Dirty Headlines

When Phoenix said he was happy for me earlier today, I actually believed him. All his facial features are still untouched and untarnished, so that tells you all you need to know about our relationship these days.

And earlier this week when Elijah, Phoenix, and James (yeah, no way in hell I’m going to call him the D word, unless I’m referring to the thing inside my pants) insisted I have a bachelor party, I almost didn’t scowl the entire way through it.

Judith said she was proud of me for making an effort and being a good sport. I told her I needed to work on my cardio tonight, so she’d better fucking be a team player.

“You think I don’t look bad?” I cock an eyebrow at her.

“Definitely handsome. But you can look even better.”

I angled my head to the side, knowing where this is going. “Do tell.”

She nods. “Naked. With your head between my thighs.”

We didn’t sign a pre-nup. My mother and Mathias did, and look how they ended up. There’s something profoundly telling about committing to someone, but covering your ass in case shit fails. Jude Humphry is the only person I want to see every morning and kiss goodnight before I go to sleep, and admitting defeat when it comes to our marriage before it starts is not in the cards for me.

The guest of honor, our Lab pup, Charles “Chuck” Humphry-Laurent, is running between everyone’s feet, barking and pulling at dresses.

The Warrior watched us earlier as we exchanged vows, and now we’re on to cutting the cake. Our wedding cake is a giant red notebook, like Kipling, adorned with the words Congratulations to Mr. Timberlake and Ms. Spears.

Grayson’s idea, naturally.

I feed my bride a slice of cake the size of her entire face, and she giggles into the frosting. I take the opportunity to lean down and hiss, “Deep throat it, baby,” so only she can hear, and her face turns scarlet, even under the layers of professional makeup.

My mother sneaks up behind us and hugs us into a three-way embrace. Hardly the right time, seeing as I’m sporting some serious wood behind this giant Sour Patch Kids-flavored cake, but what-fucking-ever.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Maman gushes. Her ice water eyes glitter in different shades of blue.

Before we know it, Rob sheepishly joins us in front of the cake, rubbing his daughter’s arm, his smile so dazzlingly happy he looks like a dream. Mrs. Hawthorne stands behind him, looking down and worrying her lip.

Jude turns around and motions for her to get closer. “Anne, get your butt over here and join the hug.”

I want to marry Chucks all over again for that huge heart of hers. Lonely, my ass. She lets everyone in.

“Of course we invited you, Maman,” I finally reply. “You are family.” And I guess, when it boils down to what matters, she is.

After the revelation that James Townley is my father came out, Maman surprised me by announcing that she was staying in New York for the unforeseeable future to try to save what was left of her family. Namely, her son. She cut ties with her regular booty call in Florida and focused on reconstructing the board of LBC.

We made some of the investors who were eager to kiss Mathias’s butt step down and give up their shares by threatening to come out with all the bullshit they’d done along the way, and I finally got my staff back. These days, you can find ads for health care programs and gadgets on LBC. Not a condom or casino in sight.

For the past six months, Jude and I have been doing the whole family dinner thing with Maman, Robert, Mrs. Hawthorne, James Townley and his plastic wife, Phoenix, and Ava—who, by the way, has started dating Phoenix—and Grayson. We take turns, a la Come Dine with Me. So far we agree that none of us knows how to cook, and when it comes to smack-talking about people’s culinary abilities, I take the cake. And eat it.

Saying it’s weird to be a part of a family would be the understatement of the century, but we’re trying to make it work.

Especially now, when Robert is doing so well. His tumor is barely a few centimeters long, and doctors are predicting a full recovery. He recently moved in with Mrs. Hawthorne upstairs, so Jude and I took over his apartment. We’re refurbishing it, one meltdown at a time.

Next month, we’re going to Syria for a few weeks. Jude wants to help cover what’s happening there. And I want to be with Jude.

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d live in Brooklyn, I would have laughed.

But if you’d told me a year ago I’d be desperately in love to a point of madness, I would’ve admitted you to the nearest mental health facility and thrown the key in the ocean.

Yet both of those things have happened, and strangely enough, they didn’t ruin my life. They saved it.

James appears behind me and claps a hand over my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “Proud of you, son. Junior is one hell of a catch.”

I smirk, my eyes still focused on my bride, who is wearing the most ridiculous wedding gown. The hem of the dress is painted pale yellow, which makes it look like it was dipped in Chuck’s piss. Jude says it reminds her of my Post-it notes—the ones I keep on writing to her now so she’ll never forget how I feel about her, even when I suck at saying the words out loud.

“Call me your son one more time…” I hiss at James, as I always do. “And I’ll move you to the marketing department and have you cold-call small businesses to convince them to place plumbing ads on LBC.”