If he hadn’t been outgoing I never would have spoken to him. If he hadn’t taken a chance on the girl in the opposite window, we wouldn’t have spent every weekend hanging out while we were growing up. He pulled me out of my shell, and I accepted his crazy and helped to ground him when he felt like he might float away.
But it also makes me less than certain about asking him to help me have a baby. Because he isn’t the kind of man who will be able to walk away from his kid when he eventually has one. And I don’t want to ask him to do something for me that he isn’t ready for. I feel so selfish even thinking about it.
If I had Hudson’s baby would our friendship suffer? Would he want anything to do with the baby? Or would I lose my best friend? I’ve missed him so much. I don’t think I can risk it.
“Co-parenting platonically has become a trend,” Taylor says in a sing song voice. “I have twin girls in my class whose parents wanted kids but didn’t want the hassle of a relationship. They’re best friends now. And great parents. But they’re not attracted to each other.”
I suppose it’s not so far-fetched to think that Hud and I could still be us with a baby added to the mix. “He’d be a fantastic dad. And we never fight. But I don’t know...”
There’s every chance he doesn’t want to be a dad. At least, not yet.
“Look.” Mya takes my hand and squeezes. “All you can do is ask him. And I think you need to. If he says no, he says no.”
“But if he says yes.” Cassie waggles her eyebrows and thrusts her hips.
I snigger. If he says yes, and he really wanted a baby too, not just for my sake, then... there isn’t anyone’s baby I would rather have. “Can I really ask Hudson to help me get pregnant? How desperate am I?”
“Very,” all three girls say at the same time.
Chapter Six
Jane
Holy shit. I can’t believe this. I snatch the gossip rag from its spot between People and Women’s Weekly. Oliver and Stormy’s smug faces stare at me from the couple embracing on Glamour’s glossy cover, with a quote from the gorgeous couple, “We’re getting married.”
He’s going to marry her. Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he? She’s tiny and beautiful beside Oliver. The perfect freaking arm candy. Everything I’m not. I snatch a candy bar from the display beside the magazines and rip open the wrapping. Taking a big bite I chew and swallow what feels like a lump of rock.
The attendant behind the counter stares at me as he serves a man in a suit.
Yeah, what are you looking at, buddy? I’m going to pay for it. Some of us need to consume our feelings before they all bubble up in a tsunami of suffocating emotions.
I wish I was the other type of stress eater. The type who can’t eat when they’re upset and end up with a revenge body to boot. But I’m not. Awkwardly I pull the wrapper back over the chocolate and pick out a pack of gum.
I take a deep breath and tear my attention from the magazine, to the back wall of the 7-11 where coffee and Slurpees vie for my attention. I don’t want to dwell on Oliver and Stormy La Croix. And I don’t want to feel awful about myself either. I want a Slurpee. Oh, a cappuccino maybe. No, coffee. I’m never going to lose this extra fluff I’m carrying these days if I don’t curb my sweet tooth.
I march to the back of the store where the cups are stacked next to the coffee pots and a selection of creamers.
You know what though, I don’t care that Oliver’s moved on. I truly don’t. It’s just, that was supposed to be my life and now I don’t know what my life looks like.
I feel shafted, to be honest. Like the giant penis of life went and thrust itself into my tender core. Rammed itself right in there as hard as it could. Over and over. And what’s worse is I feel like I shouldn’t feel like that at all. So what if life screwed me like an Italian mafia boss? Hard and rough, and without a safe word? Life goes on, yada, yada. I’m not supposed to care and really I’m doing my best to pretend to be the perfect Zen hearted girl, but I’m not good at faking. Well, except with Oliver. Hell, life screwing me was probably for the best. And I should be treating it like that.
It’s the whole when life gives you lemons scenario. So maybe I really do need a Slurpee to balance out my bitterness.
My phone chimes and I pull it out to see another text from my mother. I roll my gaze at her short missive suggesting I ask Hudson to come over for dinner tonight. Not going to happen. I’m not asking him to dinner so she can press her one-tracked agenda to get a grandchild by her favorite non son. If anyone is going to dive into that crazy with him, it’s going to be me. Besides, he’s probably working. It’s Friday night. People go out drinking and to bars on Friday nights, don’t they? It’s been forever but things don’t change that much.
Cassie sent me a picture of two people getting frisky while the text asks me to find the duck or risk being labelled a sex addict. I squint at it and rotate my screen, but all that does is flip the picture. No duck. But when was the last time I had sex? Nine months ago? Ten? Oliver cheated on me with Stormy, but he never cheated on her with me. Probably because she isn’t a hot mess, numbing her emotions with pure sugar.
I pour coffee into my cup and add a liberal amount of vanilla creamer before popping the lid on and putting all my items on the counter.
The clerk tells me the total, and I hand him the money before tossing the copy of Glamour, gum, and half-eaten candy in my bag. I don’t even know why I bought the gossip mag. I’m over Oliver. I don’t want to read about his perfect life. I’m not going to open the magazine.
Walking away from the convenience store I head toward Brewed. It’s a couple of blocks. Ample time to sip the hot, sweet beverage and meditate that fuckwit Oliver right out of my mind.
***
My office chair is one of those wide, faux leather deals with four wheels and the ability to spin like the teacup ride. And I haven’t left it since I sat down this morning. Apparently Pete wasn’t particularly good at his job and I’ve been fielding calls from his customers all day.
My stomach rumbles like thunder and then gurgles for good measure. I check the time on the bottom of my screen as I finish up the notes I’m adding to my last customer’s file. Lunch was a couple of hours ago.
I could go to the break room, I suppose. There were cupcakes on the counter when I went to get coffee. But I probably shouldn’t.
Picking my bag up off the floor under the desk, I rifle through it for the gum I bought this morning. It’ll take the edge off the hunger while I look at Brewed’s social media, which is the job I was actually hired for three months ago. Before Pete quit, and the boss decided it was more important to fill the hole he left. The new guy starts in two weeks though, so at least it’s only temporary.
I pull the copy of Glamour out of my bag along with the multiple booklets from my last gyno appointment and toss them on my desk. Rifling through the assortment of pens, tampons, and lip glosses at the bottom of my bag I search for the envelope of peppermint Extra. How is it so hard to find? And when did my handbag get so messy?
Finally my fingers catch the cardboard edge. I peel off the plastic, unwrap the thin foil, and pop a stick into my mouth. The sharp, cool taste fills my senses as I drop my bag back in its spot. The magazine catches my gaze. Oliver’s getting married. They’re on the front cover. There’s an article in the magazine I spent four years of my life working for. It’s like they’re rubbing my nose in it. Taunting me.