Pregnant and Replaced by My Rockstar Husband

Prologue

Az

The drink is watered down and costs eleven dollars, which is highway robbery for a dive bar in Silver Lake, but Priya keeps shoving her shoulder into mine every time I try to set it down, so I guess I’m drinking it.

“You needed this,” she says for the fourth time since she physically dragged me out of our apartment. “You’ve been staring at spreadsheets for three weeks straight. Your eyes are going to fall out.”

“My eyes are fine.” I take another sip of the vodka soda that’s mostly soda at this point. “And I was working. Some of us have to actually show up places to get paid.”

“You work at a flower shop.”

“I manage inventory at a flower shop. There’s a difference. And Rosa’s been out sick, so I’ve been covering her routes too, and-”

“Az.” Priya grabs my face with both hands, squishing my cheeks together like I’m a fish. “It’s Thursday. You’re twenty-four years old. You’re sitting in a bar with questionable health code ratings and a sticky floor, and you’re going to have fun whether you like it or not.”

I bat her hands away, but I’m smiling. That’s the thing about Priya.

She’s annoying in the specific way that actually works on me.

We’ve been roommates for two years now, ever since I answered her Craigslist ad that said “looking for someone who won’t steal my yogurt or bring home men who leave the toilet seat up” and I responded “I don’t eat yogurt and I haven’t brought a man home since the Bush administration. ”

She’d written back: Which Bush?

I’d written: Does it matter?

She’d sent me the address.

“What even is this place?” I lean back on my barstool and look around.

The walls are covered in old band posters, half of them peeling at the corners.

There’s a small stage in the back that looks like it was built by someone who’d seen a stage once and decided to wing it.

Christmas lights are strung up along the ceiling even though it’s March, and the floor is, as promised, incredibly sticky.

“It’s called The Rusty Nail,” Priya says, like the name explains the sticky floor.

“Of course it is.” I pick a peanut shell off my sleeve.

“They do live music on Thursdays. Local stuff, mostly. Some of it’s actually good.”

“Priya, I love you, but your taste in music is-”

The feedback from a microphone cuts me off, sharp and whining, and everyone in the bar winces collectively.

When I turn toward the stage, there’s a man standing there, and the first thing I notice is that he’s huge.

Not fat, just big. Tall and broad, shoulders like he could carry furniture up six flights of stairs without breaking a sweat.

His arms are covered in tattoos, dark ink disappearing under the sleeves of a black t-shirt that’s seen better days.

He’s holding a guitar that looks almost too small in his hands, battered and well-loved, and his hair is dark and wavy and falling into his eyes like he can’t be bothered to push it back.

He doesn’t say anything into the microphone.

Doesn’t introduce himself, doesn’t make small talk with the crowd, doesn’t do the whole “hey everyone, thanks for coming out” thing that every other open-mic performer I’ve ever seen does.

He just adjusts the mic stand, fiddles with something on his guitar, and starts playing.

The first chord is rough. A little off. He adjusts his fingers and tries again, and this time it’s better, richer, and then he opens his mouth and…

I put my drink down.

I can’t look away.

He plays three songs. That’s it. Three songs, maybe twelve minutes total, and he doesn’t speak between any of them except to mutter something about the tuning that might have been an apology or might have been directed at himself.

When he finishes the third one, he just…

stops. Stands there for a second like he’s not sure what to do with himself, then ducks his head in what might be a nod and walks off the stage.

The applause starts around me. My hands are pressed flat against my thighs; I forgot to clap.

“Az?” Priya’s voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Hello? Earth to Az?”

“What?”

“You’re gawking at the empty stage like it owes you money.”

“I’m not-” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “He was good.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I brought you here. I’ve seen him a couple times, he plays most Thursdays. Never talks to anyone, never sticks around after. Complete weirdo, probably. But the voice is insane.”

“I need another drink,” I say instead, and turn back to the bar.

It happens when I’m coming out of the bathroom.

The hallway is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass without touching, and he’s coming from the other direction, guitar case slung over his shoulder, head down, not looking where he’s going. His elbow catches my arm, not hard, just a glancing blow, and I stumble sideways into the wall.

“Shit.” His voice is different when he’s not singing. Still low, but rougher. Surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t… are you okay?”

“I’ll live.” I rub my arm, which doesn’t actually hurt, and look up at him, and oh.

He’s even bigger up close. I’m not short, five-six is perfectly respectable, but he towers over me anyway, and those tattoos crawl all the way up his neck to just below his jaw.

His eyes are light in the dim hallway. Blue, maybe, or gray. I can’t quite tell.

He’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“You’re the girl,” he says.

“I’m a girl. Probably not the only one in this bar.”

“No, I mean-” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face for exactly one second before it falls forward again. “You were at the bar. Front left. You put your drink down during the first song.”

Something flutters in my chest, which is ridiculous. “You noticed that?”

“I notice when people stop moving.” He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s just a fact about him, and then his ears go red and his jaw tightens.

“That sounds creepy. I’m not… I just mean, when someone’s actually listening, you can tell.

Most people are on their phones or talking to whoever they came with or waiting for you to finish so they can go back to their conversation. You weren’t.”

“You were good,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “Really good.”

The look he gives me is almost suspicious, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Thanks.”

“Do you have a name, or do I just call you ‘guy who assaulted me in a hallway’?”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile, not quite. “Elliot. Eli.”

“Az.”

“Az,” he repeats, like he’s testing the shape of it. “Short for something?”

“Azalea. Like the flower.”

“The one with the…” He makes a vague gesture near his head, which could mean anything from “trumpet-shaped petals” to “I have no idea what an azalea looks like.”

“Yeah, the one with the… whatever that was.”

This time he definitely smiles, quick and startled, like he wasn’t expecting to, and the whole shape of his face changes. He goes from intimidating to boyish in a blink. Almost shy.

“Sorry about your arm,” he says again.

“You could buy me a drink. To make up for it.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I feel my face heat up immediately. What am I doing? I don’t do this. I don’t flirt with strangers in bar hallways, I don’t…

“I was actually-” He glances toward the back exit, then back at me. “I was leaving.”

“Oh.” The embarrassment is a hot flush crawling up my neck now. “Yeah, no, of course. Forget I said anything.”

“But I could-” He stops. Starts again. “There’s a food truck around the corner. Korean tacos. They’re open until two.”

I stare at him. “Are you asking me to get Korean tacos with you?”

“I… yes?” He sounds genuinely uncertain, like he’s not sure that’s what he’s doing either. “Unless you’d rather stay here. I just… I don’t really like the inside of bars. The stage part is fine, but the rest of it is…” He trails off.

“Loud? Crowded? Full of people who want to talk to you?”

“Yeah.” He looks relieved that I understand. “That.”

“Let me tell my friend I’m leaving,” I say instead.

The tacos are incredible.

We’re sitting on a curb outside the food truck, our legs stretched out into the empty parking lot, and I’m on my third one, which is probably excessive but I don’t care. Eli’s watching me eat like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“What?” I ask around a mouthful of spicy pork and kimchi.

“Nothing.” He looks down at his own barely touched taco. “You just… you eat like you mean it.”

“I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“Not even bar snacks?”

“Just the overpriced vodka soda. I was drinking it out of spite.”

He laughs at that, short and rough, like laughing doesn’t come naturally to him. Like he has to warm up to it. “Spite’s a good reason.”

“It’s my primary motivation for most things, honestly.” I wipe sauce off my chin with the back of my hand because I forgot to grab napkins and I’m beyond pretending to be dignified at this point. “What about you? What’s your primary motivation?”

He thinks about it for longer than the question probably warrants. “I don’t know. Proving something, maybe.”

“To who?”

“Myself, I guess.” He picks at the edge of his taco shell. “That I can be good at something. That all the-” He stops, shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s weird. You asked me a normal question and I got all…”

“Deep and philosophical?”

“Depressing.”

“I didn’t think it was depressing.” I bump my shoulder against his arm, and he’s so solid that I’m the one who moves, not him. “I think everyone’s trying to prove something to themselves. It’s like… the human condition or whatever.”

He looks at me sideways, that same suspicious look from the hallway, like he’s not sure if I’m making fun of him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Someone who would…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Talk about the music more. Ask if I’m signed. Tell me I should try out for one of those TV shows.”

“Do you want to be signed?”

“I want to make music,” he says. “The other stuff is just… noise.”