Page 3 of Consummation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #3)

Mom’s face lights up. “ Spunky Brewster ? Finally, a sweet one. Now was that so hard?”

Ryan’s expression is absolutely priceless right now. “No, Mother Dear,” he says piously. “It wasn’t. In fact, it was really quite easy.”

Mom looks at me lovingly. “I love it. It sure fits our Kitty Kat. I can’t think of a better word to describe her than spunky .”

My brothers are absolutely dying right now.

“Yep,” Ryan says, his nostrils flaring. “That’s our Kitty Kat for you: full of spunk .”

Everyone at the table bursts into raucous, tear-filled laughter except for poor, clueless, adorable Mom who’s obviously never heard that particular slang term for cum before.

“What?” Mom asks, her eyes wide. “What’s so funny? Am I being dumb? ”

“I’ll tell you later,” Dad says, laughing his ass off.

“Am I being dumb?”

Dad shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later, Louise.”

But we all know he won’t tell Mom a goddamned thing. Not a single one of us, including Dad, would ever dream of throwing our hilarious Captain Morgan under the Mom-bus—he’s just too goddamned entertaining.

“So when’s your next gig, Dax?” Dad asks, obviously trying to change the subject. “Anything I might be able to catch?”

Dax wipes his eyes from laughing. “Uh, sure, Pops. Friday we’re playing at that Irish pub downtown, and Saturday we’re playing at a street fair in Bremerton...”

Normally, I love hearing every last detail about Dax’s upcoming gigs, but at the moment I can’t concentrate on what Dax is saying—not when my oldest brother is staring me down, drawing my attention like a magnet.

When my eyes lock onto Colby’s, he makes a sympathetic face—and, just like that, my eyes water. I look away, my lower lip trembling. Damn, that Colby—even when Josh isn’t here, Colby can sniff him out.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Josh.

“Are you at Colby’s birthday dinner?” Josh writes.

It’s all I can do not to scream in frustration.

For crying out loud, it was only last night I told Josh I needed a few days to think and regroup after being blindsided at the karaoke bar.

What does he think has changed in twenty-four little hours?

(Okay, yes, in point of fact, every goddamned thing in my life has changed in twenty-four little hours, thank you very much—but Josh doesn’t know that.

And, anyway, discovering I’m pregnant with Josh’s accidental spawn has only made me feel less prepared to talk to him any time soon, not more .) Gah.

If only I could talk to Sarah. She always helps me find clarity in the midst of any shit storm.

Unfortunately, though, talking to Sarah isn’t an option, at least not for a few weeks.

She’s starting her final exams on Monday and right after that, she’s heading off to Greece to get engaged (unbeknownst to her).

I tune back into the conversation at the dinner table. Ryan and Colby are talking about the second season of True Detective.

“I agree it isn’t as good as the first season,” Colby says. “But I don’t know why people are trashing it. It’s still one of the best shows on TV.”

“It’s just that the first season was so epic ,” Ryan says. “Everyone’s expectations were just so high after that.”

Under-promise and over-perform . That’s what Josh once said is one of his many life mottos.

Is that what Josh was doing by not telling me about Seattle?

Under-promising? I’m guessing yes. So, hey, maybe I should take a page out of Josh’s under-promising playbook and hold off telling him about the accidental Faraday gestating inside me for a bit?

Given the timing of when we were in Las Vegas together, there’s no way I’m out of my first trimester yet, which means my chances of miscarriage are still relatively high (especially, I’d think, in light of my boozing and weed-smoking and Sybian-riding).

If nature winds up taking its course and this pregnancy doesn’t stick, then I’d be awfully bummed if I’d stupidly told Josh about the situation early on.

And on the other hand, if this pregnancy does wind up sticking—if I actually do wind up giving birth to Josh Faraday’s lovechild—oh my fucking God—well, then, there’d still be no rush in telling Josh about it, right?

Because if we’re ultimately gonna have a kid together some time this year, there’s no reason Josh needs to know about it tomorrow versus, say, in a month. .. right?

I suppose if I thought Josh would ask me to get an abortion, there might be a different analysis about timing, but I already know (based on a surprisingly deep conversation we had about religion and spirituality one night on the phone) that Catholic-raised Josh wouldn’t ask me to do that; and, for myself, I’ve already seriously considered and rejected that option, anyway.

Which means, under any scenario, it makes no difference if I tell Josh about my accidental bun in the oven now or a month from now.

A feeling of relative calm washes over me.

I think I just made a decision: I’ll wait a month to tell Josh about the baby, just in case natural selection takes care of things between now and then.

And in the meantime, I’ll just try not to think about it (other than taking pre-natal vitamins and picking up What To Expect When You’re Expecting ).

Yep. That’s the plan.

Okay.

Whew .

I take a deep breath and tune into the conversation at the table again, feeling oddly relieved.

“So it turned out it was just a little brush fire,” Colby’s saying. “And yet there we all were, geared up for the Apocalypse.”

Everyone laughs.

“I always get so nervous every time you go out on a call,” Mom says to Colby.

“I know, Mom. But I wouldn’t wanna be doing anything else with my life. I love it.”

“I know you do, honey. We’re so proud of you.”

I look down at my phone and stare at Josh’s text, the one asking if I’m at Colby’s birthday dinner. I suppose I should answer the guy.

“Yeah, I’m at the party,” I write. “Sitting at the dinner table with everyone right now, as a matter of fact. We’re eating Dax’s carrot cake, which is utterly DELICIOUS, bee tee dubs.

Too bad you had to miss it.” I press send on my text and look up from my phone.

“Hey, Mom, can you cut me a little slice of cake, after all?”

“Sure,” Mom says. “Does that mean you’re feeling a bit better?”

“Mmm hmm.”

My phone buzzes with Josh’s reply: “I wanted to be there, but you UNINVITED me.” He attaches a sad-face emoji.

“Are you in L.A.?” I write.

“Yeah. I took the first flight home this morning.” Another sad-face. “Did you tell your family why I’m not there?”

“No. I told them you had to return to L.A. for work.”

“Why didn’t you tell them I’m a total asshole?”

“Because it’s none of their business you’re a total asshole,” I write. “WHICH YOU ARE.”

Everyone at the table laughs uproariously about something Keane is saying.

I glance up from my phone to find Colby staring at me, his eyes full of sympathy.

Damn, that Colby.

“Excuse me,” I say, leaping up from the table. I sprint across the house toward my mom’s office, intending to close the door behind me and continue texting with Josh, but my sudden movement has made me feel horrendously queasy all of a sudden, so I hang a sharp right and bolt into the bathroom .

Gah. Thar she blows.

Bye-bye, carrot cake.

Lovely.

So far, being a mommy is super-duper fun.

I rinse out my mouth and run cold water over my face and then sit on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands.

I can’t believe this is my life. I quit my job yesterday, thinking I was gonna spend the next year building a business—but, instead, it turns out I’m gonna spend the next eighteen years unexpectedly raising a kid .

Without any desire to do so, I’ve trapped Josh exactly the way he’s always feared some gold digger would do—and at a time when he’s so unsure about our potential future as a couple, he didn’t even tell me about his impending move to my city.

I put my hands over my face. This is a freaking nightmare.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text.

I wipe my eyes and look down at my phone, my vision blurred by tears.

“This ‘total asshole’ just booked you a first-class flight to L.A. on Thursday,” Josh writes.

“I get why me not telling you about Seattle hurt your feelings. You’re entitled to that.

But I’m not gonna let you torture me with it forever.

Go ahead and ‘think and regroup’ all you want for exactly five motherfucking days, but that’s all you get, Madame Terrorist. After that, I’m gonna fly your tight little ass down here and give you no choice but to forgive me. ”