12. Graham
GRAHAM
I stay in a hotel that night so I don’t have to lie to my family about why I’m here, a lie that would be dissected by each of them ad nauseam .
She breezes into Starbucks ten minutes late, of course.
Probably had to discuss some critical financial issue with her homeless friend Mark.
Her pale blonde hair is falling out of a loose bun, the sparkle in her eyes could stop traffic, and she’s smiling at everyone she passes.
It’s only when she sees me that she grows wary.
“You came,” she says, making no effort to hide her disappointment.
“Did you think I’d fly across the country for this conversation and change my mind that quickly?”
She shrugs. “I would.”
Yes, I know. I know because you fucking married me and ran off without a word, and then got pregnant with no intention of telling me .
Nothing Keeley does could surprise me at this point, aside from her potentially behaving her age, which is twenty-nine, a fact I only know from the marriage license.
Jesus, what was I thinking, and what is she thinking now?
She’s so desperate to cut me out of all this and take care of the kid alone when she barely seems capable of taking care of herself.
We reach the counter. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her she can’t have caffeine, but right now, she’s holding all the cards. I need her to agree to this plan before I start treating her like the child she basically is.
“I’ll have a venti decaf mocha,” she says, leaning toward the male barista, who is definitely one of those assholes who moved here hoping for his big break. “But tell me something—do you guys, like, experiment with all the syrups when it’s slow?”
He’s eating out of her palm. Of course he is . The most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on is currently looking at him like he has the world’s most fascinating job.
He grins. “All the time. We—”
“That drink has twenty grams of sugar,” I announce, placing my hand on the small of her back. “That can’t be good for the baby. And I’ll just have the breakfast blend, venti.”
His eyes widen. Yeah, asshole, she wasn’t gonna date you even if she wasn’t pregnant .
“What the hell, man?” she demands of me once we’ve moved beyond the register. “I was about to find out all the barista secrets and you ruined it.”
“You are five months pregnant and flirting with Criss-with-two-s’s while he figures out what to do with his life. Do you really not see anything wrong with that?”
“I wasn’t flirting , and you have no idea what Criss-with-two-ss’s does when he’s not at Starbucks.”
She seems legitimately peeved, which makes me wonder if she just doesn’t understand her own power, doesn’t realize that when she smiles, men turn into fifteen-year-old boys again, too overcome by hormonal impulses to make reasonable decisions.
And then they marry her, apparently, if the opportunity arises.
“You were flirting.”
She groans and turns away from me to face the woman beside her. “Oh my God! Your shoes,” she gasps, clutching the woman’s arm as if she might fall over from shock. “I absolutely love them.”
The woman’s face relaxes into a smile. “Oh, I got them at Maxfield over on—”
“Melrose!” Keeley cries. “I’m there all the time! How have I not seen them? Are they comfortable? They look super comfortable.”
And that’s when I realize Keeley isn’t flirting. Or maybe she is, but she’s flirting with the entire world. I’ve spent my life trying to care about as little as possible, and she wants to care about everything and everyone she meets.
She is terrifying.
“Okay,” she says a moment later, sighing loudly as she slides into a chair. “Even though you just blew my shot at learning the secrets of Starbucks, I’m in. But we need some ground rules. First, you stay out of my room and I’ll stay out of my closet.”
“You might want to adjust to the fact that it’s never going to be a closet again.”
She doesn’t seem to believe that. I guess she’s still holding out for the Saudi prince.
“Second…” She chews her lip, unable to meet my gaze. “I’m a butterfly. I don’t stay anywhere long, and it’s best to get that out in the open. So this isn’t going to turn into some romcom crap.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” This is something I’ll probably say often over the next few months.
“Like, you’re not going to be all sensitive and tell me I’m beautiful when my feet are swollen, etcetera, etcetera.”
She’s going to be responsible for a human life in four months, but this is what she’s worried about? “Why the hell would I tell you you’re beautiful when your feet are swollen?”
Her eyes roll. “You’ve clearly never read a romance or watched a movie involving someone who’s pregnant. It always involves him reassuring her about her looks and ends with the couple having sex to make her go into labor.”
“Have sex to make her go into labor?” I demand. She’s got to be fabricating this. “Aren’t there drugs for that?”
“It’s a movie thing. I guess it knocks the baby out or something.”
“ Knocks the baby out? ” I repeat. “There is no way you’re a real doctor.”
“I said or something . I was spit-balling, not delivering a Ted Talk on childbirth.”
I have to stifle the urge to laugh. “Fine. I will never look at your swollen feet and tell you you’re beautiful, though, in my defense…I doubt it was especially likely in the first place.”
“Third, occasionally I’m going to eat junk food and you’re not allowed to comment.”
I glance at her side of the table. She just ordered a scone along with what is essentially a heated chocolate milkshake. “I’m not sure your junk food intake is occasional . And I have some rules too.”
She frowns. “You’re the one inconveniencing me. It doesn’t seem like you should get to make rules.”
“First, you can’t tell me I’m beautiful when my feet are swollen. Any other time you can, but not then.”
Her lips curve. “Done.”
“Second, you need to tell me when you have prenatal appointments so I can attend, without complaint.”
“Nice try, perv,” she says, sipping her drink.
“But you have seen all you’re going to see of my vagina, which, by the way, will not be ruined through the delivery of this child.
Julie, my OB, has promised to do a c-section if it’s big and to stitch things up perfectly afterward if necessary.
But I’m probably gonna push for the c-section no matter what. ”
I can’t believe she’s discussing her vagina at 11 a.m. in a public place, but I’m guessing it isn’t a first for Keeley. “I’m coming to the appointments. I also want to stay married until the baby’s born,” I continue. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but…I do.”
She blinks. I suspect she’d already forgotten we were married. “Fine, but aside from Ben and Gemma, let’s tell everyone it was all, you know, intentional . My dad would be really ashamed if he knew the truth.”
“Has he ever seen your apartment? I’d be shocked if he wasn’t already ashamed.”
Her mouth twitches. “Don’t make me start second-guessing this whole thing.”
So it’s happening…A spur of the moment suggestion last night—one I suspect I’ll come to regret—and it’s only hitting me now how huge it was.
I haven’t lived on the west coast or with another human since grad school.
My apartment, my job, my entire life is going to be left behind for four months.
And from the looks of it, not a moment too soon.
“We’ll tell them it was all intentional.
I can help clear that room tomorrow if you want. ”
“ Tomorrow? What’s the rush?”
I glance at her breakfast again. “Given your eating habits, time is of the essence.”
She heaves a weary sigh, and another tendril of hair escapes her messy bun. I fight the urge to push it out of her face.
“Since there’s nothing left to discuss,” she says, rising and gathering what’s left of her scone, “I think I’d like to enjoy my breakfast in peace.”