Page 74 of Wild for You
One hour later,my head is buzzing, and my vision is blurred as Sam and I stare at the empty bottle of tequila and assortment of half-squeezed lime wedges polluting the coffee table.
“You know, I love you, man,” I hiccup and pat Sam on the shoulder.
“I love you, too.” He ruffles my hair back and forth. “Even if you’ve got a peg-leg and a weird job that doesn’t sound real.” He laughs and hiccups, then jumps back as if he’s surprised himself.
“We both have the hiccups!” I shout excitedly. “That’s because we’ve bonded. I won’t tell Benjamin if you don’t.” I quirk my head to the side and eye him.
He squints so he can hear me better. “Ha! Benjamin would never approve of getting you this drunk to deal with your heartache!” Sam offers me a wide grin. “But Benjamin isn’t here!” He motions to himself with his thumb. “That’s why I’m in charge, and Sam says tequila heals all wounds!”
I hold up a final shot. “I’ll cheers to that!” Then I throw it back and laugh.
“Who needs women or legs!” Sam shouts. “You’re better off without her, and personally, I think you have so many more options for costumes now—”
“That’s what I was going to say!” I interrupt. “Just think of all the different attachments … I bet there’s one for rock climbing, running …” I think for a moment …
“Pirate costumes!” we say in unison.
“Fuck yeah. How cool is your kid going to be, having a real-life Captain Hook for a dad!” Sam chuckles.
I’m sucking on a lime wedge when his joke plays back in mind, and I choke as the juice coats my right tonsil. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I laugh through choked coughs.
He lays down on the arm of the couch, pulling his legs into his chest. “Oh, you know exactly what that means, you dirty breeder.”
“Dirty breeder? What the fuck were you drinking, man?” I laugh, “If I’m a dirty breeder, then so are you.”
“Fuck, I think I’m going to puke—” Sam jumps off the couch, and I sink deeper into the soft leather as the world spins all around me.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
Gwen
It’s beena hell of a first week back in the office, and Sandra hasn’t held back any punches. I’ve heard pregnant women are easily exhausted, but there’s nothing that could’ve prepared me for the pain of keeping my eyes open while working twelve-hour shifts each day.
Yesterday, I fell asleep in my desk chair sitting up. I was in the middle of typing an email, and I just conked out for an hour before someone burst through my office door and startled me awake. I bowed my head and said, “Nameste,” pretending I was meditating. I’ll have to thank Maggie for that little trick because if she didn’t force me to go with her to that maternity yoga class last week, I don’t know if I would have been able to play it off as I did.
Sandra wasn’t lying when she said the Pheobe Thornstein job was all kinds of screwed up. I’ve been up to my eyeballs doing damage control. It’s the same old stuff that never seems to change. A few carefully crafted scheduled tweets, some social media posts, a planned run-in with the paparazzi, and some talk show interviews. We’re leaning hardcore into the victim angle. I think we may even get her a book deal to tell her side of the story.
It’s exhausting, trivial work, and the more time I spend inside those glass walls, the more I realize how utterly insignificant it is. It’s like I’ve dedicated my entire life to polishing trash cans … Not that the people don’t matter, but who really cares about any famous person’s reputation? How is any of this contributing to society as a whole or making the world a better place?
I huff. Now I really do sound like Jack … or Wombat Willy … whichever version of himself he allowed me to see.
For a moment there, he really had me, but I guess if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. What did Maya Angelou say? “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, he was so full of his good guy talk, but when it really came down to it, he ran away, leaving me high and dry to deal with everything all on my own. I guess all men really are the same, aren’t they?
Tonight I’m meeting Elliot and Maggie for after-work drinks to plan Elliot’s bachelorette party and put some finishing touches on the final wedding details. Even though I’m still staying with Maggie until I can find a new apartment—something more suited for a baby—I feel like I haven’t seen her in days.
I’ve been so busy working ten- and twelve-hour days that I haven’t had the energy to do anything else, pregnant or not.
I suck in a breath to compose myself and steady my shoulders as I open the door leading into the familiar bar, Terry’s, where it all began for Elliot, Maggie, and I. Somehow, this place feels like home just as much as anything else. The stale scent of popcorn and booze stings my nostrils, and my stomach recoils at the stench.
It’s no island oasis, that’s for sure, but it’s comforting nonetheless.
Elliot and Maggie asked me to meet them tonight to discuss some wedding things and decompress after a long work week. I don’t know how much help it’ll do, but they know I’m struggling and trying to help things go back to how they were before.
I catch sight of Elliot and Maggie holding down our favorite corner booth .
“Gwen! I’m so glad you came!” Elliot jumps up to greet me, pulling me into a hug.
