“Marriage?” I choke out, giving up on the unnaturally burbly drink. “You asked her to marry you?”
“Marriage is a government institution. We are pledging our souls before the universe.”
“Okay, I mean, sure, whatever, but, my man, my mom does not do commitment.”
“We’ve been together for four years,” Zephyr says gently.
“You have?” I blink. “Damn, your twenties sure fly by, don’t they?”
I feel a little panicky, and I’m not sure why. Zephyr slides my kombucha back in front of me. I push it back out of the way.
“Mom agreed to this? I mean, she’s always said she’s a free spirit. She’s had, like, a hundred boyfriends, just one after another after another.” I reel my hands, trying to show him.
“As am I,” he says sagely, “and our spirits will be free together.”
“You two can do whatever you want with your own souls, I guess. You’re adults.”
I take a sip of my kombucha, wish it was wine, then swallow it, since there are lots of people in this place and I don’t think I can realistically spit it on the ground.
Zephyr gives me a concerned look at my wince. “Is this about your sperm giver?”
“I don’t know why my mom insists on using that term, and no, I’m fine!” I force the cheeriness out. “This is great news, you guys! I love a wedding!”
“Did he call you at all?” Zephyr asks hesitantly.
“Why would he do that?”
“He contacted your mom and asked for your contact information.”
“He what?” I shriek.
The woman who’s nursing her eight-year-old at the table next to me gives me an ugly look.
“I take it that’s a no.”
I shake my head. “No, he didn’t contact me.”
“I’m sorry.” Zephyr takes my hand and gives it a sympathetic squeeze.
“I’m not upset,” I declare.
He pats my hand. “It’s hard to heal when they keep reopening the cut.”
“I’m healed. I’m fine. Let me know when the wedding is. I’d say I’d help plan it, but I’m sure Mom’s just going to want to show up the day of and wing everything.”
I’mannoyed and raw when I stomp off the elevator at the Prism offices.
My phone is going off, the noise grating. Maybe I should just let McCarthy go apeshit all over my exes.
Part of me wants him to be my one true love, my knight in shining armor, and for me to be the center of his universe.
I scroll through the messages.
There are fewer than there used to be, and hey, look, nothing from Andreas or any unknown numbers making vaguely threatening puns about time-shares. Seems like McCarthy was right after all.
Great.
I don’t go to my desk, too mentally frazzled to create my progress report. Instead, I head for the break room. Someone has had a breakfast meeting, but there are only crumbs left.
