Page 29 of Who's Your Daddy?

He catches my hand to stop a second smack, his expression becoming more serious. “Hey...last night is sort of a blur for me, so I wanted to ask you...Did we use a condom?”

I think back, but all I encounter is a gaping black hole of missing information. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember...” I stop myself short of saying the wordanythingbecause that would just make things weird. “...much.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit foggy for me, too. The last thing I remember is you talking about your dad and how much he loved dance movies. I was basically asleep by then.”

I feel better now because he remembers less than me. “Nope. Far from asleep. We were up talking for a long time after that. And then we started kissing and then...”

“I can guess what happened next. But did we use a condom?”

“We must have,” I reply, looking at the mess strewn across the floor. “There are condoms everywhere.”

He nods, but skepticism is still all over his face. “Yeah...you’re right. I’m probably overthinking. It’s just...I couldn’t find the condom or the wrapper when I woke up, so...”

“Maybe you flushed it down the toilet after...we were done.”

“The wrapper too?” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’s also trying to scour the foggy memories of last night. He shrugs when he comes up empty. “I was pretty drunk. I guess I could’ve done that.”

“Look, don’t stress about it,” I assure him. “Even if we weren’t...safe, my cycle is very irregular. I only get my period every couple months, so I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. And you’re...”

I leave the question hanging because discussing how irresponsible we were last night is actually pretty intense. We clearly did not consider repercussions. He assures me I have nothing to worry about because he always uses protection and gets tested regularly.

And after clearing all that muck from the air, he releases a sigh of relief and sits up. “So...are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Me too.”

He gets out of bed and disappears into his walk-in closet. I’m mildly disappointed. I know I should feel some level of shame, and I know I shouldn’twantto have sex with him again...but I do. I really do. My memories of last night seem to be lost in a void, so I feel robbed in a way. I thought we’d have one more passionate encounter before parting ways, but I guess it’s only me feeling that way.

The awkwardness I sensed a few minutes ago has solidified, and he’s not cold, but he’s...distant. I remind myself that he is ahit-it-and-quit-itkind of guy. He told me that one time with a woman was more than enough for him. We’ve spent the night together twice, so it’s very possible that I’m expired goods in his eyes now. I don’t feel rejected, but it definitely feels weird.

He returns wearing black sweatpants with a light blue T-shirt in his hand, but instead of putting it on, he tosses it to me. “C’mon, let’s go rustle up some grub.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say. “Can I use your bathroom first?”

The request is preposterous enough to draw a chuckle out of him. “Of course. I have extra toiletries in the cabinet above the sink. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

After he leaves, I rush into the bathroom to take advantage of his offer. I feel icky and sweaty, and I probably smell like rum is seeping out of my pores. The water at my motel runs cold more often than not, and I’m dying for a nice hot shower. I almost squeal in delight when the warm water sprays over me. I shower, wash my hair, brush my teeth, and by the time I’m done, I feel like a new woman. Damn, who knew these basic things could be so revitalizing?

I didn’t exactly think it through when I hand-washed my underwear, but it’s wet now, so all I have is the T-shirt he gave me. It’s long enough, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen me naked anyway, so I guess this is what I’m wearing today.

Stepping out of his room, I look around and feel just a tiny bit intimidated. I should’ve asked him to wait for me because this house is massive. Similar to the beach house, it has a sleek, modern style. Everything from the art to the décor is absolutely stunning and, once again, I find myself being a little envious of the life he lives as an unemployed, second-generation rich boy.

It’s the music that eventually helps me find my way. I follow the bold sounds of trumpets and saxophones and enter the kitchen. The sound is not coming from his phone or a Bluetooth device. He’s got a whole music station on the other side of the kitchen, where it opens up to a wide veranda and entertainment area. The entire thing looks like a time capsule that’s been preserved. It’s equipped with a hi-fi system and a CD player, but the music seems to be coming from an old vinyl record player. He’s so odd. People in our generation don’t own relics like that.

I find Peter in front of the fridge, hips swaying as he stares at its contents.

“What are you even listening to?”

“Ain’t That A Kick In The Head.” He glances over his shoulder to look at me and encounters a blank expression. “C’mon. Dean Martin.” Still, nothing registers. “You don’t know Dean Martin?”

“How would I know him? This sounds like it’s from the fifties.”

His correction is adamant. “Sixties. July 1960 to be exact.”

I don’t know how he remembers all this stuff. “Whatever. Why don’t you put on something a little more...poppy. You know, something from the last five years at least. How about some Artic Monkeys?”

“Did you really just suggest that we listen to Artic Monkeys over Dean Martin?” It still baffles me how easily offended he is by comments like that. “This song is a classic. I can’t listen to the trash they make today. There’s no feeling in it.”

---