I do my best to pretend I haven’t had the epiphany of all epiphanies. I lie to myself and tell me last night wasn’t more than just benefits. It wasn’t a hungry, passionate, frenzied version of making love. It wasn’t two people trying to consume the other through the most intimate expression of their hearts. No, of course it wasn’t any of that.
When I sneak out in the morning, I tell myself it’s because he’s working an overnight shift tonight and needs the extra sleep. I bite my lip the entire drive back to my place, only realizing I’ve broken skin when I turn off my engine in my driveway. I have no idea if he really does have to work. I just know I couldn’t face a morning-after chat today.
Mornings after have never been awkward for us. If there’s one thing I know about myself, though, it’s that I have no problem making awkward happen. Especially when I’m trying to hide something.
When Cam picks me up for the dinner with Mom and Ruben, I do my damnedest to push it out of my mind. He—dammit, she—moved into her own apartment last month because she needs her own space right now, but she’s also dealing with a lot of change at once. Because of that, I want to be the pillar of support she needs tonight. But Cam picks up on my crazy right away.
“Why are you so nervous? This is my shitshow,” she says as I drop into her car. I eyeball the dress she’s wearing. “What? Go big or go home, right?”
I make a sound. It was supposed to be a giggle or something, but came out more like a goose call or a broken car horn. “I’m—”
“For the love of Louboutin, honey, don’t you dare say you’re fine.”
I click my seat belt in place and stare at her. “What?”
“Sophie.”
My eyes are ready to burst, but I refuse. I can’t. Not right now. I shake my head. Cam tilts hers. A tear escapes. “I’m in love with Fox.”
The car starts to roll into the street, but thankfully she notices before we get broadsided. We both jerk forward when she hits the brakes, but somehow she’s still staring at me.
“You idiot,” she says, throwing the car into park.
I face the windshield and fold my hands in my lap. “Aware of that, thanks.”
She gasps. “Oh shit, I said that out loud?”
A chuckle falls out of my mouth. I run my fingers through my hair and sigh, sort of groaning at the same time. “It’s not a problem. I’ll work it out.”
Cam shifts back to drive and pulls into the street. “Oh, sure. What are the odds?”
“I will wedgie your ass as you drive if you keep giving me shit,” I grumble, and the response is guffaws.
I have to swear on everything sacred and holy that I will call if I need to, because other people’s problems make her situation feel less daunting. Also, she wants to laugh at me after this is all over.
Three and a half hours later, Cameron is so emotionally wiped, I have to drive. I also decide to take her home to my house. The “reveal” went well, I think. Ruben was really confused by the concept, but crazy casual about it. He said, “I don’t care what you wear, I just don’t get how this works.” I accidentally squawked at that, but I maintain that I couldn’t be held responsible for my reactions. Hormones, and all. Mom, however, had gone into a brief shock. By brief, I mean five solid minutes. Despite numerous tense moments and a ridiculous argument about female undergarments, Mom ended the conversation with lots of worried tears and hugging.
Cam crawls into bed with me. It reminds me of when I was seven, she was three, and she’d cuddle up with me after a bad dream. Dad would put her back to bed, but she’d sneak in with me to feel safe enough to fall back asleep. Thank God I have a queen-sized bed now. A twin bed would just be gross.
I wake up to Cam holding my phone. “Fox is a pathetic sexter,” she says as I open my eyes.
I snatch the phone from her. “Why the fuck are you reading my texts?” I hiss.
“It kept dinging, so I cracked your code.”
“The whole point of Fox’s sexts are to be stupid,” I say, rolling out of bed and stumbling to the kitchen.
Cam joins me and plops herself down at the breakfast bar. “So lame come-ons are what do it for you, eh?”
Glaring has become my new favorite sport.
She yuks. “Okay, fine. You’re not talking about loverboy right now.” Before I can argue anything, she continues, “We’ll talk more later, sweetness. I need a shower and some alone time before this afternoon. I have an appointment with my therapist. Postgame analysis, you know.”
I run around the counter and wrap my arms around her. “Call me after, if you want.”
She kisses my cheek and winks before making a perfectly theatrical exit. I listen for the footsteps down the stairs and am rewarded with a loud belch as she unlocks her car. Classy.
Over the next few days, Fox texts me a bunch of times, but most of them are just more of his unfortunate sex jokes. Even worse than those Cam was reading. One is a picture of a doctor he works with named Richard with the caption, “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay with Dick pics.” Another is, “If you’re tired, you should sit. On my face.” And I suspect his new favorite since Big Sur, “I’ve got a lollipop for you, Lollipop.” Then he sent a selfie with one of those lollipops the size of his face. And he’s licking it. It’s actually pretty damn hot thanks to the look in his eyes.
Generally, I enjoy the texts, but today? Not as much as I usually do. In fact, I have begun to doubt this whole situation. Everything would be fine and normal if I’d never asked him to do this. But who would I have asked? Would I have fallen in love with them? Is it just me?
The audience grumbles, clearly saying it is.
When he texts today, he’s asking to come over tonight. “Babies from Benefits,” he suggests. I try to send back something snarky, but I think “You’re a prick” probably doesn’t manage it. He responds “WTF?!” and I tell him to come over after eight.
“Stop it, that hurts,” I say, pushing Fox’s eager hands off my breasts. They’re so tender even my nipples are irritated by the sheet.
“What? You love that,” he says.
I wince minutely. “Usually.” I hear the whine in my voice and internally kick the shit out of myself. “My boobs are sore. I’m probably going to get my period.”
I groan, because that means another month where it didn’t work. And another month of pretending I haven’t fallen in love with this doofus. Hard. Like, really hard.
“Unless you’re already preggers,” he says before kissing the valley between my breasts. “Have you done a test? Are you late?”
A flush of excitement—or anxiety—rushes through me, sending goose pimples over my skin. I’m both warmed and chilled by his questions. My heart sees the concerned father of my would-be baby and swells. My mind sees my best friend who’s a nurse as well as an essential dick-for-hire. I’m torn.
“Maybe.” Hedging isn’t terribly becoming of me, but it’s all I have these days.
“That’s not possible.”
“Huh?”
He looks up from his spot between my boobs and raises an eyebrow. “Either you are, or you’re not. Maybe isn’t a possibility.”
I roll my eyes, irritated, but then I think about it. Mentally, I tick off the dates and realize he’s right. I’m late. By a week.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asks.
“Smug motherfucker,” I snap.
“You know that if you are pregnant, that would be—”
“Linguistically correct,” I say between my teeth. He grins, smugger than before. “Shut up.”
I wiggle my way out of bed and into my bathroom. I have a stack of tests on the shelving unit and grab one. I stare at it for a minute. My heart is pounding and I’m almost afraid to do it.
“Would you just piss on it already?” Fox calls from my bed. I flip him off even though he can’t see me.
The next few minutes take forever, allowing me all the time in the world to ruminate and catastrophize over what the results will mean—either way. I torture myself for every heavily ticking second until I find I’m staring at a plus sign. Every possible emotion tears through me, from OMIGOD, I’M PREGNANT. IT WORKED! I’M HAVING A BABY! to FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!—times a million or so more—I’M HAVING A BABY!? and the one I was most afraid of: I’m having a baby. Alone. It’s over isn’t it? Basically all forms of panic.
“Fox?” I call finally, and follow my voice out into the bedroom.
He turns to look at me before he sits up on the bed, hanging his legs over the side. His face is somehow paler than before I went in. Maybe I’m reading into it.
“Yeah?” he asks, solemn and, if I’m hearing this right, scared.
“Yeah.” I say, a guarded smile on my face. I’m having a baby by my best friend. Who I’m also in love with. Who is not in love with me. How could he be? That’s not how he works.
“Yeah, as in yes, you’re pregnant?” he asks.
I realize I haven’t told him anything specifically. Apparently, he needs the words, but I can’t speak. I’m thrilled and terrified. And my mouth has gone bone dry.
I shakily hold up the stick and turn it to face him. I wait for him to smile, to hug me, to do anything, but he’s frozen.
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” I say, going so far as to allow a small smile.
He takes in a breath. When he finally speaks again, it’s not what I expect. And also proof that he’s definitely not in love with me. “I guess we’re done with the fucking, then.”
A paralyzing gong sounds in my head, echoing through the marrow in my bones. I can’t feel my fingers or toes but my skin is hot and aching. The physical sensations I experience are bizarre and seemingly disconnected, but I know it’s panic. Panic for the oncoming truck I hear approaching. I don’t want to look. This already feels like a train wreck.
“I guess so,” I agree in a near whisper. I can’t move. “I have to—”
“Don’t thank me,” he says with faux bravado, cutting me off. It would be a joke, except for the bitter taste in my mouth. “It’s tacky.”
He winks and I smile, but it’s forced. He’s a fucking idiot if he can’t see that. Something about this turn of events has thrown him for a loop and I can’t pin him down. His discomfort is plain, but why is the question. A million horrible possibilities crash around me, but I’m too busy grasping for floatation devices before I drown.
“I won’t,” I say, encouraged by my even tone, though I can hardly hear it for the pounding of my heart in my ears. “It’s far too early to—”
“Yeah, I know.” That’s the second time he’s cut me off. “I am a nurse.”
“I’m aware. Are you okay?” I ask, trying to give him a chance to stop acting like a brat.
“Of course I’m okay. That’s a stupid question. I’m virile and a total stud.” He poses like a bodybuilder and stands.
I chuckle, mildly hopeful, if just for a second. “You realize you said that out loud, right?”
His shoulders bounce a few times. “Well, I guess you can get dressed and quit flashing your milk jugs at me,” he says as he pulls on his jeans.
I don’t know what to say to that, but suddenly feel extraordinarily exposed. I snatch my shirt off the floor and slip it over my head as fast as I can. It’s inside out. I pull my shoulders away from my ears and try to appear at ease. “You want to hang out for a bit? Celebrate?”
“I can’t?” He pauses to put his shirt on.
“How is that a question?”
When he pops his head through, he’s actively avoiding my eyes. “Sorry, I mean, I have a shift I’m covering tonight so I can’t.”
Not true.
“Oh. Okay.” I nod. “See you, um, I don’t know, tomorrow? Will you be around?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Text me?” He still won’t look at me.
“Sure.” I am such a fucking moron.
He strides over to me like he’s got a load in his pants. The bad kind. “Well, uh, congratulations,” he says, but I’m not convinced. I don’t think he’s convinced. He grabs my shoulders gently and kisses me. On the cheek. A peck with dry, puckered lips. “I’ll see you later.”
I’m staring straight at the bed as he exits swiftly. My empty bed. Sheets full of Fox and too many memories. None of which I took into account when I came up with this proposition. And now they’re all staring at me expectantly. Expectantly.
I put a hand low on my stomach as I hear the front door shut. “Looks like it’s just you and me now.”
The audience is utterly silent.