One for the Money

It’s about creating a life that has my cursed genes.

If the disease only stripped years out of my life, that would be one thing. It does more than that. It will take my dignity. It’s taken my father’s dignity. He’s a prisoner in his own mind. I swore a long time ago that I would never force that on someone.

Which means using a condom like it’s a religion.

Last night Eva became my religion.

I push out of bed, away from her, away from the weakness she creates in me. My clothes are strewn around the room. I pick them up with jerky motions. Part of me recognizes that I’m acting abrupt. Surly, even. She doesn’t deserve this behavior from me, but I feel too jittery inside to stop it. “I don’t suppose you’re on birth control,” I say, not facing her.

“No.” Her voice has cooled fifteen degrees. “I didn’t need to be.”

She wouldn’t have needed it, not after being celibate for over a decade. I’m the one who’s been having sex. I know enough to use protection. “Fuck.”

“Listen,” she says, and I look back to see her sitting up in bed. She has the white sheet pulled up over her breasts, as if she needs a shield. As if she needs protection from me. “I’m sure it’s fine. It was only one time.”

I give her a dark look.

“A few times,” she amends.

I kept her up half the night, taking her again and again. “I’ll send you a morning-after pill.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m sure I can find one on my own.”

“And you can take a pregnancy test… I don’t know when they start working.” I know exactly fuck-all about pregnancy. “We’ll figure this out.”

She stands, and all the uncertainty is gone. The pain, the grief from her past? Gone. She’s draped in a white sheet, looking like a goddess. Her shoulders are back, her chin held high. Her black hair spills around her bare shoulders.

Roman sculptors would beg to use her as their model.

“I’ll be the one to figure this out,” she says. “Which will probably be nothing at all. But either way, you’re absolved. Released. So you can stop looking like someone shot you.”

She crosses the room with the bearing of a queen.

“Eva.” It occurs to me that I may have been intense in my reaction. People forget condoms sometimes. It’s fine. Nothing happens. Like she said, it was only once. I probably could have asked her to take a morning-after pill without stomping around like an asshole.

Too late. The bathroom door closes in my face. I hear the sound of water being turned on. Steam begins pouring from the bottom of the bathroom door. She isn’t coming back out anytime soon. And she sure as hell isn’t inviting me to join her.

I’m pretty sure that was an invitation for me to fuck right off.

Chapter Seventeen

Finn,

I got your delivery, and I’ve taken it.

–Eva

Eva,

I’m sorry I lost my shit. Please forgive me.

–Finn

P.S. Let’s go out tonight.

Finn,

Will you keep it wrapped up?

–Eva

Eva,

Yes, both my cock and my issues.

–Finn

Finn,

Come over.

–Eva

P.S. I’m holding this quarter from our bet hostage.

Chapter Eighteen

Eva

Leo’s house looks like a castle, with rolling hills and a stone facade. There are even turrets. I arrive a few hours before the party armed with decorations and a large amount of cupcakes that are filled with colored frosting. So far only Leo, Haley, and myself know the gender of the baby. It will be a surprise to everyone else when they bite into the cupcakes that are topped with little books made out of fondant. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The Giving Tree. Goodnight Moon. Books you read to children. Books Leo and Haley will read to their baby.

And in the middle there’s pink frosting, to indicate a girl.

The house is already decked with balloon sculptures. The artist has been here for hours working on her installations, which feature pieces from the same books. A green and red caterpillar, a cow jumping over the moon.

I wave at her briefly before heading to the kitchen. Leo’s regular chefs are handling the hors d’oeuvres, but I want to make sure they’re doing okay.

And then I hear my mother’s voice. Crap. She must have shown up early.

I take a hard left turn into the sitting area, where I find my mother facing off with Leo.

“We have to cancel,” he’s saying. “She’s tired. She won’t admit it, but I can tell.”

“Everyone’s already coming,” my mother says, her voice shrill in a way that heralds a Category 5 hurricane. “My sister. Anita Barclay. Rosamund O’Connors.”

“Then tell them not to come.”

“It’s too late for that,” my mother says, half pleading. “We’re going to look ridiculous if we cancel now.”

Leo looks incensed. “So you’re more concerned with appearances than the health of your first grandchild? Jesus fucking Christ, Mother.”

“Leo,” I say, my voice sharp enough for him to notice.