A Holly Jolly Ever After

by Julie Murphy

Don’t say Sit on my face. Don’t say Sit on my face. Don’t say Sit on my face.

Fuck. If Winnie Baker were mine, I’d have a goddamn PhD in making her come. Paging Dr. Lieberman.

And the fact that Kallum had told me he loved me at Got the Juice . . . the weird skip in my pulse whenever I thought about his pleading blue eyes as he’d said it . . . that had nothing to do with anything. It didn’t change things. It didn’t change that for all his boyish charm, he could hurt me again.

Why does she think he wouldn’t want to be part of the baby’s (or her) life? She obsesses over this fact.

I wanted to give him a chance to be a part of the baby’s life . . . but I also wondered how much a carefree guy like Kallum would want a baby and its neurotic, narcoleptic mother messing up his world. Surely not, right? Surely the guy famous for slinging pizzas and boinking bridesmaids wouldn’t want to be bogged down with spit-up and mastitis and all the other unglamorous parts of parenting?

He said he loved her!!! So why is she so pessimistic?

Kallum: Just got cleaned up from filming the sauna jerkoff scene! Be there in ten!

And with more faith in myself than any rational adult should have, I began humping the open pole in the middle of the stage.

We’d stayed on the phone for hours at a time talking about names and what kind of sports our kid might sign up for or if they’d be into something bougie like dressage.

Hell yes!