Page 2 of Baby for my Dad's Best Friend

Unlike me, though, Christian didn’t work in public relations. This didn’t make him want to get home as soon as possible. He had to get to the bottom of thisnow,and he wasn’t scared of his expression getting slapped underneath a caption that read something stupid likeMy face when _______.

“Layla, don’t you want to marry me?” His voice was loud. People around us winced into their forty-dollar entrees. The woman beside us gave up on discretion and pulled out her phone, licking her lips like this was the dessert course.

I played out the possible scenarios in my head. I could continue giving Christian evasive responses, but he would continue pressing the issue. Or I could tell him the truth, cold and clean and cutting, and end this now. Christian liked it when I kept things vague–it meant he could pretend to misunderstand. And that is exactly how we ended up here.

If I wasn’t clear now, I’d end up with a husband to go along with a couch I didn’t like and a dog that didn’t like me.

Steeling myself, I forced myself to speak without thinking of the myriad consequences of my words. “No, Christian, I don’t want to marry you.” Apologies and explanations burbled up, but I clamped my lips closed tightly. I couldn’t give him an opening. He’d slide a reason to sayyesinto it, push, and before I knew it, I’d be asking my brother and best friend to be at my wedding party.

The emotions that ran across his face broke my heart. For a crazy second, I thought about taking it all back. Christian would accept whatever bizarre explanation I gave him for my initial refusal. Momentary insanity. A blackout–what even just happened? Is that a ring? We could make this nice again.

But then I thought about standing up in front of all our family and friends, and I had to swallow back the panic that clawed its way up my throat. I stood up suddenly, and the black cloth napkin dropped out of my lap. I tugged Christian to his feet, and he stared down at me, hurt and confusion all over his face. His mouth worked, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

The waiter sidled up and slid the bill on the table, glancing guiltily away when we both turned to look at him. The faux leather folder sat beside the dessert plate. The white chocolate mousse cake was untouched, the wordsWill you marry mewere still written in a chocolate cursive drizzle around the edge of the plate. My vision blurred as I realized they hadn’t ended with a question mark but rather an exclamation point.

As though myyeswas a forgone conclusion.

Christian’s hand entered my field of vision. He was reaching for the check. Horror swept through me at the thought of him paying for this debacle.

“I’ll get it.” I grabbed for the bill, but he already had a hold of it.

“No, I will,” Christian said with a pained smile. “This was my–”

Mistake.

“–idea.”

“Please. Let me.” I tugged on my end.

Christian refused to let go. He shoved the ring box back in his pocket so he could get hold of his side with two hands. “No,” he said again, this time through clenched teeth. “I’ve got it,Layla.”

Still holding on to my side with one hand, I extracted my credit card from my small purse with the other and waved it at the waiter.

“No, don’t take that.” Alarmed, Christian let go with both hands and went for his wallet, but the ring box was on top of it. He had to pull the ring out–again–to get to it.

We both thrust out our cards at the waiter, who looked from one to another like he was being presented with a gun and a hand grenade.

“Take mine,” I insisted, jamming it in the folder and waggling it at him.

“No, mine.” Christian pushed the folder away with one hand and tried to drop his credit card into the waiter’s apron pocket.

At the table closest to us, I saw the woman’s eyes had gone wide with horror, but her date’s shoulders were shaking. I didn’t blame either of them. I wanted to laugh and scream at the same time.

“Umm, you know what?” The waiter held his hands up, palms out, like he was pacifying two rabid dogs. “I have an idea.”

He was going to ask the manager to comp it. The part of me that was making fifteen dollars an hour and living off a thousand dollars a month exhaled with relief. I couldn’t afford this meal that was going to add up to two hundred dollars with tip. I’d have done it rather than let Christian pay it, but it would have hurt.

The wordsthank youwere on the tip of my tongue, but before I could speak, he continued, “I’ll split it down the middle.” Neatly snatching both cards seemingly at once, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the back.

Christian sat down heavily, and not knowing what else to do, I sat down, too.

“I got the lobster tail and you didn’t,” he said, blinking rapidly. “I’ll Venmo you for it.”

I dropped my head into my hands and pressed the ridge of my palms into my cheekbones. “Please don’t.”

We were quiet for a long time. The waiter came back, this time with two folders. He dropped one on each side of the table and said, “Have a great night.”

I heard Christian snort weakly and looked up, catching his eye. He looked dazed, like someone had hit him really hard and then shone a spotlight in his eyes to see if the pupils were dilating normally. Somehow, though, he managed to smile crookedly at me.

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