Making Up (Shacking Up 4)

Griffin

My cousin slides another glass in front of me. It’s only noon, but he just got into town. I picked him up from the airport so I could fill him in on my shitty life. “You’re a fucking mess, Griff.”

“I was in love with her. I’m in love with her.”

“With her perky tits and tight p—” He doesn’t even have time to finish the sentence and I already have him by the collar. He looks a lot like my brother Lex, so he also looks a little like me, but with more intense features, dark hair, vibrant blue eyes, and he’s built like a professional athlete. “Simmer down, dickbag. That was a test. I’d like to not get kicked out of this bar.”

I release him and placate the bartender with a hundred-dollar bill. Cosy would be appalled. I miss her so much, I want to burn down the world.

If we were the only two people left on the planet, she wouldn’t have a choice but to deal with me.

Lincoln’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and his expression is pained. “I’m so sorry, Griff. I didn’t realize how serious it was. Is.”

I run a hand down my face. “Was. It’s done. She’s done with me.”

“You’re sure the dates line up?”

He’s referring to how far along Imogen is. “I’ve gone over the numbers. Everything makes sense. She got pregnant during the two weeks I was back in NYC, but I’ll have a paternity test done once the baby’s born to be sure.”

“Can’t you have it done now?”

“Yeah, but it’s invasive and not the best for the baby. Imogen’s had a pretty high-risk pregnancy, and too much stress isn’t good for her or the baby, so I have to wait it out.”

“Please tell me you’re not getting back together with her.”

“She thinks we are. She keeps reminding me that I’ll only get fifty percent custody at best if we’re not together, and my work schedule won’t win me any points in court.”

Lincoln spins his glass on the bar top. “I know this is a shit situation, but as someone who came from a family with parents who hate each other, I’m going to say the last thing you want to do is raise a kid in a house like that. My brother is a good example of how wrong that setup can go.”

“Armstrong is a sociopathic douche.”

“Agreed. And while I was in boarding school, not being exposed to my parents’ hate-fest, he was marinating in the crap. Don’t put this kid through that.”

“I don’t think Imogen is going to make any of this easy.” She stayed in Vegas and came home with me. After Nev chewed me out and told me to stop contacting Cosy, I felt the best plan was to leave Las Vegas, otherwise there was no way I could honor that request. Cosy asked me to do the right thing, and I needed to attempt to follow through.

It wasn’t easy though, especially not when Imogen decided she should move back into my penthouse while I was at work. When I asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, she informed me that if we were going to make this work, we should be living together. I told her there was a unit on the twentieth floor she could stay in and that was plenty close enough.

She’s found a reason to be at my place every day since we’ve been back in New York. She’s been waiting in the lobby since she doesn’t have a key, and she constantly has something to share with me—a baby magazine, or an article citing the importance of the family unit. And of course, there’s the insanely important task of decorating the nursery. Currently there are fifty paint swatches taped to the wall of my spare bedroom. I know what she’s doing. Imogen is inserting herself back into my life in the only way she can. I want to support her, but I resent her for putting yet another hole in my heart.

“You need to worry about the kid now, no one else.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I wish I could stop thinking about Cosy. I wish I were young and shit didn’t matter. More than that, I wish I had her back.

But I promised her I’d try, so I will, even if it tears me apart inside. The bartender brings our lunches out. My appetite has been for shit, and I attribute it to the lack of Cosy.

I ordered a burger with extra onions and onion rings because I miss her. It’s pathetic, not to mention stupid, since onions and I have a love-hate relationship. The hate side coming from the aftermath of eating them.

I’m two bites in when my screen lights up with a call from Imogen. They happen all the time now; basically every hour there’s either a text about a new baby something or other she wants me to look at, or her ankles are swollen, or she’s hungry and craving a vegan burrito from a place across town. I consider ignoring it, but I know she’ll keep calling until I answer.