Page 40 of Yours to Conquer

“When I get back from breaking dishes and dinner with the girls, I’m climbing into our bed in your house.”

“Emma, it’s not my house. I’m sharing it with you. We’re a team now.”

“Well, then I guess I should sign over half of my house to you. That way, we both have a vested interest in staying together.”

“That sounds like a fabulous idea. I’ll get my lawyers on it right away. Listen, babe, I’ve got to run. I have an early meeting. I’ll call you tonight.”

Did I just offer him half of my house? What did he mean he was going to get his lawyers on it? Can he draw up papers to take half of my house? The funny thing is, I’d sign them. I’ve always held on to this house like it’s a bar of gold, and yet if Anthony wanted half of it, I’d gladly give it to him. I slide out of bed with a smile on my face. The thought of sharing everything with him fills me with joy. Then it hits me again—I could be pregnant. I’m so torn between feeling giddy that a piece of Anthony is growing inside of me and scared of the implications.

I don’t want someone to be with me just because I’m having his kid. I remind myself that he wants to be with me now, and he has no idea I’m possibly pregnant. I wrap my arms around my tummy andgive myself a hug. I can hear us telling his parents. His mom would probably say, “That’s why you don’t try it before you buy it.” In the end, I think they’d be happy because lord knows, “They aren’t getting any younger.”

I shower, dress, and head off to work. The day seems to drag. An hour is the same amount of time every day, so how come some hours seem longer than others? By the time five o’clock rolls by, I’m itching to leave.

I hear Kat’s heels on the tile floor and her keys jingling in her hand. I reach in my drawer to get my bag and race out to meet her.

“Are you ready to break some dishes?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am, let’s blow this joint.”

“I thought you might want to see this.” She hands me today’s edition of theLos Angeles Times. “Turn to page three.”

The headline to the article is Ahz is Red-hot. I read through the article and see Mr. Wakefield was pleasantly kind in his writings about Ahz. He called me professional, competent, and red-hot.Well, Mr. Wakefield, this red-hot girl is taken.Flattery will get you nowhere. He describes the elaborate measures Ahz has taken to ensure underage drinking doesn’t occur. It’s about the closest thing to a stamp of approval one can get from a paper. I feel good about his interview. Maybe I won’t write his name on a plate after all.

We climb into Kat’s car and head for The Smash Shack. She is still driving the orange Charger Damon gave her. “Are you going to keep this car, or do you plan to get a new one?” I look around the vehicle. It’s ten years old, but it’s virtually brand-new. I peek over at the odometer, and it just passed 12,000 miles.

“Damon wants to trade both of the cars in for new Mustangs, one convertible and one hardtop. You know me; I’m happy to drive whatever.” She keeps her eyes totally focused ahead of her.

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday. It was the earliest they could get me in.”

“Did you buy a pee test? I don’t know if I could wait until Friday.”

“No, I finally concluded it’s not a terrible thing if I’m pregnant. Even if I bought a pee test, as you call it, I’d still have to wait for official results.”

“I’m dying to know. You swore me to secrecy, but it’s so hard keeping something like this to myself. I could be an aunt, and I am missing valuable days of shopping for baby stuff.”

“Yes, and you might not be an aunt, so don’t rush me. I’m wavering between absolute fear and happiness. There are so many unknowns. The first is whether I’m knocked up.”

“All right, Friday it is.” We pull up in front of The Smash Shack. Roxy is waiting patiently in front for us. She’s leaning against the front window wearing a pair of low-hung jeans and a crop top. Her belly piercing catches the light and sparkles.

“Hey girls, are you ready to break some shit?” she asks.

We all shout, “Yes” at the same time. I see our reflection in the window. One blonde, one redhead, and one brunette; you couldn’t have picked three different-looking girls.

As we enter the building, I can already hear the sound of glass breaking. I stop and catch my breath. Both girls flank me and stop. Kat knows my history, so she knows what this is doing to my insides. Roxy, on the other hand, probably just thinks I’m crazy.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” My hands sweat, and my breathing becomes erratic.

“Doctor’s orders, Emma, you’re doing it.” The girls each take an arm and walk me to the front desk.

“Welcome to The Smash Shack,” a perky little pink-haired girl says, and she asks us to sign in. “Which one of you is Emma?” Her eyes travel from face to face, looking for someone to claim the name.

“That’s me.” I give her a narrow-eyed questioning look.

“A Mr. Haywood called and said to tell you he loved you and that all the stress reduction is on him. Something about him causingmost of it, anyway.” She looks to me as if searching for some type of confirmation.

“Now if that’s not true love, then I don’t know what is,” Kat chimes in. She pinches me in the side as she speaks.

“Ouch.” I back away and out of her reach. “He’s just protecting his dishes at the restaurant. He thought I was going to chuck plates in the kitchen at Ahz.”

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