“Does that mean you’re not mad about Shelby?”
“It happened before I came to California, Riley. I can’t be mad about it.” It’s the right thing to say, but I’m not sure if I mean it. I am mad about it. And the event planner in me is ticking off all the ways this could go wrong. All the hurdles and obstacles that could get in the way if we decide to have a relationship. Our love would be tested in ways we never expected. I hear a muffled noise. “Riley, are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since she said I’m pregnant. I was worried you might think I’m not worth the hassle.”
“Riley, I’m still married. If we go forward, it isn’t going to be easy. And to quote another line from Brooklyn, Life is messy. It’s supposed to be that way.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t want it to be. We’re supposed to talk about us this week. Get to know each other again. Do you still want that?”
“Yes, I do. And, Riley, we don’t really have to decide at the wedding if we want to date. We can take our time. Get to be friends again first.”
“I’m tired,” he says.
“I am too. Let’s say goodnight.”
“Like we used to?” I can hear the boy in his voice.
“Just like we used to. Go.”
“I’ll be dreaming of you,” we say in unison.
Shelby’s Apartment - The Valley
SHELBY
As I enter my crappy apartment, I run my hand across my belly and think about how Riley took the news. Honestly, I thought an honest man like him would let me move in right away.
I slam the door shut hard, pissed that I’m back here and not sitting pretty in Riley’s penthouse, planning our wedding. The things a girl has to do to get ahead in this city.
My roommate yells at me, “Well, how’d it go?”
“Come out here and talk to me. I need a drink.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking when you’re pregnant,” she says, coming out of her bedroom and plopping down on our second-hand sofa. I study the golden color of the velvet fabric—make that third or fourth hand.
“I drank before I knew I was pregnant. I don’t think one more will hurt.”
“That baby is your golden ticket out of here. You should take good care of it.”
“True,” I say, grabbing a glass out of the dishwasher. “Are these clean?”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
I hold the glass up to the light. “There’s lipstick on the corner. I’ll just rinse it out.” I run the wine glass—one of the two we own—under hot water, then cold, then fill it to the rim from a box of white zinfandel in the refrigerator. “You want one?”
“Please,” she says, handing me her empty plastic cup, which is emblazoned with the logo of the sports bar she works days at.
“So, how did he take the news?” she asks as we make ourselves comfortable on the couch.
“He was shocked. I mean, that’s to be expected, right?”
“Right.”
“Then he was kind of an ass. That did surprise me. He actually made me take a pregnancy test right then and there.”
“Well, thank God you’re really pregnant.”
“Can you imagine? He keeps pregnancy tests like all the time because girls say they are preggers when they aren’t to try and trap him.”
“That’s pretty tacky, if you ask me,” she says. “But he is rich. I’m sure he has to worry about gold diggers.”
We share a knowing glance and then both start giggling.
“Was he ever surprised when the test turned positive right away. I even pretended to be worried about it. Told him it might not turn pink since it was so early.”
“That was a nice touch. What did he say when you suggested moving in?”
“He said it was too fast. Of course, then I suggested we get married right away. I think that spooked him a little, plus he was talking on the phone when I got there. Remember the night I got his doorman to let me in and was waiting for him in that little strappy costume?”
“Oh, yeah. He showed up with some other chick, right?”
“Yeah. When he came in the building, he was talking to her on the phone—sounding all lovey-dovey.”
“So she could be a problem?”
“Maybe, but I have a bigger problem.”
“What’s that?”
“He wants a paternity test.”
She takes a big sip of her wine, sloshing a little onto the couch—obviously it’s not her first cup of the night. “That gives you seven months to get him to marry you.”
“Wrong. I have one month. Apparently, they can test after eight weeks. Did you know they could do it so soon?”
“No. I thought they couldn’t tell until after the baby was born.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
“You’re already eight weeks!”
“Yeah, but he doesn't know that.”
“Then you better work fast, girl.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
“And what about the baby’s real father?”
“Larry? He’s a bartender. I didn't come to California to starve. But the good news is Riley said he’d find me a place to live, and he’d take care of me.”