“I’m freaking out, dude.”AJ paced my living room floor, bags under his eyes, hair wild like Einstein. “Me? A dad? No fucking way.”
I sat on the couch, eyes tracking his movement from left to right, and I started to feel seasick. “You’re one-hundred percent sure she’s pregnant?”
He plopped onto the recliner, elbows on his knees as he raked his fingers through his messy hair. “Pooch took off with the stick and buried it before she had a chance to confirm the results. But, she’s two weeks late with sore tits, fatigue, and of all things”—he rose to his feet and started pacing again—“she suddenly can’t stand the smell of my cologne. Five bottles of that shit sitting on my bathroom counter and now I can’t even wear one drop without her heaving.”
“Well, in all fairness, the smell of your cologne kind of makesmewanna heave, too.”
He stopped pacing long enough to pin a glare on me. “Fuck you, Stone.”
I coughed into my fist to hide my chuckle and watched him continue to pace, hoping the back and forth trek would quell what looked like a panic attack waiting to happen.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked even though the answer was etched into his face. AJ loved Sage, despite their on again, off again issues. High school sweethearts, they came to UCLA together all the way from a small town in Nebraska. There was no way he’d abandon her to figure it out on her own. Their bond was stronger than superglue. The thought made me think of the bond Macy and I had as best friends. I hoped to God our bond as a couple would prove to be equally strong.
AJ parked back down onto the recliner and breathed, “I love the shit out of her, man. Always have. Always will.” He leaned back, a sense of calm settling into his eyes. “I think I’m gonna marry her.”
I couldn’t help but think about Macy, badly missing her since our blowout the night before. Plucking my phone off the coffee table, I sent her a text.
Me: Hey, come back home.
26
For most, there’s no place like home. For me, there’s no place like home when pissed off at your boyfriend.
Normally, to nurse my wounds, I would have ended up sprawled across the couch at Sage and Chloe’s place, glass of wine in one hand, slice of pizza in the other. But honestly, I didn’t want them to know there was trouble brewing in my paradise, didn’t want to sit and explain how I took off in a foot-stomping fury, instead of sharing my root issues. Plus, Sage had enough on her plate with the assumed pregnancy.
So, I drove straight home to Mom and Dad’s. Then crept upstairs to my bedroom, complete with its hot-pink curtains and NSYNC posters thumbtacked to the walls, crashing facedown onto my bed, then cried. Cried and cried. I ignored most of Lucas’s texts, afraid he’d charm me into coming back home. Hurt, confused, angry, I needed space, time away from the man who lovingly held my heart in his hands and, at the same time, squeezed it.
Mom and Dad didn’t even know I’d come home until the next morning when I padded downstairs to hush my growling belly.
Thank goodness they were both fully dressed instead of like that one unseeable time when I’d walked in on them conducting old-married-folk business—doing it—on the family room sofa—gross, because they’re my parents, okay—doggy style.
Needless to say, I made a point to never sit on that sofa again.
Mom’s face brightened like the moon in a desert night sky. “Macy Cake! What in the world are you doing home, sweetheart?”
Macy Cake had been my nickname since I was about two years old. As the story’s been told, too many times to count, after my mom presented a cake at my birthday party with “Here’s Macy’s Cake” I proceeded to call every cake I laid eyes on after that a Macy Cake.
Dad peered up at me from the newspaper he was reading, black-rimmed reading glasses the same style as mine. “Hey, baby girl. When did you come in?”
Mom and Dad.
If they had a slogan that defined them as a parental brand it would say, “Conservative Facade. Hippies at Heart.”
Working hard to give me an amazing upbringing, their jobs often kept them from home more than I would have liked. They were older and had me in their late forties, one of the reasons why I had been an only child. Retiring soon after I graduated high school, they’d spent ample time making up minutes, seconds, hours of lost time with me growing up.
After I gave them both a kiss on the cheek, Mom must have assessed a look on my face, the one I’d tried to hide with a grin.
“What happened?” she asked, thumb grazing my chin, forcing me to look up and into her eyes. “You and Lucas have a falling out?”
Dad cleared his throat, tossing his newspaper onto the table. “Now, you know I love Lucas like a son. But, if I need to whip his ass, you just tell me when and where.”
Mom grabbed my shoulders, guiding me to the kitchen table. “Sit, Macy Cake. I’ll make you some breakfast and then we’ll talk.”
Once breakfast was devoured, Mom prepared me a cup of her famous cinnamon-stick coffee. My phone sat on the table and buzzed with a text message from Lucas.
Lucas: Hey, come home.
I rolled my eyes even though my heart warmed, imagining how his voice would sound saying the words in his text message. He’d hum them with his seductively commanding timbre. The fact was, it had been less than twenty-four hours since our spat, and there I was…missing him.
