Rock Bottom Girl(110)

“Do you want to have kids?” I asked. I don’t know what made me blurt it out.

He choked on his own spit and hacked and coughed from the passenger seat.

I shoved my water bottle at him. “You okay?”

He guzzled it down and took his time recovering.

“Was that too personal?” I asked.

“Not when we’re dating. You just…took me by surprise,” he admitted.

“You’ve never thought about it?”

Jake scraped a hand over his jaw. “Not really. I don’t not like kids. But I also never pictured myself to be building a dollhouse at 2 a.m. on Christmas morning only to drag my ass out of bed two hours later when someone wants to see if freakin’ Santa Claus came. No, kid! There is no Santa! It was all me, and I want some credit!”

I laughed and envied the maleness of his answer. A thirty-eight-year-old man could afford to have never considered starting a family up to this point. A thirty-eight-year-old woman had to have the conversation much, much earlier.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Eh. I like my nieces and nephew. But I’ve never felt that overwhelming urge to create a mini me. I’d like to save the next generation from the genetic torture that was high school and rock bottom self-confidence. Besides, my eggs have got to be scrambled by now. Too much Mountain Dew and sushi over the years. Not enough sleep.”

I’d always been ambivalent about the idea of babies. I admired women who threw themselves into pregnancy and parenting. But I’d had no real biological urge to make my own human being.

“That’s cool,” Jake said.

His acceptance released the tension that reflexively lodged in my shoulders. “You know what most people say when I tell them that?”

“What?”

“‘You’ll regret it,’ or ‘Being a mom is the most important thing I’ve done in my lifetime,’ or ‘Don’t worry. You’ll change your mind.’”

He winced. “You know what people say about me not wanting to make a million babies?”

“What?”

“Not a damn thing.”

I sighed. “It must be nice to have a penis.”

“Guilt-free biological choices,” Jake teased. “But seriously. Not everyone needs to have a baby. What’s right for someone else doesn’t make it right for you. You know that, right? You don’t have to feel guilty for not doing what everyone else is doing.”

What’s right for someone else doesn’t make it right for you. It sounded true. It had that Oprah A-Ha Moment ring to it. But it was easier for Jake, I reminded myself. He hadn’t spent the years since high school failing. He didn’t have a perfect older sister who set the example for success. He didn’t have to think about whether or not he should start a family. He didn’t have an empty savings account and no place to live. Jake Weston was right where he belonged, doing what he was meant to be doing.

“Okay, so tell me about a Christmas without kids,” I asked. “You’re not building dollhouses or moving elves on shelves. What are you doing?”

“So here’s how I see it. We sleep late. Wake up naked. Christmas morning sex.” He shot me a naughty grin.

We. “Of course. And after Christmas morning sex?”

“Christmas morning coffee, brunch—you cook—and presents.”

“No kids but still presents?”

He looked horrified. “Of course there are presents. What kind of Grinch are you? Kids aren’t the only ones who deserve gifts. And I’ll have you know, I could give a master class on gift giving.”

“Sex. Brunch. Presents. Got it.”

“Then we’d head to your parents’ or to my uncles’ place for a big Christmas dinner. Lots of wine. More gifts. Maybe some games. Or maybe if our families get along, we host. We’ve got the room. You’re a hell of a cook, and I could probably be trained as a sous chef,” he mused.

We meant me. Jake was talking about Christmas with me. Marley Jean Cicero, eternal screw-up.

And for one shiny, holiday-scented second, I could see it. Homer in his elf hat. Jake pouring me a glass of wine. My parents laughing with his uncles. My throat felt a little tight, so I cleared it.

“What if you end up with a woman who wants a family?” I asked suddenly. The need for reality, a reminder that all of this was temporary, rose fiercely.

He was quiet for a long beat, and then he squeezed my knee. “I’m with you, Mars. So that’s not a problem.”





65





Marley





Another lifetime ago. The Homecoming Incident.





I spent every waking minute before Homecoming plotting my revenge. In general, I was an easy-going kinda gal. I had a high tolerance for stupidity. I was patient for my real life to begin after the torturous high school years.

But Amie Jo had pushed me too far. I was done being a silent victim. And it was time for her to pay.

I kept Vicky out of it. Not only did I want to save her from any collusion accusations, I also wanted full credit for this one.

Homecoming was the obvious choice. Of course she was on the court. She was a shoo-in for Queen. Or at least, she would have been.

Step One was already complete. Instead of the Homecoming 1998 banner hung from the back of Amie Jo’s borrowed convertible, I’d swapped it out with a cheery sign that said, “I gave hand jobs to half the boys soccer team.”