Page 10 of This Means War

“Do you talk to everyone?” I ask her incredulously.

“I like people, Cole,” she says, like I’m a recluse who hides when the doorbell rings.

“Yeah, I like people too,” I tell her, automatically reaching over to help her with the seal on the orange juice when I see her struggling with it, “but I also respect their privacy.”

“I can do it.” She tugs the juice back from me, but I’ve already gotten the seal partially off, so some sloshes onto the skirt of her dress forming a quarter-sized stain.

“Great, so that’s two outfits you’ve ruined now,” she huffs.

“Just trying to help,” I tell her, putting my hands up in surrender.

“I think you’ve helped enough,” she retorts, gesturing to her stomach.

I snort, annoyed by her snarky tone. “You really have no idea what’s at stake for me here, do you?”

“What’s at stake foryou?” She’s appalled. “I’m sorry I must’ve missed the part of this where you’re the one who’s about to find out if your uterus is going to grow to 500 times its original size over the next eight months.”

She’s right, but I still can’t stop myself from biting back. There’s just something about Lydia that works me up. “Yeah, well I’m sorry you might have to go up a few dress sizes, but I’ve got my entire political career to think about here.”

She recoils as if I’ve hit her. “I might go up a few dress sizes?” She shakes her head disdainfully at me. “You chauvinistic pi–” she breaks off, her brow furrowing. “Wait, did you just say your political career?”

Before I can answer there’s a loud ringing noise, and both of us reach for our simultaneously ringing phones.

“Noo,” she moans, “it’s my mom.”

“Mine’s Josh.” Clearly we’ve been missed. I glance out the window and thankfully we’re turning into the parking lot. We both forget our argument as the limo pulls up to the reception hall’s entrance.

“Thanks, Joe!” Lydia calls, blowing a kiss his way as we dash out of the car. I resist the urge to comment, hating the fact that despite how easily Lydia gets under my skin, I wish she would talk that way to me. Nicely, I mean. Like she doesn’t hate that she’s breathing in the same oxygen as me.

We scramble through the front doors, Lydia discreetly tucking the bag with her purchases into her purse.

“There you are!” Her mom hangs up her phone and storms over to us. “Cole,” she says, “was Lydia keeping you? I swear, honey, first you throw up and now you’re holding up the entire start of the reception. It’s like you’re trying to ruin Josh’s wedding.”

This is so blatantly unfair that I can’t help but speak up. “Mrs. Hamlin, with all due respect, Lydia has been feeling under the weather all day and stillmanaged to put on a brave face for the sake of her brother. I hardly think she should be accused of trying to ruin the day.”

I swear both women’s jaws drop to the floor. Mrs. Hamlin has always liked me though, so I’m not too surprised when she simply sighs. “Well alright then. I'm sorry, Lydia. I suppose I got a bit carried away. What matters is that you’re here now. Chop chop.” She gestures us forward. Lydia shoots me a “how did you do that?” look, and I just shrug. Her mom may like me now, but if that test comes back positive, I guarantee I won’t even be on their Christmas card list.

Chapter 9

Lydia

AFTER THE WEDDING party’s grand entrance into the reception, I have to suffer through speeches and toasts before I get a chance to sneak off to the bathroom. My brain is reeling, annoyed with the side of Cole that stood up for me to my mom. He’s Enemy Number 1. He’s not supposed to have redeemable qualities.

I purposefully walk to the bathroom at the other end of the building, not wanting to accidentally run into one of Josh and Delia’s wedding guests. I’m about to push open the bathroom door when I hear footsteps rushing up behind me and turn to see Cole has followed me.

“What is it with you and women’s bathrooms?” I quip. He ignores me.

“Did you really think I was going to miss this?” he asks, and something inside me pings with longing, imagining some sort of alternate universe where he’s said this line because he’s a guy who loves me and wants so badly to be the father of my childrenand insists on witnessing every step of the journey. I mean, I’m not imagining Cole specifically, obviously. I just meant a guy. Any guy really. I’d take Joe the limo driver. Okay maybe not Joe, he was like 60-years-old.

“Whatever,” I say, “but I think you should wait out here.”

“No way.” Cole shakes his head stubbornly, then reaches his hand out to bypass me, pushing the door open. “Anyone in there?” he calls. There’s no answer. “Perfect.” He glances back and forth down the empty hallway before taking me by the elbow and guiding me inside, where he promptly leans back against the door. “Alright, now we’ve got some privacy. Let’s do this.”

I’m too nervous–and weirdly grateful–to argue, so I just nod and slide into one of the stalls. “Can you talk to me?” I ask as I take the test out of the box.

“Talk to you?”

“Yeah.” I slide my dress up over my thighs. “Like distract me.”

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