Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

No argument? Alert the Vatican. It’s a motherfuckin’ miracle.

“Black olive and jalapeño. It’s got folate, iron, protein. Good for Squish.” Squish. He said Squish.

Many men and women would prefer the kind of no-strings arrangement that entailed no post-sex hangout. To come and then go. Jizz and then jet. Ejaculate and then evacuate. Blow the load and then hit the road.

“I love spicy food.” “I know.” He knows. Of course he does. “Except the heartburn.” Shifting me to the side, he pulled something out of his pocket and set it on the table. Antacids. “I know,” he repeated. Not just does he know. He knows. And not just am I in big trouble. I’m in huge trouble.

“If you think I want anyone but you, you haven’t been paying a fuckin’ lick of attention.”

It took less than a minute for her breath to even out, but I stayed awake. ’Cause under my palm, Squish rolled and kicked. And I didn’t wanna miss any of it.

“The baby’s not mine.” I thought about the tiny face on the ultrasound. “But the baby is mine.”

“I’m sure you wanna hurry so you can pass Mac a note to see if she likes you, too.”

Every damn time she laughed, she’d tilt her head back and look at me. Like she wanted to make sure I was in on it. Like she wanted to share her happiness with me.

“Hold her like your edibles just kicked in, and she’s the last burrito in the world.”

“Thanks for coming home safely to me.” Fuck. Fuck. I rolled us, curling myself around her. “Always, baby.” For the rest of my life.

As far as I’m concerned, she,” I put my hand on her stomach, “is my baby. And I’ve felt that way for longer than you’re gonna wanna hear.”