Page 229 of Unexpected Hero

Unless she doesn’t want to take it.

Fuck.

What do I do then? Marry her with my fake name?

With my phone still in hand, I search how long it takes a woman to know if she’s pregnant.

The answer is slightly reassuring. Guess I’ll have a few weeks to figure out what to do before we know for sure.

Perfect. I’ll just put it off.

Same as I’ve been doing about telling her the truth for a fucking year now. What’s another few weeks?

Dammit.

Chapter 43

How dare he?

LETTIE

No woman in modern history has consented to recording a sex tape and then thought: That was a great decision!

Hell, I’d wager that back in caveman times, there was probably an era-equivalent divorce or two after the little stick figures on their cave wall drawings got explicit.

I’ve done some dumb shit in my life, but this one creams the corn.

My phone is dead to me.

And I don’t mean the battery went to be with the Lord. What I’m sayin’ is that the damn doom device has wronged me for the last time. I should toss the damned thing down the hog and grind it to bits.

The damn sex tape is on there.

To be fair, the phone has never been a friend of mine. For starters, it’s the vessel for incoming calls — justifiable grounds for homicide in my eyes. Then last year, it gave me double black eyes and a broken nose. That was only its warmup act.

Am I projecting my anger at myself onto the damn device?

Yes.

In my defense, if the accursed thing hadn’t recorded our sexy times, I wouldn’t have been able to watch it. Thus I wouldn’t have gotten so turned on that I jumped on my boyfriend’s condom-free cock and took it for a spin.

So as you can see, it’s clearly the phone’s fault.

Thanks for agreeing.

Last night, after our shower, James erased the recording from his laptop, ensuring the original on my cell was the only copy in existence. He’d already disabled the automatic cloud back-up.

On the bright side, if my phone were to be accidentally pulverized in the garbage disposal, the kinky sex video — proof of my heretic nature — would die along with it.Rest in peace.

He led me through painstaking details of how he deleted it from his computer, removing it from the back-up of blah, blah, fucking blah, tech speak, who gives a shit, yada yada yada.

It was hard to follow his explanation, considering the other item on the kitchen table.

A box of Plan B — the morning after pill.

He had it delivered to his house like it was a large pepperoni pizza while we showered. What a time to be alive, eh?

According to him, he bought it in case I wanted it. No pressure either way.

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