by Max Monroe
I didn’t want to leave without talking to her personally, but when Heidi answered her door early that morning, she said Rocky had already left for the day and wouldn’t be back until that night.
With a dinner meeting with my boss and one of our largest investors, I had to head back to New York. I figured writing her a personal note before I got on the plane would at least give her the option to get in touch with me anytime she wanted while I’m here.
And I guess that’s still true—she just hasn’t wanted to contact me, I guess.
This is hard, I remind myself. And it’s harder on her.
She didn’t plan this baby any more than I did, and as she’s the person actually carrying it, her life has been upended more than just theoretically. She’s had to change the way she does everyday tasks and adjust to all the new things this means for her career.
Before me, she was the most popular virgin actress in Hollywood.
She’s still got all the same pressures, except now, she’s knocked up.
I watch her closely as she steps into the main frame of the camera and poses while photographers take endless pictures of her, the flashes like lightning in an otherwise clear sky.
Her rich, dark brown hair is pulled loosely off her face in big, stylized waves, and her makeup is dramatic as always. With a cat-like eye and deep red lips, she doesn’t look anything like the woman I know intimately, but there’s no denying she looks beautiful.
“I have to admit, Tom, for as much as the world was expecting Raquel Weaver to be a virgin forever, she sure looks beautiful with a glow.”
“I have to agree, Katarina. Can you even imagine the beauty of a HuddleWeaver baby?”
Katarina, the female commentator on the channel I’m watching, laughs charmingly at her co-host. “The world isn’t ready, Tom.”
“Katarina and Tom,” I mock softly. “A HuddleWeaver baby, my asshole. Huddleson can blow me.”
Decked out in a navy velvet jacket, Ben steps up next to Rocky and poses for the camera. He pays little attention to Rocky next to him, until the photographers start to call out feverishly about their unexpected love match.
He turns to Rock then, wrapping an arm around her waist and using his other hand to make a dramatic statement by putting it lovingly to her stomach.
I take another pull of whiskey and grit my teeth, shaking my head. And I thought there was no way I could hate this Hollywood awards show bullshit more.
Watching Rocky with this guy is pure torture, and I’m not even entirely sure why. We’re not a couple. We don’t have plans to be a couple. We never were a couple.
But that is my baby inside her stomach, masquerading as someone else’s. And not just anyone else—a dicknoodle like Ben Huddleson.
His cheesy smile looks like he smells something foul.
Fucking jackass.
I flip the channel quickly, scrolling through the guide to ESPN and putting on highlights from the Mavericks play-off game to try to distract myself from the bullshit. Maybe watching a team I love, that’s owned by one of my best friends, Wes Lancaster, will put me in a better mood.
Unfortunately, I only make it through a minute and a half of postgame commentary before clicking back over. Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
I probably should have gone to kickboxing today, just let someone kick the shit out of me until I passed out so I didn’t have to watch this shit.
Sure, it’s extreme, but I can almost guarantee it would feel better than this does.
“So, Ben, how’s it feel to be an expectant father?” the red-carpet reporter asks annoyingly.
Ben’s smile turns irksomely horseshitty. “It’s great. I’m excited for the future and can’t wait to see where it takes my little one.”
His little one. The fucker.
The interviewer swoons, and I chuck a pillow at the TV. My smartphone goes off like a warning bell designed to remind me to calm down, but the truth is, it’s not that smart. It’s just a text message.
I pick it up and click open the bubble.
I don’t bother to go after the pillow. Fuck that pillow.
Cap: Yo, son, you watching the game recap?
Me: I’m watching the Golden Globes.
Cap: I’m sorry, what?
Even in my despair, I realize pretty quickly how stupid it is to even consider telling Caplin Hawkins about all this shit right now. Before I know it, he and the whole fucking gang would be at my door, and I’m not ready for that just yet.
Quickly, I come up with an excuse to cover my ass.
Me: I’m kidding. Of course, I’m watching. Mitchell is looking good.
Thankfully, the Mavericks make it relatively easy to lie. Cam Mitchell always looks good, so I know I can’t go wrong there, and when I get done talking about him, it’ll be easy enough to make stuff up about Leo Landry, Quinn Bailey, and Sean Phillips too. They’ve been playing together for years, and they have a very distinct rhythm.
Cap: HAH. You had me worried for a second, Whore-i-son. Thought maybe the California air was getting to you.
Me: Oh yeah. Totally drugged. Meanwhile, I’m in New York.
Cap: What the fuck? And you just…weren’t gonna tell us? Are you trying to hide shit from me?
Me: What are you, my wife?
Cap: Yes. I’m your male life partner, obviously. Now, tell your lovie what the hell you’re doing in New York?
Me: I’m getting my shit.
Cap: You’re really going??
Me: We’ll talk at book club.
Cap: You’re coming to poker night?
I roll my eyes and type out a response.
Me: Why does this suddenly feel like a riddle? Yes. I’m coming to whatever the fuck it is that we do at Thatch’s apartment.
Cap: Don’t be so high-maintenance, bro. Just go with the flow.
Me: Ah, yes. Advice from an expert in being easygoing.
Cap: I’ve matured. Changed my ways. Ruby has shown me the light.
He’s so full of shit that even he has to know.
Me: Uh-huh, whatever you say, dude. And yes, I’ll see you at Thatch’s tomorrow night.
Fuck. Tomorrow. When I actually have to face the honesty music with my closest friends.
Cap: Okay, honey. I’ll bring your light beer and a copy of People so we can go over the best and worst dressed.
I don’t even bother telling him to fuck off. Instead, I put the phone down and put the Golden Globes back on.
It may be pure torture, but for today, I’ll take it.
Without a direct phone call from the woman on TV, this is my only window into what’s going on in Rocky’s and my baby’s lives.
Harrison
The aroma of goodbye is in the air, and yet sausage is the only thing on the menu tonight.
Ever since I arrived at Thatch’s apartment a few hours ago, honesty about my move to California has been on the tip of my tongue. But with this group, it’s not easy to take a stroll down Serious Lane. If anything, the longer the normal, ridiculous chitchat continues, the further away from sanity the crazy train goes.
All aboard! Next stop, Nowhere Rational! Choo! Motherfucking Choo!
“My dick’s a great white, son,” Thatch challenges Cap at the top of his lungs, and my internal reaction is equal parts amused and frustrated. “Cassie sees me coming in the bedroom, and she starts in on the Jaws theme song. Duuun dun. Duuun dun. Dun dun dun dun—”
“Ruby calls my cock The Meg,” Cap retorts before Thatch can finish, perpetuating a ridiculous competition that started, if you can believe it, when Milo started talking about taking Maybe swimming with the dolphins.
The camaraderie, for as ridiculous as it is, feels bittersweet given the conversation I need to somehow manage to have. But I know it’s time to bring it up before everyone starts tapping out from tonight’s poker night to head home to their wives and kids.
This is the last time I’ll be here for a while, and I’ve reached the now-or-never part of the ev
ening. I have to bite the truth bullet before the moment is completely lost to more dick banter.
“Listen, guys,” I try to cut in as they laugh and talk among themselves. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
I’m not sure that anyone hears me until I get a sarcastic response.
“I don’t want to know about your yeast infection, Harry,” Cap says with a smirk. “Take it up with your lady doctor.”
I flex my clapback muscle for the sake of nostalgia before trying to bring the conversation back to the point. “Don’t worry, Cappy. I borrowed your Vagisil from your purse and used some of it already. This is about something else.”
Cap, of course, isn’t quite ready to let go of the fun. “Was that before or after you used my credit card to buy the new dress and heels your sad not-billion-dollar bank account couldn’t afford?”
I could explain the logistics of how inheriting my dad’s fortune has turned me into a billionaire—and my uneasy indecisiveness about whether I should keep it or not—but to keep things simple, I roll my eyes and smile instead. “Definitely after.”
Cap snorts.
I try again, hoping the third time is the charm with this group of raucous, billionaire leprechauns. “This is…serious. As serious as we get around here, I guess.”
“So…not serious at all?” Trent asks with a laugh, and I shrug earnestly.
“I’d like it to be. For just a couple of minutes.”
Kline gives the group a stern look as they all start to realize I’m not setting up for more of their one-liners, and finally, they all nod. If there’s anyone who can influence them to pull their shit together, even briefly, it’s Kline Brooks. There’s a reason he’s everyone’s secret favorite. He’s fun and funny, but he’s also so fucking smart. Basically, he’s the shit.
“Right. So, I told you I was probably moving to California—”
“Still a terrible fluffing idea,” Thatch interjects morosely, but Kline raises an eyebrow that quiets him. As best friends for decades, they’ve got a well-orchestrated routine with each other.
“Well…” I start and then clear my throat. I could swear all of these macho fucking guys are already starting to look sad, and I haven’t even said it yet. The somber mood makes it that much harder to speak my next words, but I know I’m saying them—doing it—for a reason. A good one. “I’m officially going.” Thatch tosses his cards down on the table dramatically, and I offer him a small smile before admitting, “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but the truth is…I’m going to be a father.”
The room explodes into all sorts of loud reactions.
“What the fluff?” Thatch booms.
“You’re what?” Trent questions with wide, shocked eyes.
“What the hell?” Wes asks, glancing around the room in surprise.
“Behind my back?” Cap says dramatically, and besides stoic, rational Kline, the rest of the guys—Quincy, Milo, and Theo—just kind of sit there, looking at me like I’m not actually speaking English anymore.
“Explain yourself, motherfluffer,” Thatch demands, and Kline gives him a look that says shut the hell up, but the big giant is beyond containing. “You’re leaving me to go to California, and you’re going to be a father? What the fluffing fluff is fluffing fluff happening?”
Oh boy.
“Yes, I’m going to be a dad, but I can’t tell you all the details right now,” I answer, keeping my voice steady, and Cap is the first one to dive into the deep end of my vague pool.
“You can’t tell your best fucking friends in the whole world the details? What the fuck, Harry?”
“Yeah, what the fluff?” Thatch chimes in again.
“Guys, I get it and I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready to fully talk about it yet,” I respond, hoping some rational part of them will understand. “But the mother lives in California, and I’m determined to be a part of my kid’s life, unplanned or not. My dad did one thing right and that was being around. I don’t know a hell of a lot about being a dad, but I figure I’ll start there and build on the rest as I go.”
The room turns eerily silent, the weight of my words powerful enough to silence even Thatch and Cap.
Jesus. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t think they’d take it this hard. You’d think I’m literally going to be gone forever with the way Thatch is staring back at me with big, sad puppy-dog eyes.
“Look, it’s not like you’re never going to see me again,” I say, trying to add some goddamn levity to the situation before Thatch starts to cry or something. “I’m going to be around. I’ll still be working bicoastally with HawCom. I’ll still come to poker nights when I can. I just won’t be able to be here all the time.”
Thankfully, Kline steps up to take the wheel.
“You’re right, Harrison. And there’s no doubt, you’re doing the right thing,” he comforts before continuing on with some gentle advice. “And it’s going to be hard. I want to be honest with you. Hell, all of us with kids can be honest with you.”
The other guys nod.
“Pregnancy is a miracle. It’s beautiful and amazing and, unfortunately, a big motherfucking roller coaster.”
Thatch laughs with a boom. “A-men, Klinehole.”
“There are going to be a ton of hormonal bumps in the road. Be steadfast in your support, no matter how crazy it might seem. It’ll reward you in the end,” Kline finishes.
And, one by one, the rest of the guys join in with their tales from the front lines. It’s rapid-fire and chaotic, and to be honest, I’m not even sure I can tell who’s telling me what.
“Get her anything she wants, anytime she wants it.”
“Don’t hog the bed.”
“Turn out the lights when she tells you to, but don’t be surprised when she changes her mind and yells at you for it being dark.”
“Don’t ask questions when she says she has to go to the bathroom again. She’s going to have to go a lot. Just roll with it.”
“If she asks you to rub her feet, rub them. Don’t tickle, no matter how tempting it may be.”
“Do not ever suggest she wear a different outfit, no matter the occasion. She wants to wear shorts in December? Totally reasonable. She wants to wear a bathing suit to dinner, let her do it.”
“If she asks you to tell her how big she’s getting, don’t fucking do it. If you must, say the baby is getting big. But stay far, far away from the word big altogether.”
“If she says things are happening that are not actually possible with the human anatomy, ignore them. Go along with them. She will rage if you do not.”
“Don’t, under any circumstances, allow her to have a strawberry milk shake while she’s still getting sick. She will blame you for the rest of time for the repercussions, even if you were just doing as she asked.”
“Don’t ask questions at the doctor’s appointments. They get really annoyed. But always come prepared with a list of questions, should they change their mind. This is very important.”
My head spins like a toy top, and my heart pounds so hard it signals my brain to laugh, just to ensure I’ll get enough oxygen. Eyes soften around the room in support as I stutter my way through my truth. “Guys…this is a little…overwhelming.”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Quince says with a snap of his fingers. “Don’t ever say you’re overwhelmed. Actually, don’t mention your own feelings at all. She’s going through all the same things and physically carrying a baby. You’ll be trumped every time.”
I can’t help but laugh as the rest of the guys nod their heads. Thatch’s smile is a mile wide, almost as big as his body is tall, as I flounder through their crash course. “What about what I should do? I’m hearing a lot of don’ts, and they’re great, but it’d be helpful to know what to replace them all with. Right now, it feels like I’m just going to stand there like a human black hole.”
“Okay, okay,” Milo says through a laugh. “Definitely tell her she’s beautiful every day. She’
ll reject it, but in the end, she’ll remember.”
“Bring her what she’s craving without being asked. If she drops a hint, take it immediately. The moods are often fleeting,” Kline suggests.
“Deal with any family issues she has for her. But do it without telling her you’re doing it. That’ll just stress her out,” Quince counsels.
“Go to the Lamaze class even if she says she doesn’t want you to. She wants you to. They always want you to,” Milo says sagely.
“When Cassie was pregnant, she really liked when I sent extra bouquets of flowers from my dick.”
The whole room explodes in laughter, and I shake my head and lift a fake thumbs-up. “Not helpful, but great. So glad I know that now.”
“Dote on her any time it’s possible. My wife loved to be doted on. Said it was her right as a pregnant woman,” Kline says, bringing it back to reality.
“Talk about the baby. Tell her what stuff you’re excited about. She’s nervous, and that’ll help her focus on the positive,” Theo chimes in.
On and on, just like before, my friends pile on more advice without judgment. There’s nothing too small or too obvious; they tell me it all. And I eat it up like a starving man at a buffet.
“Let her sleep whenever possible without comment. She’s going to get really tired and probably won’t be sleeping well at night.”
“Go to all the doctor’s appointments. Actively ask when they are.”
“Take her on dates so she stills feel like she’s got her own life going. It’s going to be a shock to suddenly be a mom. Especially if you guys didn’t plan it.”
“Don’t drink or eat lunch meat, or fish with mercury, or sushi. She can’t, and she’s going to be fluffing pissed if you’re doing it. She won’t say she is, but she totally will be.”
