Chapter Thirty-Six
Justin
“Sail LED Remix”- AWOLNATION
Isneak into the shed, undetected as always. The metal closes with a definitive bang and the helpless victim strapped to my table shrieks. “I’m not going to hurt you, my little butterfly. No,” I say, gently stroking her soft, warm cheek. “I want to keep you, always. Love you like the rare little creature you are.”The cursor flashes at the end of the word and I drag my hands down my face. Two-hundred words. That’s it. A half-assed prologue. Leaning back in my chair, I almost hate myself for the lack of appreciation I had for King before I started writing. And I wonder, as much as I slave over these words, as much as I agonize about whether a sentence should be this way or that... do my readers even notice? I didn’t. I never reveled in the beauty of King’s unfaltering sentence structure until I started writing. Until I understood how the simple task of completing one fucking sentence could make you want to throw things. Break things. Until I spent hours on end pacing, trying to find the perfect word.
“Shit,” I mumble, glancing down at Cobain. “Sometimes I worry I’m going to lose my mind with these books.” And that’s the truth. Sometimes, it’s hard to separate the truth from fiction... didn’t King say something to that effect... I close my laptop and glance at my watch. 6:35. Marisa should be here soon.
Marisa... I finished her book last night, and I’m kicking myself for waiting this long to read it. Her words, fuck her words are beautiful and poetic, laced with a darkness very few can do justice. But she does. Something about reading someone’s words when you know them—it’s like jumping into their head. That is, after all, the magic of reading: it plucks you from your reality and places you slap dab in the middle of another person’s conscious thoughts. Every word I type, I must think, and as a person reads it, well, they’re in my mind. Her mind is so much like mine; I could finish her sentences. And I think, had I read her words before I met her, I may would have hunted her down. I think I fucking love her.
I click on Facebook and scroll through her newsfeed. I look at her pictures and make sure Falon hasn’t been liking them, and then I go to the kitchen and put the few dishes scattered about on the counter into the sink. I brush my teeth, and my phone dings with a text from Amy. I don’t even read it. I delete it followed by her number, because I love Marisa. I delete Samantha’s number from my phone, and all those other girls. I’m done with that game. Marisa, she helped me cheat the system and get to number 140 onUSA Today, not that that’s what I’m used to, but still, she helped me. She stood by me when everyone hated me, when they were saying terrible (mostly true) things about me. She is gorgeous and smart and gives an incredible blowjob. I can do this. I can...
I answer all the flirtatious messages as professionally as I can.I would do anything to fuck you.Delete that one.You are super hot.Thanks. Insert jazz hand emoji. I appreciate the support.
See, I can do this.
My doorbell rings and Cobain goes nuts, barking and jumping around, his tail wagging. “It’s unlocked,” I call, continuing to delete message after message and block the few girls I need nothing to do with because I fucking love Marisa!
The hinges to the door creak and Cobain takes off in a sprint, his nails clicking over the hardwoods. “Hey buddy,” Marisa says. I hear the door close and, the next thing I know, she’s leaning over and planting a kiss on me. She smells so clean, like vanilla and lime.
“Hey gorgeous,” I say, smiling up at her.
“Did you get a lot of words in today?”
“Nah, not really. Only about three thousand.”
“Ah, that’s not bad.” She gives me a quick kiss. “Oh, hey, that Bookbub thing you told me to do really worked. I’m sitting pretty at number 60 in the Kindle store as we speak.”
“Awesome.” I give her a quick kiss. “That book is badass too. I bet it keeps dropping once people realize how amazing it is.”
“You really think it’s good?”
“Woman, that shit is epic.” Grinning, she sits down next to me, and I notice she has a tiny blue bag in her hand. “What’s that?” I ask, setting my phone on the coffee table.
“Oh, uh, well. It’s a surprise.” She awkwardly shoves the bag into my hands then chews on her lip.
I pull the white tissue paper to the side to reveal the pages of a book. “Ah, babe,” I say bringing out the book, “you shouldn’t... ” and my chest seizes, squeezing every drop of blood from my heart until my vision swims. As soon as I draw in a breath, my heart’s pounding so hard it washes a dizzy heat all over me. I glance back at the title:What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
“They, uh, they say it’s good for the man to read, too,” she whispers. “Surprise... ”
They say before you die you see your entire life flash before your eyes, well, I think I just had that moment. I see my freedom, my lazy Saturdays, my days of wanderlust, all swirling down a shit-stained toilet. I stare at Marisa, and a sinking feeling overtakes me. “I uh... wow, I uh... ”Jesus Christ, did I finally knock somebody up? Motherfuck.“I mean,” I swallow as a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, “I mean, I guess you wanna... ” I shake my head. I love her. I just told myself that. This is fine... I swallow again and clear my ever-tightening throat. “You wanna keep it, huh?”
And with that comment, her face crumples and tears fill her eyes just before she hangs her chin to her chest.Shit. I’m a dick.“Hey, hey,” I reach out and grab her, pulling her in against my chest. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting this, you know, I uh... it’s gonna be fine, babe.” I brush my hand through her hair and kiss her neck, holding her tight even though I want to jump up and run through the fucking door, flailing and screaming.
“You’re not mad, are you?” she asks, burying her face on my shoulder. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I can’t be mad.” I sigh. “I mean, shit, I’m the one who knocked you up.”
She sniffs a few times before pulling away and glancing down at her lap. Shit just got real. I drag my hand down my face, unable to keep my eyes away from her stomach. Sex makes babies, that for damn sure. I mean, it could be worse. It could be herpes or HIV or something like that. A baby’s just a little human being that poops and eats and requires your undivided attention, and all your money.
“It’ll be fine,” I say again. “And one hell of a kickass author, right?” I laugh. Relief washes over her face and then comes the weird, awkward silence. The moment we stare at each other wondering what the fuck is going on in the other person’s mind.
She looks like a nervous wreck; she keeps fidgeting with her hands and glancing at the floor. And me, well, part of my brain is yelling at me:You should have worn a condom or at least pulled out, you dumbfuck.And then the other part of my brain, that romantic side of it is whispering: it’s fate, and there’s nothing you can do to stop fate.
I trail my hand along her arm, threading my fingers through hers. “Come on, babe,” I say. “Let’s go grab dinner, huh?” I pick the book up and set it on the coffee table. Cobain trots over and sniffs it. And I walk out of my apartment wondering how much a two bedroom costs in DUMBO.
* * *
For the past three nights, all I’ve done is toss and turn. Any sleep I’ve mange to find is plagued by nightmares of massive babies chasing after me, calling me “DaDa”, or dreams that every girl I’ve slept with over the past two years has gotten pregnant and now they’re all lining up for their checks. Some of them holding three screaming babies out to me. I wake up in a cold sweat, panting and struggling to catch a breath.
It’s not the end of the world. It’s one baby. That’s all. One baby. One woman... I sit up in bed dragging my hands through my hair and sighing before I restlessly flop back down. Marisa’s going to want to move in together. Get married. Have more fucking babies. Funny, the one girl I wasn’t worried about trying to tie me down, and somehow I ended up hogtied, ass in the air. I toss and turn, and turn and toss. I get up and pace. I drink a beer and then another. I flip through my phone, scrolling my newsfeed on Facebook for hours. And then, I get a text from a number without a name:I can’t stop thinking about you. I miss you.
I chew on my bottom lip, my nerves on edge. I should just set the phone down. Delete the message. Say fuck it. I’m a dead man walking here, but still... Swallowing, I find that old habits die hard. Maybe it’s the stress or the fear of having a kid and being tied down, but for whatever reason I text that number back:I miss you, too.And damn if it doesn’t feel like a rush of endorphins just flooded my system. And I don’t even know who the hell that was.
I lay back and stare at the ceiling. I could most likely be happy with Marisa, but that vulnerability, the possibility and what ifs, the thought of having my heart broken in two again—I don’t like it. Nice guys finish last, isn’t that a saying? And throughout my life, it’s proven to be true. It wasn’t until I became the bad guy that I found success, and how messed up is that?
