.
But I didn’t.
Because I was fucked up. And stubborn.
Wyatt turned, regarding me. “You gonna go to sleep?” he asked.
“I’m going to binge watch horror movies on Netflix and put myself into a sugar coma, so that’s pretty much the same thing.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Want some company?”
I should’ve said no.
But I was fucked up.
“Sure, but I’m not sharing the ice cream.”
So he stayed. At the beginning, I was firm to establish spots on the sofa, he’d frowned at this but complied. After the first movie, the distance between us had shortened. And by the middle of the second, I was curled up in his arms, falling asleep.
Chapter Twelve
“Just the regular blonde foils today?” Henry, my stylist asked, lifting my strands, inspecting them, his fingers brushing my scalp. I loved that. The impersonal, professional touch of strangers. It was fucking weird that I loved it, but I was fucking weird so whatever.
I’d made the appointment after Wyatt had left this morning. He had stayed the entire night, at some point carried me to my bed because that’s where I’d woken up. Alone, but the covers smelled like him and I had a sneaking feeling he’d done the ungentlemanly thing and slept with me when I wasn’t conscious to argue with him.
I found myself happy he hadn’t been a gentleman. I didn’t want one. And it was the best sleep I’d had since...well, since this baby was conceived.
He’d made me decaf coffee. No food “since I know you can’t keep anything down ‘til after two.”
I’d almost burst into tears after he said that. I had been tottering on the edge since I’d walked into my kitchen to find him there.
Shirtless.
Barefoot.
Hair mussed.
Lazy smile on his face when his eyes touched mine.
It had hit me. Harder than the morning sickness I was battling. Because it seemed right. A moment, I tricked myself into thinking such a familiar and domestic thing as to waking up to Wyatt in my kitchen, smiling at me like he was seventeen again was something I could have.
Like it was that simple.
After he’d kissed me hard and quick on the mouth—I was too stunned to argue or pull away—and left, saying he was late for a recording session, I stared at my reflection, at the blonde haired, pregnant woman who was colossally lost, fucked up and in between love and heartbreak.
I made the decision that all women going through a crisis did.
I made a hair appointment.
Henry was the best in L.A. and almost impossible to get an appointment with five months in advance, let alone fifty minutes ago when I’d called him. But he owed me a favor, the favor being this appointment.
“No,” I said, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “I want it different. Black.”
He gaped at me, dropping my hair from his fingers. “Black?” he repeated. He inspected me with the expert eye that bartenders, manicurists, and hairstylists seemed to have when their job was to witness varying degrees of existential crisis people had. “You’re going through some shit then.”
I nodded. “I’m going through some shit.”
Why was it that women decided to drastically change their hair in moments of turmoil? Coco Chanel said, “a woman who changes her hair is about to change her life.” I didn’t agree with that. A woman who changed her hair wasn’t looking to change her life. She was looking to hold onto something while everything changed—fell apart—around her. She was looking for something to control. We wanted to morph into a different person so maybe this new person might be able to handle the world better than the person before.
And hopefully the new person had better hair, if not a better life.
* * *
I knew I’d get a reaction when I walked into the beach house.
Wyatt had moved from his mansion to the cozy—compared to his sprawling estate—house in Malibu without officially announcing it. It was the band’s hangout space. Yes, they had a fucking beach house in Malibu that they treated like their parents’ basement or some shit.
Rich people.
I didn’t want to think that Wyatt moved here because he thought of it being our little slice of peace like I did. I couldn’t think he moved here for me because I couldn’t think he did anything for me. And I couldn’t think I did anything for him.
Like breathe.
Like dye my hair black and chop off the length so it brushed my chin in a severe bob.
I wanted to take all the softness away from me. So maybe there wouldn’t be as many places for him to make incisions with looks, with comments, with the way he cradled my belly. I wanted to be hard for him, for myself.
And what better time to reveal the new hardened and darkened me than at the “family dinner” that Lexie had organized for tonight. The one night the band’s crazy schedule had allowed everyone to be in the same place without photoshoots, award ceremonies or parties. Not that the band did much of the latter anymore since everyone had fallen in love and saw how hollow those Hollywood parties were.
Well, except Noah.
I suspected he’d found love, but it was even more complicated than my shit show.
And that was saying something.
This was also serving as one of the last dinners before the band had to go on their domestic tour in a few days. The tour that Wyatt had been trying to convince me to go on with them. Everyone was going, after all. Gina was too, since she was a freelance and super successful author now, she could work on the road. And Sam had flat out refused to go on the tour without her and the baby.
“I know the masses would be disappointed to miss their favorite member of the band. But this sex symbol cares about two people amongst the masses, that’s my wife and son. I won’t be without either of them.”
She obliged of course, because they were assholes in love.
Killian was obviously coming because he was Lexie’s security. And they brought Ava along on every tour with them since Lexie had come back to the band after having her.
They all had reasons to be there. Ties to each other. I wasn’t married to Wyatt, I was just having his baby. I wouldn’t go along and have it rubbed in my face what we weren’t what we couldn’t be.
“I’m not some groupie that’s gonna follow you around the country just because you tell me to, Wyatt,” I hissed. “I have a life.”
“And I know for a fact that a huge part of your life is the band,” he countered. “We’re your family. You belong with us, with me.”
I stiffened. “You don’t tell me where I belong and we’re not talking about this anymore.”
And we didn’t, but it was still simmering between us.
Noah saw me first. “Holy shit,” he said.
I snatched the chip he had paused halfway to his mouth. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”
Sam chose that moment to walk in, arm around Gina, whispering in her ear. She blushed and giggled. Married for two years and she was still fricking blushing and smiling so happily. A stab of jealousy hit me hard and fast. She stopped short when her eyes landed on me. Sam followed her eyes, noting her change in demeanor as he noted everything about her. He glanced up, did a chin lift at me and went back to nuzzling his wife. Then his head snapped back, an
d he gaped at me much like Noah had.
“Emma, you’ve gone dark side.” He whistled. “If I wasn’t married and completely in love with the most beautiful woman on planet earth, I’d risk getting dick punched by you to hit on you.”
“That’s a compliment,” Noah said dryly.
“What. The. Fuck.”
We all turned.
Wyatt was focused on my head. And he was glaring.
“That’s not a compliment,” I muttered to Noah.
Wyatt strode toward me. “What the fuck have you done?” he demanded.
“I went to a stylist. You’re familiar with that considering your hair,” I said. “Your haircut probably cost more than mine.”
“I don’t give a fuck about how much it cost,” he growled. “Are you meant to be doin’ that shit while you’re pregnant?”
I straightened my spine. “You think I’d do it if it risked the health of my child?”
“Our child,” he corrected.
“Oh, in case I’ve forgotten that this is half yours.” I pointed to my stomach. “This little asshole has been making my life miserable and annoying the shit out of me, sound familiar?”
Sam choked out a laugh.
Wyatt wasn’t smiling. “You’ve obviously forgotten that the baby isn’t the only thing that’s mine.”
I froze, mindful of our audience. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about the fact that you’re mine, and that every hair on your head is precious to me, so the fact you’ve colored it and lopped it off is something I should know about.”
I stared at him. “Are you having a break from reality?” I asked mildly.
His jaw hardened.
“Because that’s the only excuse for you insinuating that I have to consult you before I make a hair appointment,” I hissed. “You do not have ownership of a single hair on my head, therefore you don’t get a say on what happens to it. Even if it means I’m not some blonde California girl like you liked me better as.” My voice was sharp, as hard as I wanted it to be, mostly to hide the stupid and shallow pain that was derived from the fact that Wyatt liked me better before.
