The Knocked Up Plan(7)

Delaney laughs. “We’re going to be part of your elephant matriarchy, you crazy woman.”

For the rest of the run, I debrief my best friends on all the research I’ve conducted so far on Project Bun in the Oven, detailing obstacles and opportunities, pros and cons.

By the time we’re done, I’ve told them I intend to approach this like I do one of my columns—with a Top Five Reasons Why list and a firm deadline.

The clock is ticking.





Four





Ryder

The next day, as I work on a column on third-date etiquette and expectations—let’s be real: the only thing a guy wants to know is if he’ll get the third night’s lucky charm—Cal Tomkin calls me into his office.

My overlord is a lot like Peter Parker’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson, in the Spiderman movies. He speaks as if he’s firing bullets, and he’s made of geometric shapes. His head is a rectangle. His chest is a trapezoid. His lips are an oval.

“Come in, Ryder. Have a seat.”

Words you never want to hear from the man who signs your checks. Have a seat translates into “I’m so unhappy with your work I’m molting, and you’re one step away from getting fired.”

I park myself in the blue upholstered seat across from his desk, prepared for the onslaught of angry feathers.

Words don’t come, nor do feathers. Instead, Cal stands and strides to his bookshelf. Ah, so this will be a long, drawn-out kind of reprimand. Great.

Drumming his fingers over the spine of one title, Cal appears deep in consideration. Like I don’t know what book he’s about to pick up. “Now, what is it I’m looking for?” he muses, as he taps a chubby, cylindrical finger against his chin.

“Gee, I’m not really sure,” I say.

“Hmm. I could have sworn I had a signed first edition from the author himself.”

He hunts, dragging his fingers across the shelf in a dramatic show. I wonder, wonder, wonder if he’ll find it.

“Aha,” he declares and plucks a yellow tome from the shelves. He spins around, a gotcha look on his blocky face, and brandishes an incriminating photo of me on the back jacket. A smiling, happily married me.

Tomkin taps the book. “Got Your Back by Ryder Lockhart. Number-one bestseller. Translated into ten languages. Sold half a million copies.” He inhales deeply, as if he’s pleased. “The bible,” he says, venerating the book. “Men called this the bible.”

I chuckle lightly as if humbly deflecting praise. “Well, I suppose you might find a passage or two in there about how to help a woman call to the saints, cry out plaintively to our maker, and say the Lord’s name over and over again, and it definitely wouldn’t be in vain.”

Cal’s mouth forms a ruler-straight line. His eyes lock onto mine. I’m the target in his crosshairs. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” he barks. “You’re supposed to be the Consummate Wingman, but lately you’re the dickhead in the locker room.”

I scoff like a pro. The textbook definition of scoffing because what the fuck? I actually utter a shocked “whoa” as I hold up my hands, warding off his attack. “That is not my shtick on the show whatsoever.”

He calls my bluff. “Cut the surprised act. You and I both know that’s the role you’ve been playing.” His tone brooks no argument.

I swallow dryly, shifting in my seat. “It’s not my intention to come across that way.”

“It’s not? You sure?” He flips open the book and settles on my bio on the back page. I brace myself, even though all my old football instincts tell me to tackle him and strip the ball because that shit in my bio needs to stay locked up. “Ryder Lockhart is happily married to a talented and lovely pastry chef, after a whirlwind courtship in Manhattan. They have a dog named Romeo, and they like to cook, hike, and go to the movies. With a degree in psychology, as well as having spent his younger years being raised by the happiest mom and dad around, Lockhart knows what it takes to have the confidence to talk to a woman with the intent of forging a lasting relationship with that special someone.”

Cal slaps the book onto his desk. It lands with a loud thud. He reaches for his coffee, takes a thirsty gulp, and sets the mug down on the book.

I point to the book, so he knows his faux pas. “Excuse me, you just put—”

“I know. It was my intention. Because that’s about all this book is good for these days. It’s a coaster, Ryder. A goddamn coaster.” He sets his palms on his thighs. “Where is the persona I hired? Is he hidden away in these pages?”

Where is Ryder Lockhart? Ask Maggie. She killed him. Maggie took her cooking knife, sharpened the blade, and plunged it into my chest.

Seven times.

I clench my teeth and suck in a breath. “I’m right here.”

Cal arches an eyebrow skeptically—his triangle move. “Then perhaps you’d like to focus more on what the show sponsors want. Be a little less Ten Ways to Screw the Hot Chick, and shift to Ten Tried and True Methods to Win the Love of Your Life.”

The love of your life? The love of my life is Romeo. That’s loyalty. That’s true love.

But the book isn’t selling how it used to, the classes are drying up, and surprise, I’m not in such fucking demand as a relationship consultant on account of my picture-book marriage going up in flames with the white picket fence as the kindling.