Chapter 18 #2
I gasp in shock as I suddenly clench up.
My body’s been so wrecked from . . . everything, honestly .
. . that when Dr. Saad gave me the green light for sex last week, I laughed out loud.
She asked me about post-partum depression and directed me to websites where women talk about how different intimacy can look after pregnancy and give advice on talking to partners about it.
It was so off the rails in the moment, but, of course, everyone assumes that Blaise and I are just hiding our relationship in the most ineffective way imaginable.
And if Blaise wants sex with me, they’re going to do everything they can to make sure it happens. What Blaise wants, Blaise gets.
Well, Blaise went to a sex club and then came home and jerked off in the shower, so he’s obviously doing what he wants.
And I’m imagining him with one hand on the wall, looking down at himself as he handles his cock.
Is he facing away from the water, his back taking the brunt of it, or is he turned into the stream?
That’s what my brain goes for, illustrating the scene with softer lighting than the blinding vanity bulbs and detailing his skin with rivulets of water snaking down his arm, his chest, his back.
Real Blaise probably has a shower cap on, but in the fantasy, it’s saturating the twists he’s maintained since going back to training.
I’ve nearly asked him a dozen times if I can help — the idea takes me back to high school days, when even then, my sister and I bickered constantly, but we buried our feuds every Sunday night to braid each other’s hair — but I’m worried he’ll snap at me, so I fantasize of him ruining them now.
I imagine the water running down his face. He’s slack-jawed with the focus he has on finding his orgasm, all his attention and staying on his feet while controlling his cock, no doubt kicking in his hand.
I wince as my own toes curl. I hate how powerful an effect this stupid, inappropriate fantasy has on my own body, and I don’t know if it’s better to attempt to find my own orgasm or just accept this feeling as hope I’ll have a normal sex life one day in the far-off future.
Blaise’s soft moans grow strained, the sound unmistakable, and then he grunts.
I can tell he’s stifling himself, doing what he can to rob me of knowing what it sounds like when he comes.
Of course, he could be the sort that just grunts, but I don’t think he is.
I think he wants the world to know when he’s satisfied.
And I’m too scared to touch myself, not when it was so recent that everything from the waist down felt like a medical disaster. So I curl up in a smaller ball than usual and will myself to fall asleep.
I fail at that, but at least I’m able to will myself not to cry when Blaise finally gets into bed and immediately curls up behind me with an arm around my waist.
“Man, that is a handsome baby. Do you see how handsome this baby is?” Emerson asks the server at the fancy cafe he’s insisted we have lunch at while he’s in town, picking up some of the costumes I’ve just finished.
“He sure is!” the server agrees, and as much as, yes, Donovan is an incredibly handsome baby, I’m pretty sure she’s just agreeing because Emerson Michaels is asking her. We’re on the affluent side of Wilmington, but the city isn’t known for its celebrity presence outside of big events.
The server leans down and makes cooing sounds at Donovan while pinching his cheek and calling him a chunky monkey.
Blaise insists that he’s the chunkiest of monkeys, and my trips out with the WAG ladies and visits with the medical staff at the training center end with a dozen people’s hands on him, but this girl is rubbing me the wrong way.
“Could I get another mimosa?” I ask sweetly, despite my glass being half full. I’m not usually catty, and I’m already dreading tossing this mimosa back so I don’t look crazy to Emerson, but I just need the server to go away.
She does with that forced look I get from women whenever I’m out with Blaise, too, like they’re doing their best to be nice but want to stab me.
I get it, sort of. Emerson is a regular on Sexiest Man Alive lists.
Blaise is a thirst trap. Women probably wonder what’s so special about me that I’m having lunch with celebrities.
It’s ridiculous, though. I’m not special.
I’ve got my wonderful, horrific luck, but it’s all messed up, and it’s wild that anyone would think I’m the girlfriend of either of these men.
I’m okay with how I look in general, but I went from pudgy to cancer-emaciated right back to pudgy, and I doubt I’ll ever be the weight doctors want me to be.
Blaise takes care of my baby with me, but anyone using their brain and paying attention to body language can see he avoids me, and we’re hardly ever out together.
Emerson, meanwhile, is literally a married man.
Publicly married. His wife is nearly as famous as he is.
Our affair was a total fluke, and as messed up as it was, he’s a good man in a marriage of convenience.
We bonded in the hours we spent together as I fitted his superhero costumes to him, and the chemistry between us wasn’t physical.
One of my biggest regrets is that we didn’t think to try friendship first.
Well, I guess it would have been one of my biggest regrets if I weren’t so bad at making decisions in general. I don’t think most people have as many colossal disasters as I have.
Either way, I did absolutely nothing to warrant that look from the server.
Emerson hasn’t touched me at all, and no one would think Emerson is Donovan’s father — although I really don’t need him saying, “Gosh, I guess there wasn’t any reason to stress that you’d come after me about paternity,” once the server leaves.
I scowl, taken aback. For everything that’s happened in the past year, never once has Emerson indicated he was concerned about this.
“Because of his complexion?” I huff loudly, attempting to snatch Donovan away, already calculating the cost of getting a ride back to my place and regretting wearing cute sandals instead of sneakers.
Emerson cringes and settles Donovan on his chest. “I didn’t mean that.
I’m sorry. There’s just . . . stuff has happened because of that weekend I gave you that hotel suite, and .
. . and it’s just a good thing that he doesn’t look anything like me.
” His pained smile is genuine. “I promise I truly didn’t mean anything horrible. He’s so handsome, Tilly. Really.”
I pout for another couple seconds, and yeah, I toss back the rest of my mimosa to quell the irritation.
And since people near us have turned their attention to us, I decide against pointing out that Donovan’s complexion really doesn’t mean anything, since he could have gotten it from my own father.
Instead, I ask, “What’s going on with the hotel? ”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says quickly.
“Are you sure?”
He rakes his free hand through his hair, but he doesn’t backtrack at all. “Right after that weekend, someone tried to blackmail me.”
“What?!” I squawk, and only his slightly frantic gesture gets me sitting back down.
“It was weird.” He keeps waving his hand when he notices that Donovan’s eyes have gone wide with wonder.
“I got an email from someone saying they knew I was cheating on my wife. They said they had proof I was shacking up with some other girl. I called their bluff by pointing out that you’re my employee and there’s nothing all that strange about someone like me passing on a gift to someone on their staff—their payroll,” he amends quickly.
“I even told them I helped you bring your stuff in because you were having medical issues at the time and went ahead and called them an asshole for trying to take advantage of a well-meaning employer giving their disabled employee an opportunity they would have never had for themselves. Sorry I talked about you like that.”
I wave him off. “Nah, you’re fine. If it got them off your back, it’s—it did get them off your back, right?”
“Yeah. So I didn’t want to freak you out when you told me about the pregnancy, but I got concerned whoever it was would try to pull something there.
Since they dropped it, I didn’t want to turn this into a bigger deal reporting him or getting an investigator, but if he came back . . . we weren’t always very discreet.”
We’re both silent at that. He’s not wrong.
The server returns with my drink and a breadboard, and Emerson casually tucks his cloth napkin under Donovan’s cheek once milky drool starts to pool on his fancy bespoke shirt.
“Ooh, I can take him,” I offer. I already have drool spots on my shirt. On my skirt. Probably on my soul.
Emerson shoos me off again. “No, enjoy your drink. Have some bread. I know you. You’re not getting any time for yourself right now.”
“That’s any new mom.”
“Any new single mom.” He leans back in his seat, his eyes closed, a quiet smile on his face, unconcerned for the way Donovan has grabbed onto a button and flopped just enough to chomp it with his gums. There aren’t enough napkins in the world to save his shirt.
I clench my hands, pushing my stress through them, knowing what I need to tell him even though it’s going to shoot me in the foot.
What Emerson has done for me, what he continues to do every month, regardless of how long it’s been since we were anything except friends, cannot be repaid.
It can’t even be taken over by me. The easiest thing would be for me to lie and pretend that we’ll eventually return to what we once were, but I can’t.
Donovan has changed me.
Blaise has changed me.
No, the fantasy of Blaise, this wild notion that’s been brewing in my mind that has me confused about who he is in my fragile moments, this dream that deep down inside, he’s cut from the same cloth as my John from Ani-Con and secretly he does care about me for more than this responsibility he feels for Donovan, that’s what has changed me.
So I need to take this opportunity to set the record straight about how much I’m doing by myself here, how much of a single mom I really am. “That’s . . . complicated.”
Emerson opens an eye. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Oh? Are you seeing someone?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, it’s . . .” I let out a laugh at myself. How do I explain this situation without looking ridiculous? “A friend? I guess? A man. Well, that doesn’t matter.”
Emerson raises a speculative eyebrow.
“He’s been staying with me. He gave me a ride to the hospital, and there was a bunch of confusion and everyone just assumed he was the father and .
. . well anyway, he’s been a lot of help.
” He’s saved my ass, if I’m being honest, but I promised Emerson I was going to be able to handle this on my own.
Emerson’s smile pinches into something more like a scowl.
This is it. This is when he announces that he’s no longer covering my biggest expense.
“Have you been friends with him long?”
“Err, no? I mean, I knew him before I had the baby, of course”—a whole week before—”but the whole birth was . . . it was a thing.”
That scowl intensifies. “But he’s just a friend? He’s not anything more?”
“No, definitely not. He’s very much not into me.”
Although he was extremely cozy with me last night after that shower. Could have been just, like, a really good hand job in my shower, and who doesn’t want to cuddle after that?
Emerson’s look tells me he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t even know Blaise. “I should meet him.”
“What?” I sputter.
“Have your friends met him?”
“Of course they have!”
“And they think he’s safe? There’s a lot of creeps out there, Tilly.”
“He’s not a creep. He’s just weird, is all. He’s fine.”
Emerson doesn’t look at all satisfied by this, but he lets it go at that. He does insist on spending the next few hours with me, donning a hat to take a walk in the park and then taking me shopping.
Never once mentioning that he’s paying thousands of dollars a month for my father’s home despite my attempts at telling him we’re never going back to what we once were.
It’s past five by the time we return to my apartment, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s hoping to run into the man I’m co-parenting with. I probably should just tell him it’s Blaise Sinclair who’s living with me, but that seems like it’ll lead to more questions.
Like, why is he slumming it here.
Emerson does his best to tone his expression down when he looks up at my apartment building, which he’s seen a couple times before, but I’ve never let him in.
I’m not letting him in this time, either, and he believes my lie when I tell him there’s an elevator I’ll take up to my unit, so I can just load up the stroller.
Really, I’ll park the stroller at the bottom of the stairs, take Donovan up, and then run back down for everything else. So far, nothing’s ever been stolen.
“Maybe you should just come back to the set,” he huffs. “Bring Donovan with you. We’ll figure out child care.”
“You know that won’t work.”
“I know, but . . .” He snaps Donovan’s car seat into the stroller as he casts another glance at the building. “I should meet him.”
“He’s taking care of me. I’m good. I promise.”
“You’ll call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I won’t, but it’ll keep him from nosing in further. I nudge into the space between Emerson and the stroller, adjusting Donovan’s blanket and the sun bonnet.
Emerson wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my shoulder. It’s just a second, a flash of the past, a little too personal to be friendly but too brief to fuss about. He steps back.
And grunts at the sound of something hitting him.
I turn around in time to see him tumbling into the back seat of his car as a football rolls away from us.