Brendanalways meant business when he used my full name. But I meant business, too, andI sent the waitress away with a forced smile.
“Whycan't you get one drink?” The man's eyes were infuriatingly stern.
“Whatis your obsession right now with getting me to drink?” I countered, matchinghis steely glare with my own.
“Because,you know ... I was hoping ...” His glare softened to a coy smile and a lift ofhis brows, as his hand slid across the table to envelope mine. “I was hoping wecould maybe go back to my place ...”
“Brendan,since when do you need me to get drunk in order to sleep with you?”
Hepulled his hand back and sat up stick straight. “Well, it's just been a while.”
“I'vebeen trying to meet my deadline.”
“Butit's been a month!”
Ithadactually beenfive weeks, but he was close enough.
Brendanand I weren't strangers to this song and dance. For three years now, we'd spenda few months together until one of us got busy, bored, or both, and we'd splitup. Our breakups never lasted for long, only a few weeks or so, but this hadnever seemed to faze us. It was a routine that was neither healthy noruncomfortable. It had given me a breather from his flakiness, while giving himthe freedom to live his life as he wanted without the weight of a relationshipweighing him down, and it had been fine. But now, I felt a flop of panicmanifesting in my gut. Because now I was pregnant with this man's baby andthere wasn't anything okay about us breaking up at a time like this.
“I'msorry,” I said, meaning it. “Things have beenkindacrazy lately.”
“Iknow,” he muttered with a sigh, returning his hand to mine. “I didn't mean toguilt you. That was shitty of me.”
“No,it's okay,” I replied, suddenly proud of us for this moment. “Maybe I'll justsay fuck the book tonight and go home with you.”
“Ooh,you'regonnaplay hooky? What about your editor'sschedule?”
Iwaved my hand dismissively. “She can hold off a few more days. And I reallydon't have that much more to go.”
Brendansqueezed my hand and waggled his brows. “I think that maybe we should just getdinner to go.”
Mylips curled into a suggestive smile as I leaned forward against the table,acutely aware of the pain in my boobs. “I'd be down for—”
Iclamped my mouth shut at the sudden wave of nausea that rolled over me, makingmy mouth water and my forehead bead with sweat. Brendan was immediatelyconcerned as I wiped a palm over my face and squeezed my eyes shut whileshaking my head.
“Areyou okay?”
Iswallowed at the saliva flooding my mouth. “N-No. I just ... I just need someair, I think. Or maybe s-some water.”
Hecalled the waitress over for the drink he'd tried to talk me out of, and when Ihad the cool, tall glass in front of me, I slowly took a sip. I prayed it wouldwork, and after a few minutes, it did. My stomach settled and I took a deep,ragged breath, wiping the last few beads of sweat from my brow.
“Sorry,”I said, continuing to focus on my breathing.
“You'resure you're okay?”
Inodded. “Yeah, I think I just need to eat something.”
Idiverted my attention to my utensils, rolled in a cloth napkin. I busied myselfby unrolling and laying the napkin across my lap, smoothing it out over mythighs, before brushing the wrinkles out of my top. It was then that I raisedmy eyes to Brendan and found him watching me with skepticism.
“What?”I asked, flashing him a light-hearted smile.
“What'sgoing on with you?”
Mysmile faltered as my hands returned to the napkin and smoothed it out again.“What do you mean?”
“You'renot acting right.”
Thiswas not how I wanted this to go. This was a scenario I could picture happeningin one of my novels, and as the author, I knew exactly how I would have writtenit. I had planned to tell him after he'd had his drink, or maybe during dinner.I wanted to approach the topic gently, with a whimsical question about thefuture, maybe about his plans for us and a potential family. But now I wasbeing reminded, with another nauseating roll of my stomach, that life isn'tmeticulously planned out by an author and then perfected by an editor. Life isunscripted and I had to resign myself to rolling with it.
