I give Fox the next week “off” since the fertility window has supposedly closed, but the resulting conversation goes something like this:
“It might not be the best wave, but it may still be worth a ride.”
Yeah, I know. He’s ridiculous.
Of course, I say, “You still wanna?”
“Bring it on, Fordham. Don’t be a paddlepuss.”
I hate that he uses surfer talk against me. But it works. Twist my arm.
Thankfully, for the sake of my hoo-ha and my job, we scale it back a bit. He has a couple of extra shifts to cover, one of which is a double overnight, so it works out for both of us.
After the first few weeks, our little “agreement” results in something like thirteen sleepovers. Mostly at my house as Fox is concerned that people stop by his place all the time and would interrupt. I don’t fully believe it, so I wonder if it’s more about keeping this a secret. I can’t fault him there, because it’s no one’s business and it’s not like I’m spreading the news far and wide. At the same time, I see no reason to be ashamed. At the same same time, I hear my annoying mental audience smacking their lips and heckling me with the voice of doubt. Is he ashamed?
I shake the thoughts away. My monthly visitor has the gall to show up on time this month, which pisses me off, given that my reproductive system has been largely absentminded and possibly weeble-wobbling onto the fast track to ovarian dementia. Oh, don’t you worry. She got her shit straight now!
Having received the first real smack of failure on this journey, I call Nora.
“Hiya, missus,” she answers cheerily. “How’s that bun in your oven?”
I sigh mournfully. “I love your optimism.”
“Ahh, shit,” she groans, her cheer slipping. “No go?”
It’d be sweet if she could just predict everything I’m going to say. “The communists are in the funhouse as we speak.”
“Well, fuckity shit.” Her immediate reaction is one of the reasons I love her so much. Sometimes I think we share a brain. Even so, she doesn’t stir the stew with me for long. “First try, though, right? It would have been super damn lucky if it took right away, so really, this isn’t even a failure. This is just, uh, fine tuning. Like you’re working out the kinks.”
We both go silent. I crack first with a bizarre sounding cough.
“Kinks,” she says, the word strained between her vocal cords. And with that, we both lose it. It’s a good five minutes before we stop tossing BDSM and spanking jokes at one another.
“Oh hell,” I say with a sigh. “I needed that. I know you’re right, Nor. I just… I’m a—”
“Feckin’ gobshite,” she supplies, purposefully laying on the Irish extra thick. “Sorry. I meant to say perfectionist.”
“Twat waffle.”
We pause to exchange a few more pleasantries.
“Have you told Fox yet?” she asks.
The truth is I’m afraid to. What if he’s irritated because I will monopolize more of his sacred dick time? Okay, that’s unfair to say. He’s getting laid, at the very least. Right? It’s more likely that I’m afraid because I don’t want things to change. I don’t want him to resent me for locking him down longer than he wanted. Sure, he agreed to it, but maybe he assumed it wouldn’t take a bunch of cycles. He may work in medicine and has actually delivered babies, but fertility is not his expertise.
Still, I decide to soften the blow by taking him some of his favorite beer. It’s from a brewery in New Zealand and a rarity in these parts, but I know a guy who works for a beer distributor who located some for me. Thankfully, it was at a shop close enough that it didn’t take a shit-ton of effort to get it.
When I get to Fox’s house, Doc’s just leaving. He props his surfboard against the wall in the garage as I walk up.
“Sophie!” he calls, pulling me into a hug. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, love. How’ve you been?” Doc’s from Sydney originally, and if I recall correctly, just went to visit his sister and her new baby for a few weeks, so his accent is particularly potent today.
For some reason, I feel dumb enough that I don’t know how to answer for fear of being figured out. “Fine, you know, um. The usual, I guess. Heh.”
The audience stares at me in abject horror.
Maybe Doc won’t notice.
“Are you okay?” he asks, holding me at arm’s length to give me a once-over. “You look all right, but you sound like you’ve had a closed head injury. Falling off the board again?”
I chuckle, some of the dumbassedness released like air from a balloon. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just tired. I haven’t been on a board in a few months,” I admit. I notice a new rosy scar on his shoulder and ask, “How are you? Blowing shit up at work, or what?”
He grins wickedly. Doc works as a stunt coordinator, often performing stunts when needed. Most of his injuries are minor, thankfully, because though he’s a daredevil, he’s really good at his job.
“Training newbies,” he tells me. “Sometimes it backfires, but you know—”
“Chicks dig scars,” I supply.
“Turned on, are you?”
I laugh heartily, and he winks. He good-naturedly taps my shoulder and turns to put the board he’d leaned on the wall away properly in its rack. Once it’s secure, he waves for me to follow him inside.
“I notice you have someone’s favorite pilsner, so let’s see if he’s interested, eh? You’re lucky I have to get going, or I’d charm those right off you.”
“Are you talking about the beer or my pants?” I tease as I follow him inside. He hoots, but gives me a wink. For a moment, I feel normal, joking with one of my guys.
“Hey, Cinderfella,” he calls, walking into the living room. “You have a lady caller.”
“What? What the—” The mild panicky-irritation is not what I expected at all.
“Jesus, man, it’s just Sophie.” His relief when it’s just me leaves my head spinning a little. It’s not like his conquests have never stopped by uninvited, though he’s usually quite clear with his hookups that it is indeed a hookup and not a relationship.
There’s something off about the way he says my name. Not bad, but unusual. Then I realize we haven’t told any of our mutual friends what’s going on with us these days. I mean, Fox is aware Nora knows, and we both know she won’t talk about everything behind my back.
I stick out my tongue at Fox and hold up the beer.
“Holy shit. Is it my birthday again?” he asks with a wink. “What are you buttering me up for? Do you need a kidney? Part of my liver?”
“Well, that wouldn’t be much of a fair trade would it? Probably ruined by now,” Doc snarks. “Though how hilarious would that be? Trading alcohol for a severely taxed liver?”
“Fuck off, mate,” Fox says. “My liver’s made of steel.”
“Okay, Superman,” I say.
Doc doesn’t stay much longer. They’d apparently spent the morning on their boards, as they usually do on Fox’s off days, which seem more often than not. The jerk’s got a sweet schedule as a nurse, though I’m not sure how he pulls the twelve- or eighteen-hour shifts.
“So what’s the deal? Who did you have to blow to find me some Emerson’s?” he jokes, but then rethinks it. I snicker as his expression falls into a serious mode. “Though, should you really be blowing someone else right now? That seems unfair. Not to mention I’m not even getting blow jobs in this arrangement.”
Dropping a glare at him, I roll my eyes before he even reacts to it, which would probably just be a laugh. “I come bearing bad tidings,” I say.
His lips purse before stretching into a smirk.
I know what’s next.
“You usually come with all sorts of profanity, that’s true.”
I tilt my head and offer my best “Really?” face.
“Okay fine, I actually don’t know what you’re saying when you come. Kind of like speaking in tongues, I guess. I see how I could do that to you.”
I watch him comfortably stretched across the sofa arms along the sides like some sort of pimp. I shake my head and plop down in the first chair I come across. “Well, for all your sexual posturing, you’d think you’d have super sperm in addition to your indestructible liver.”
“I do,” he says, half serious. He sits up suddenly. “Don’t I? Wait, are you saying?”
“Riding the crimson wave, my friend. No go this month.”
“Shark week?” he asks.
“Like a stuck pig.”
“Ohh, come on!” he cries, making a face.
It makes me laugh and feel a little better. I think. Until I start crying. Shit.
“What? Wait, why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I say with a whine. “Really, I’m fine.”
Before I realize, I’m full-on sobbing. Damn, these hormones are the worst. I didn’t even notice him kneeling in front of me until his hands loosely grip my knees. I startle just a bit and look at him, a bit surprised. His eyes are soft and genuinely sympathetic.
“Hey,” he says softly. “How about we don’t think about it?”
“What?” I look at him like he’s suggested human sacrifice as opposed to denial. “Are you nuts? That’s not how women work. Don’t you realize we overthink everything? Shit like this is always on our minds!”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.” He stands up and goes to retrieve a box of tissue from the bathroom. When he returns, he sets the entire box in my lap. Smart man.
When I stop honking my horn like a seagull, he’s looking at me as if to ask, “Are you done yet?”
A bit sheepishly, I wipe my eyes with another tissue and ball them all up in my hand. “I’m good, thanks.”
He nods, leaning back against the breakfast bar. “As I was going to say, I was planning to head up to Big Sur for a weekend of waves and relaxation. The guys and I want to leave on Thursday night. Jonah’s coming, and possibly Samson and Doc. You should join us. Take your mind off things.”
“Sounds like a boys’ weekend,” I say, hating how meek and whiny I sound right now. I’m asking Beaufort if I can stop with these hormone drugs. She’ll probably say no, not if I want to make an honest go for this preggers deal. She likes to torture me. I mean, I’ve agreed to cut out alcohol. Not that I’ve managed to do so completely, but I’ve minimized intake. If she had her way, I’d have to go on a crazy-healthy eating plan, too. I told her if she’s going to insist I pop hormones like mood swing mints, then I’m going to have some goddamn comfort food. I believe she saw the psychotic truth in my eyes and dropped the subject. For now.
I clear my throat and breathe into my diaphragm so I don’t sound twelve again. “Why would you want me along for that?”
“Pfft!” His eyes roll as he makes the raspberry sound. “You’ve always been an honorary dude.”
My resulting facial expression is somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. A smirmace. Grimirk? Anyway, it feels awkward. “Bullshit.”
“Whatever, don’t believe me. Did any other girl get invited to Jonah’s bachelor party?” At my silence, he grins. “That was not a one-off occurrence. Admit it. You’re a dude.”
I snort and fight my smile. More awkward smirmacing. I shake my head to clear it. “Did you find a penis down yonder in the last few weeks?” I ask, gesturing to my crotch region with the requisite “V” hands.
Fox closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Clearly, the man is after switching careers to acting with all his dramatics.
“I’m sorry, Brando,” I begin, “I may work for a production company, but I do not, in any way, have any pull with casting decisions.”
“Sometimes you’re absolutely impossible,” he says.
I wink at him. “You love it.”
He smiles again, bigger. The smile is so genuine it can melt panties from miles away. I admit, secretly, to myself and immediately deny, that I would jump him if I weren’t riding the crimson wave.
“So you’re coming?” he asks, immediately amending the question. “WITH! You’re coming with?”
It doesn’t matter, we both crack up. I sigh, feeling better than I did when I walked in here. “How about we play some Kombat, you drink your motherland beer, and I’ll think about it?”
“How ’bout I beat you at Kombat, and you just agree? We both drink the awesome beer—I know you love it, too—and I’ll order pizza?”
His eyes narrow when I simply purse my lips. I resort to chewing on one of said lips. I don’t know why I’m conflicted, exactly. Perhaps it’s that he truly wants me to go. And that does something to me. Something I’m not willing to address.
“Come on, Lolls,” he says, drawing out the on. “A weekend off from everything is exactly what you need to reset your system and relax. Trust me, I’m a nurse. We know these things, and I’m supersensitive to this shit.”
I shake my head, smiling mutely. I take a deep breath and look up at him. “I’m all sad, and you wouldn’t let me beat you?” I ask, batting my eyelashes ridiculously while jutting out a pouty lip.
He scoffs, popping his hands on his hips. “What do I look like to you? The director of the Make-A-Wish Foundation? You want Disneyland, you signed up for the wrong club.”
My chest jumps with a quiet delight and his eyes go wide with scorn. He looks like my third grade teacher right now. Except hot. And younger. And not an asshole. Well, kind of an asshole.
He ticks off his terms on his fingers. “Kombat. Pizza. Beer. Weekend. You in or what?”
“Greek?”
“Meat lovers.” He winks, the cheeky fucker.
I shake my head. “Make it a Sicilian with sausage and you’ve got a deal.”
“Ahh,” he says, holding his hands over his chest like he’s been shot. “A girl after my own heart.”
The audience just better keep its damn mouth shut.