Due Date_A Baby Contract Romance Page 9

  14

  Wesley

  “Man, you have to leave her the hell alone.” Quintin’s words had smacked across my face the week before, when he’d finally agreed to see me. “You don’t know what she went through with that asshole Tyler, this PR rep from Los Angeles. I mean, he was manipulative. He called her ‘girl’ and spoke down to her, telling her she could never be any kind of scriptwriter. And now, you’re coming in here, trying to make her into some kind of baby vessel.”

  I hadn’t allowed my face to give away my feelings. Jesus, no. I’d played enough poker to keep things locked down, frigid. But my heart had shuddered at this news. That my girl—my fucking Remy, the love of my teenager years and the only girl who could stop me in my tracks—had put up with some colossal asshole for the better part of her twenties.

  “Why didn’t you stop it, Quintin?” I demanded, thrusting my finger between us on the bar table. “I mean, fuck. You must have gone down there to see her. Must have seen the way he treated her?”

  “He didn’t want me around, man,” Quintin sighed, dipping a cigarette between his lips. “And really, Rem and I didn’t talk much over the past twelve years. I knew she was trying to kick it in LA, and I wanted to give her space. And honestly, man, I was pissed at her for fucking around with you for so long. I knew she was hurt by you, and I didn’t know what to do about that. Like, we’re all damaged, man. It’s just sometimes difficult to look at how bad other people are hurting and know you had something to do with it.”

  That talk Rem and I had had the last time I’d seen her had been something out of a textbook. Like, I’d told myself I couldn’t see her again, that we couldn’t handle it. And I’d heard the words spewing from my lips, or whatever. I’d seen the tears welling behind her eyes. But she’d nodded her head, saying something about how we just “had to wait and see, anyway.”

  It had been pure torture, keeping myself away from her. I’d itched to chug out across the state on my motorcycle, but something had kept me back, eyeing my phone. Wondering. Would she call soon? Would she tell me the news?

  Without a plan, stuck inside the coastline cabin, I’d grown into a kind of hermit. My beard had grown thick on my cheeks. I’d grown accustomed to building a large, brimming fire in the evening and staring out at the waves as they crashed along the sand. As much as I hated it, I thought often of this potential son: of the hopes, the dreams I had for him, even if I couldn’t be in his life. “I’m a fuck-up, son,” I imagined telling him, twenty years down the line. “But I brought you into the world because I know you don’t have to be. You have half your mother in you. And Remy’s the best person I’ve met in my life.”

  But with the month coming to a close, without contact from Remy, I was struggling with next steps. Fucking again, just for the sake of the contract, was probably the realistic thing to do. But it would only set fire to old memories and make me wild, a victim to my emotions again. Love. It wasn’t something I was capable of, long-term. And Jesus Christ, I didn’t want to strip Remy out again, just another man using her, telling her just how small, how useless she was. In no respect did I think Remy was useless. She was a fiery woman, an artist. Poised, I was sure, to make an incredible feature film.

  I had half a mind to pester my father about giving her the money, regardless of if she got pregnant or not. He had the cash for it. I’d pitch it as some sort of artistic integrity thing. “Make San Francisco artistic again,” I imagined saying. Probably making my father emit that horrible, guttural laugh.

  * * *

  “What’s a world if it’s filled with artists or vagabonds like you?” he’d said once, at a Thanksgiving. “Nothing would ever get done, Wesley. Good thing Hank and I are out there fighting the good fight. Making things happen. Pass the gravy, won’t you?”

  I heard the gravel crunch out front. Bolting to my feet, I marched to the window to see Remy duck from her driver’s seat. She wore a pretty white dress that fluttered around her thighs. Her eyes were alight, catching the sun, and her steps were quick as she ambled toward the door. Immediately, I knew.

  Before she could reach it, I whirled open the door and marched across the final few steps, wrapping my arms around her and lifting her. She giggled with glee, holding onto my neck and allowing her feet to fly back. Her heart fluttered against my chest, and her lips eased against my ear. I wanted to hold her up like that for months and months—as her belly grew out and her skin glowed bright and our future was borne out before us.

  “It happened,” she whispered, still laughing. “It’s real. I’m pregnant.”

  Finally, I set her on the grass, feeling my heart grow full. I wanted to press my lips against hers, to hold her head against my chest. But I held back, forcing myself to find professionalism beneath the beating California sun.

  “Good. Amazing,” I said. These weren’t words that could possibly come close to describing the true feeling. But I couldn’t reveal myself. I couldn’t trust it.

  Remy’s smile faltered slightly. Finally, she spoke, trying to draw herself taller. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I could,” she said. “Even before I made the first doctor’s appointment.”

  * * *

  “Thank you,” I said. I forced my voice to grow gruff, to build a wall between us. Still, my heart hammered wildly with joy. “The moment I’m made partner at the company, my health insurance will kick in. And you and the baby will have the greatest care.”

  These were technicalities. The reality of what we’d done. Remy’s chin ticked upward, and her eyes bore deeper into mine.

  “Of course, I’ll need to tell the old man what’s happened,” I continued. “And it’s probably best that you’re there for it. Maybe—maybe I can even tell him…”

  I sputtered out, my mind racing. What my father had said to me at the grave continued to echo. That I was incapable of love, of building something.

  “Wait, wait. What are you saying?” Remy asked, her face falling.

  “Well, it’s not like he’d like it if I knocked up someone randomly,” I said, giving Remy a knowing look.

  Remy’s face continued to scrunch. I sensed a bit of discomfort—perhaps even anger, emanating off her.

  “Well, what do you want to do about it?” she sputtered. “I did my part in all of this.” She placed her hands on her belly, shrugging.

  My brain rushed for some way to fill the gaps, to fix this problem. In the past few minutes, the world had shifted. I felt uneven, my weight shifting back and forth on my sturdy boots.

  “Maybe… maybe we tell him we’re engaged,” I said, crossing my thick, muscled arms over my chest.

  “Engaged?” Remy asked. Her eyebrows crept together, making her look a strange mix of angry, confused. Her hair whipped around her ears with the wind, making her look vibrant, a pure portrait. “I mean, it sounds so sudden. Won’t he suspect we’re up to something?”

  I smacked the back of my neck, shrugging. “The old man thinks I’m incapable of love—“

  “So you’re just going to prove him wrong by yanking your ex-girlfriend back into your life?” Remy asked, her voice pointed now. “Like some sort of Band-Aid.”

  “Well, do you have a better idea?” I asked her. This was typical Remy—pushing back at something that seemed so logical in my eyes. As if she didn’t want us to succeed. “Because I’m all ears, if so.”

  Remy waited, her eyebrows still low. She gaped at me, stuttering. The air between us remained tense, a mixture of a million different fights we’d had over the years. She bit her lip, bringing her left hand into the air in front of her.

  “Come on. It’s just an act,” I said, my voice growing cockier, fitting the mood. “It’s just a fucking game we’re playing. Just another movie set.”

  “I’ve been a fiancée before. A real one,” she said, giving me a stern look, her hand still raised. “And the funny thing is, with him, he got down on one knee. Near the Hollywood sign, if you can believe it, beneath this bright blue sky. As we gazed out acro
ss all of Los Angeles, he told me that we could make a pretty good team.” She sputtered with laughter, her look still ominous. “He was lying.”

  “I think the best part of all of this, Rem, is that I’m certainly not lying to you,” I told her. “We know exactly where we stand. We’re partners in this.”

  “Not in love. Good thing we’re over that,” Remy said, almost sarcastically.

  * * *

  “It would fucking complicate it. I agree,” I told her.

  Remy took a small step back, toward her car. She swiped her hands across her thighs, waiting to say something, or maybe pausing, giving space for me to speak. To stop her. But I held back, reminding myself that this was contractual. Nothing more. We couldn’t be trusted for more.

  “Fuck it,” she said finally, anger dissipating. “If this is the only way to get that money, in your eyes, then I’ll do it. I guess we’re too deep in this to turn back now. Imagine it, Wes. Both of us being immature enough to actually get engaged in this day and age.” She chuckled softly, pausing at the door of her car.

  My voice was gruff as I answered. “No more wasted time, you know? You can work on your movie. And after the baby’s born, well…”

  “You’ll be on your way,” Remy said, nodding firmly. “I know. And I respect it.”

  She spun toward her car, then, flipping her hair behind her shoulders. I felt my fingers twitching, wanting to reach out to her. To press her thin frame against my thick, muscular one and hold her tight, like a baby animal, anxious and filled with apprehension and hope for our future—and the future of our baby. But before I could, she was already seated behind the steering wheel. She gave me no wave.

  “I’ll call you about the meeting with my dad,” I called out to her, my voice a bit too loud. “The next few days. OK?”

  She nodded, her eyes large and orb-like behind the glass. As I stood there watching, she screwed her car backward and onto the pavement, darting back toward the Mission. I felt empty without her there. My hands fell to my sides, and my heart thudded against my ribs. This baby. This child. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the best thing that’d happened to me in a long fucking time. Better than blasting down the open road on my motorbike. Better than having every blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman in all of Iowa calling out my name. Better than freedom.

  But I didn’t know why.

  15

  Remy

  The first text came that night, as I snuggled beside Sam in her Mission District bedroom. Guilty after her initial reaction to the pregnancy, and simmering with excitement for me—which she said she simply couldn’t resist—she’d assembled a tray of crackers and cheese and chocolate chip cookies, my favorites. We snacked together and half-watched a comedy, talking about the baby. What he or she would be like. And, most specifically, “How we can ensure he won’t run away, like Wesley did?”

  “He won’t leave his momma,” I said, giggling.

  The text was from Wesley. I bit my lip with excitement, a rush of feeling.

  “Hey, pretty Momma,” the text read. “How are you and my baby doing tonight?”

  “Oh my god,” I whispered to Sam, pressing my hand against my chest. I felt my heart fluttering. I was almost woozy with emotion.

  “Don’t tell me you’re falling for his charms again,” Sam sighed. She tilted her head toward me, dipping her forehead against mine. “I was there last time this happened. And I won’t let you dive that low again.”

  I tapped a cookie against my tongue, chewing it slowly, really relishing the flavor, and avoiding answering Sam. Everything seemed to taste different now. The light caught the curtains in a brighter way. Even the comedy felt funnier, with my stomach clenching tighter with laughter.

  “Because you know he’ll never change. Please tell me you know that!” Sam said, giggling as I wrapped my arm around her neck, holding her in a slight headlock. After being best friends for so long, our bodies almost felt intertwined. I was unsure where I ended, where she began.

  I couldn’t believe in it, despite sharp rises of hope in my heart. I continued to try to press those emotions down each time my phone lit up with messages from him.

  “Please, Sam,” I sighed. “It’s just a contractual thing. He probably feels like he owns me now, or something, because I’m carrying his kid. Men always get so territorial.”

  “Well, you need to let him know that you don’t owe him anything except this baby. That you won’t be hanging around waiting for him to text you,” Sam said, dragging her head out from the headlock. “Otherwise, you’re going to get your heart trapped in all of this.”

  “Come on, Sam. I think I’m stronger than that,” I told her.

  But when I returned to my apartment that night, the texts between Wes and I continued almost nonstop. I felt a chaotic energy, the way I had when we’d been teenagers and I’d sat at home, burning with desire for a call. Often, when I’d learn he was out riding bikes with Quintin, I would simmered with jealousy, wishing so much that I could be the kind of girl to keep up with the guys. Once I’d thrown myself onto my bicycle and raced toward them, but I’d fallen on the curb, ripping my dress. Quintin scoffed at me, watching the blood ooze down my knee. But Wesley tore a piece of fabric from his T-shirt and wrapped it around my knee, catching the blood.

  “I’ll take care of you,” had been the look that he’d offered me, then. It would contrast with what happened later. The abandonment. The fight for another life. But in that moment, it had been really true.

  * * *

  The dinner with Wesley’s father was to happen that Wednesday night. I asked Wesley what he’d told his dad. He said he’d kept it simple, telling his father that he just had a “surprise.”

  “Surely he knows what that surprise is,” I’d laughed to myself, rolling my eyes. Happiness bubbled up in me, even as I sat alone with my phone. “I mean, it can only really be one thing right now,” I texted. When he didn’t respond, I continued. “Can you imagine his face when we tell him? This is the single greatest thing in his life right now. He doesn’t even know it yet.”

  I spoke for myself, as well. Despite still maintaining long hours scriptwriting, as well as already lining up my first round of auditions and interviewing a cameraman, a sound engineer, and a few crew workers, I simmered only with thoughts of the baby. What would we name him? Would Wes and I stew over names, cultivating a list, bantering and bickering as we’d done as teenagers? Bickering over what to eat for dinner, over where to make out as twilight stretched over our heads and our bodies ached with lust.

  I dressed in a simple, classic white dress, buttoning it to my neck. I brushed my hair long, allowing it to stretch straight down my back, and swept a bright red lipstick across my lips. Minutes before Wes’s arrival, I smeared it off and went with something a bit more simple, a little less of an exclamation. A light pink. I suddenly saw myself as a character in a movie, straining to make all the right moves. Straining to win some kind of approval from Wesley’s father.

  Although I knew it didn’t matter. It was an obligation to the baby. To ensure that the baby had the money he needed to have a good, bountiful life. And to make sure that Wesley’s father believed in us enough to give Wesley the cash—providing me with my own cash flow to get filming started.

  * * *

  “Don’t get your hopes up about him,” was the near-constant refrain from Sam, even as the dinner crept closer and closer. “You have to think of yourself as an actress. It’s a game, just like it always was back in Los Angeles.”

  “It’s a game,” I whispered to myself in the mirror, smacking my lips.

  I heard a car creak up along the edge of the curb. Blinking into the dying light of the late afternoon, I watched as Wes popped out from a dark red Chevy. He was dressed in an immaculate suit, his muscles straining against the fabric. His dark blonde hair was curled back over his ears, and his eyebrows were dark, low over his eyes. As he took a step toward the door, my heart pattered brightly. But within seconds, he re
eled back. Suddenly, I felt a wash of fear. Was he going to leave me like this? Flee?

  But no. Wes eased into the back of the car and drew out a bouquet of flowers, bright pinks and reds, with baby’s breath peeking at the top. My knees nearly gave out. Rushing to the door, I whirled it open, feeling breathless. He stopped short, staring at me. A smile stretched across his face. This was the first we were seeing one another after days of cute messages.

  “What’s with the car, Adams?” I asked him, giving him a half-cocky smile. “Don’t think I’ve seen you drive one of those in, well, years.”

  Wes stretched forward and splayed the flowers in my arms. I sensed he wanted to kiss me, could feel it simmering behind his eyes. But instead, he held back, kissing me on the cheek. A blush crept across my face.

  “You know. Maybe it’s those ridiculous paternal instincts,” he said, laughing. “Can’t have no baby of mine on the back of a bike. Not till he’s at least eight years old.”

  “Oh? Is that when you’re going to start teaching him the ways of the road?” I asked.

  * * *

  “Baby, he’ll be born with that fire in him. I already know it,” Wes said.

  We paused for a moment, both of us breathing slowly, captivated. I gestured with the flowers. “These are beautiful.”

  Wes didn’t answer. After a long pause, he brought his elbow outward, allowing me to slip my arm through it. Linking us. Our small, contractual family. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  The drive was longer than I remembered. I’d been out to the mansion only a few times, just before Wes and I had parted ways. Days before they’d filled it with high-end design, with chandeliers and ancient texts and grand books, with portraits and landscapes, Wes and I had ambled through, hand-in-hand, speaking in faux-grand language. “Well, Marcia, I can’t imagine how we can abide to have anything but lobster and the finest champagne tonight, darling,” Wes had said. “If we’re going to impress the Rockefellers, we have to up our standards.”