Chapter Eight
“God, I’m so uncomfortable.”
Simone groans, shifting around on my phone screen for what feels like the hundredth time since I called.
I grimace in sympathy.
All the regret I have about not being able to carry my own baby, I've learned to look at the positives.
At least I'm not suffering like her.
“How many more months do you have?” I ask.
“All of them,” she snaps.
I try to mask my laugh as a cough.
“This baby,” she continues, rubbing her stomach dramatically, “is apparently a behemoth. I'm already on bed rest and my due date is still one million years away.”
I smile sympathetically, deciding not to ask what one million years translates to in actual pregnancy terms.
“Where are you?” she asks suddenly, squinting at her screen.
In answer, I flip my camera around.
Laila is stretched out on the couch watching some ridiculously sad movie while eating popcorn from a giant bowl balanced on her stomach.
Thankfully she's wearing headphones.
“Bronwyn?” My little sister asks.
“She's been having some trouble lately,” I tell her casually, turning the camera back around. “So I decided to move in.”
For a second Simone just stares. Then: “What?” She asks clearly shocked.
I shrug.
“Well,” I mutter, extending my arm so the phone hovers above my face, “she lives in a one-bedroom, so Aruq and I moved some stuff around and squeezed a bed in here for me.”
“Oh.”
She nods slowly. Then nods again. “You can't sleep without your mattress.”
“It is not a matter of can,” I defend. “It's a matter of why should I?”
A suspicious smile appears on her face.
“What?”
She keeps smiling.
“What?” I repeat.
“Aruq, your personal shopper-slash-designer, showed up in the middle of the day to rearrange a surrogate's apartment out of the goodness of his heart?”
“He's going to bill me,” I point out.
“Yes, he is.”
“That's literally his job.”
Simone doesn't respond.
She just keeps staring at me with that annoying younger-sister expression.
“What?” I snap.
She holds up both hands. “I love you.”
I narrow my eyes waiting for the but.
“But Jesus, Bronwyn. You're high maintenance.”
“Excuse me?” The outrage is immediate. “Need I remind you,” I say, sitting up slightly, “that I once spent an entire week sleeping in our backyard because Mom and Dad extended our curfew to eight o'clock?”
Simone snorts. “That was Texas Bronwyn,” she says.
I frown. “What does that mean?”
She shrugs like it’s not new news. “That was Austin Bronwyn. This is LA Wyn.”
“Those are the same person.”
“They are not.”
I gasp.
“They aren't.” She insists.
“Explain.”
Simone settles back into her mountain of pillows.
“Austin Bronwyn would've slept on a couch and complained about it. LA Wyn has a designer friend move furniture, deliver a custom mattress, and reorganize an apartment because she refuses to spend a single day uncomfortable.”
I open my mouth. Then close it.
Because when she says it like that...
“That's called self-respect.” I point out.
“Being high maintenance isn't a bad thing,” she reassures with a shrug. “You earned it.”
My smile fades slightly. Because I know exactly what she's talking about.
All those years. All those jobs. All those double shifts.
Supporting us while Brad worked eighty-hour weeks and earned basically nothing.
“That was a dark time,” I mutter.
Simone laughs. “I remember the intervention.”
Now I laugh too.
The memory hits instantly.
One random Sunday afternoon. A knock on our apartment door. And opening it to find both sets of parents standing there.
My parents.
Brad's parents.
Enough food to feed a small village. And apparently a plan.
“Oh my God,” I groan.
“You were so angry.” She snickers.
“I was.”
“You threatened to lock them out.”
“They were trying to give us money.” Even to my own ears my reason sounds stupid.
“Because you were broke and living in a shithole,” she points out.
“We were independent.”
“More like stupid,” she mutters under her breath.
I hear it, and for once I don't argue. Because we were stupid.
I was working night shifts at a dingy diner, serving coffee to truckers and drunk college students, then walking home afterward because spending money on gas felt irresponsible.
Brad wasn't any better. He'd leave the hospital at three in the morning after a shift and walk forty minutes back to our apartment because paying for a cab seemed extravagant.
Looking back, it's honestly a miracle we're alive.
Well. A miracle and our parents.
“I miss home,” I admit suddenly.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Simone's expression changes immediately. “Oh.”
The way she says it makes me frown. “Why do you sound surprised?”
She shifts against her mountain of pillows. “I don't know. You just always looked so happy there.”
I let out a laugh. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Every time you came home to visit, you'd complain about something.”
And she's right.
The traffic. The weather. The people. The fact that I ran into my ex’s mom twice in one holiday weekend. I'd complained about all of it.
I stare up at the ceiling for a moment before finally admitting, “I think I was trying to convince myself it wasn't home.”
Simone studies me quietly. “Then move back.”
I smile. “You say that like it's easy.”
“It is.”
“Simone.”
“No, seriously.” She adjusts her phone. “You know we need plastic surgeons in Texas too, right?”
I laugh. “That's not how this works.”
“Why not?”
Because Brad would never leave Los Angeles. His career is here; his family would stage an uproar if we moved closer to my family instead of his.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away.
“Where's the father-to-be?” I ask, referring to her husband, Darren.
“He's hanging out with Logan,” she says, reaching off-camera for a tumbler.
“He left you alone?” I ask shocked since Darren pretty much started his paternity leave before the baby was even born. Perks of working for your brother, I guess.
“I'm not a toddler,” she says with a dramatic eye roll. “Besides, I wasn't in the mood to go.”
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask raising a brow.
She makes a face.
“Other than resenting him when he eats, sleeps, breathes, exists, or generally occupies space near me, we're great.”
I laugh.
Pregnancy really is terrifying.
“What about your other life partner?” I ask.
Simone and Jessica have been friends for as long as I can remember. If Simone and Darren ever divorced, I'd probably expect custody battles over Jessica which would be complicated considering she’s married to Darren’s brother Logan.
“She's fine.”
I immediately narrow my eyes.
Usually mentioning Jessica earns me a story about something that happened with her, her kids or in her general vicinity.
“Is everything okay?” I ask wondering if their spat is still on going.
Simone sighs. “We're just not talking right now.”
I wait.
Eventually she groans.
“Do you remember when Logan kissed that chick last year?”
I nod vaguely.
Not because I remember the details. Mostly because Simone ranted about it for months, after.
Internally, I grimace.
Logan never struck me as the type to cheat. Then again, neither did Brad.
Maybe that's the problem.
Nobody ever looks like the type.
“Turns out,” Simone continues, shaking her head, “Jess slept with someone else as revenge.”
My mouth drops open. “Now?”
“Before.”
I stare. “What?”
“Right after Logan kissed that girl… woman.”
My jaw actually unhinges.
Wow.
Jess is basically the poster child for wholesome suburban motherhood. If someone asked me to describe her, I'd probably say she bakes cookies from scratch and remembers everyone's birthdays.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Simone nods. “Exactly.”
“Maybe it's everyone,” I say almost to myself. “Not just men.”
“That's not even why I'm mad.”
I blink coming back to my sister’s pissed expression.
“Wait. Why are you mad?”
“She lied,” Simone explodes.
I pull the phone slightly away from my eardrums.
“Here I've been worried about her. Hating Logan for her. And this whole time she did something worse.”
I wince. “Yeah, but it's not-”
“Can you not?”
I stop talking.
Simone takes a deep breath. “Seriously, Bron. Don't say I told you so, I can’t take it right now.”
I bite my tongue.
Jessica has always been my little sister's annoying best friend that was constantly around. I don't hate her. I just never really got over the God, she's irritating phase of our relationship.
Still.
I don't like cheaters. That much should be obvious.
But I'm also someone who believes pretty heavily in getting what you give.
Logan cheated first. Whatever Jess did afterward is mostly on him.
Her real crime is lying about it.
Something I'm currently doing too. The thought hits hard enough that I have to look away from the screen.
Better not go down that rabbit hole.
Because if I start thinking about hypocrisy right now, I'll end up telling Simone everything.
And even though none of this is my fault, the way she's apparently cut off the woman she's been closer to than me over something she believes is unforgivable tells me exactly how she'd react to my situation.
No way would she understand my decision.
Why I haven't called a lawyer.
Why I'm sleeping in my surrogate's apartment instead of burning my marriage to the ground.
The last thing I need is that on top of everything else.
“So,” I say quickly, changing the subject before I accidentally ruin both our days, “did you see Mom's latest bikini picture?”
Simone immediately lets out a laugh, clutching her stomach. “Oh God.”
I grin. “Dad should not be doing his bikini gag at this age.”
The laugh that comes out of Simone sounds almost painful. “He won't stop!”
“He's been making that joke for years.”
“And somehow he thinks it's still funny.”
“It's not.” I grimace, remembering exactly how unfunny Dad's jokes can get. When I was sixteen, he picked me up from school wearing one of Mom's bikini tops as punishment for wearing a crop top to school.
“It really isn't.” She nods, probably remembering her own experience with the goof we call dad.