He’ll smell the puke . . .
I can’t avoid the inevitable, but I can come up with one hell of a story.
That’s right. I can lie through my teeth.
*Cracks knuckles* Let’s get down to business.Come up with the most elaborate story of your entire life.
The door fully opens, and when Eli comes into view, immediate relief floods through his eyes right before confusion hits them. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You weren’t at the arena. I went to your office to see if you needed anything, and one of the girls up there said you didn’t come in this morning. I wanted to check to make sure you were okay.”
Ugh, duh, of course he’d check on me the one day I didn’t go into work. Since we have to work nights and weekends, we have a pretty flexible schedule, so no one really bats an eyelash when someone doesn’t show up in the morning. But Mr. Nosy Nelly over here was worried.
Trying to act as casual as possible, I say, “Oh, yeah. Fine. You know, flexible hours and everything.” I smile, but it turns out to be more of a flat smile rather than one that reaches my eyes. Anyone would be able to discern this attempt of feigned casual behavior. Eli being no exception.
“Then why are you wearing your dress inside out, and your hair is half curled?”
Inside out? Really?
I glance down at my dress . . . and would you look at that. It is inside out. God, would I have gone out in public like this? I want to say I would have realized, but then again, I used my lotion as toothpaste the other day, so I can’t be sure.
But no need to show him that I’m on the verge of completely losing my marbles, so I say, “The pressure of dressing oneself can be very overwhelming. Mistakes are bound to happen.” I move toward him and attempt to direct him away from the bathroom. “Now if that is all, we should probably move you along, you know, so you can get back to your busy schedule.”
Despite not having his lucky shoes, he’s wearing a forest-green suit with a black button-up, the top two buttons undone—because that’s what he does. He likes to flash his man pecs to the world and when I say flash, I mean barely give us a glimpse. It’s maddening. Either show it all or don’t show anything at all. Instead of his beloved shoes, he’s sporting a green, velvet loafer with gold embellishment that not every man would be able to pull off. But Eli, well, with those ankles, he can pretty much wear any shoe.
His style is absolutely impeccable. I’m not sure when it happened, how he became to be so stylish with such raw, sexual magnetism while wearing a freaking suit, but it happened and he’s perfected his work to the point that he makes grown women—and even grandmas—weep when he walks by. And here I am, hair half curled and my dress inside out, with a faint glistening of sweat still on the back of my neck from my morning nausea. Not to mention, I have a heinous zit on my chin that has claimed squatter’s rights for the undesirable future. I think my nose has grown, can’t be sure, but it doesn’t look right, and I plucked a black hair from my cheek today. A black freaking hair! I can safely say I feel like a grisly ogre with one tooth hanging out of its mouth, especially next to this handsome, smooth, suave man.
God . . . it makes me want to just kick him in the nose.
“Why are you being weird?” he asks as I push at his back, trying to shove him out of the bedroom, but he remains unmoving.
Attractive and strong . . . so very strong.
“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird,” I respond like the mature adult that I am.
“I’m not being weird.” He turns to face me. “You’re acting like you’re hiding something.” And then as if the answer crosses his mind, his eyes go wide, and he says, “Oh shit, do you . . . do you uh, have someone here?”
He can’t possibly be serious. What would I even do with a man right now? Introduce him to my witch zit? Tell him I’ve never in my life had an actual third eye on my face before. Ask him to braid my cheek hair? Or would I show him how bloated my stomach is, give him a little shimmy of my protruding stomach from what I can only assume is gas, since it’s too early to be showing baby just yet. Maybe introduce him to the farts. Or better yet, give him a detailed tour of exactly where I threw up this morning and maybe a reenactment.
“You have absolutely lost your mind if you think I’d even consider having a man here,” I say. “I am in no state of mind or body to welcome any gentleman lovers into this.” I motion to my body up and down. “Do you understand the kind of nausea I sit through every morning? Or the throat-burning indigestion I suffer through at night? Or how about the constant tingling of my nipples that is in no way sensual and every bit annoying? This sex shop is closed. So you can get that right out of your mind. Plus, why would I want to date anyone in this condition? Pregnant with another man’s child doesn’t necessarily say single and ready to mingle.”
He grips the back of his neck, pulling on it tightly. “Yeah, but you know, if you wanted to—”
“Did you just hear what I said?”
“I did. I really did, but just throwing it out there.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t even want to think about men or dating or sex or anything romantic at all. I don’t even want to see a couple holding hands. That’s how repulsed I am by it all. This vessel”—I motion to my body—“is sailing some rocky seas right now. No one wants to come near it. And I sure as hell don’t want anyone clogging up any holes of mine, if you get what I’m saying.”
“Loud and clear.” He glances to the side, his eyes traveling the room, clearly wanting to abortthatconversation. “Then what’s going on?”
“Nothing, okay? Just weird pregnancy things that I don’t care to talk to you about. A little bit of privacy is not going to kill you.” I push him again. “Now, excuse me while I attempt to finish my hair so I can look somewhat presentable at work.”
He pauses and looks me up and down. “I know you’re not going to believe me when I say this, but you look nice.”
I take a calming breath and close my eyes. Speaking through very clenched teeth, I say, “My dress is inside out, Eli. How on earth do I look nice?” Do not lose it on him. He’s clearly lost all ability to read the room. It’s not his fault he’s an idiot. Sometimes, you’re just made that way.
I give him another nudge, and to my delight, he starts walking out of the bedroom. Thank God for small miracles. “I mean, it would be nice if the other half of your hair is curled, but if you don’t go that route, I think you can pull it off.”
I pause. What did he just say?
