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“Ugh, that’s such a guy thing. I don’t understand why you need to see strippers as a send-off into marriage. It’s not like you can do anything with the strippers. You’ve pretty much been tied down since the moment you asked someone on that first date,” I argue.
“You’re delusional. Do you know how many of my friends had sex with a stripper the night before their wedding?”
“Are . . . are you serious? First of all, I thought you weren’t even allowed to touch a stripper. Second, what’s the point of getting married then? Just stay single and play the field.”
He stops walking, and running his hands through his hair, he turns to face me. “Some people don’t have a choice, Presley.”
I look at him and laugh. “Everyone has a choice, Haden. It’s called decision-making. It’s part of being a grownup.”
Walking towards the park bench, we take a seat in front of the church.
“And now what? You’re going to have a baby. What about finding yourself someone?” he asks uncomfortably.
I hate this question, because even when I ask myself the same thing, it ends badly.
Cats. Cats . . . everywhere.
“I have no clue. I know why it’s good to be married while you’re pregnant,” I say without even thinking.
“Why?” He turns to me, resting his arm along the top of the bench.
“Why? We’re both adults. It’s not hard to figure out why. Pregnancy hands you a bag of hormones and somehow you’re expected to carry on and pretend it has no effect on you whatsoever. Plus everything is aching, swollen, and I swear, I am this close to getting a membership at the sketchy massage joint downtown.”
He shakes his head while grinning. “You have no problem being honest, do you?”
“We crossed the secrets bridge when you took your pants off.”
“I think you took my pants off.” He smirks.
“What?” My cheeks are flushed, but it’s also hot out (and below). “We were both drunk, but I swear it was all you.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
I look at him. “Yes, you were.”
“I rode my bike. I never ride my bike if I’ve been drinking.”
I let out a panicked laugh. “I saw you drinking.”
“That was root beer.”
“I don’t get it then, you weren’t drunk but you . . .”
The penny drops and I stare into his eyes to read the truth behind his admission. He wasn’t drinking. Therefore he knew fully well what he was doing. Unlike myself; I kinda just went with the flow, or should I say Kitty’s commands? Does this mean he wanted it to happen? Did he plan for this to happen? Was what he said in my parents’ kitchen true?
“Presley . . .”
“Haden, what the hell does this mean?”
In a quick change of emotions, his sympathetic face turns defensive.
“I wasn’t drunk but I was pissed off at you. That was it.”
“If you’re pissed off at someone you throw a martini in their face, or bash them on social media. You don’t fuck them in the alley!”
I turn to face away from him. Just when I thought there was more to this, he reminds me why I am a hormonal mess. The tears are building up and I watch the people strolling past as a distraction.
He places his hand on my shoulder as a kind gesture, but I shake it off, not wanting him to touch me. And so, we sit in silence for a very long time while I try to calm myself down. A good hour later, my stomach rumbles and all I can think about is food.
