Page 23 of The Best Worst Thing

Neutral Zone Infraction

The rest of Nicole’s weekend was lazy and quiet. Back on the coast, the heat wave was actually kind of nice—a hot, dreamy reprieve from the climate-controlled, perpetually seventysomething days that made Manhattan Beach so aggressively pleasant.

On Sunday morning, Nicole walked her dog with her headphones blasting, ate two scoops of ice cream for breakfast, and ignored a few more calls from her husband.

And then, when the afternoon sun began to slant, she lay in the warm, soft grass of her backyard and gave that Cormac McCarthy novel another go.

From time to time, she’d roll over, smile at a dumb text from Logan, and send one right back.

Apparently, he was spending the day with his friends, glitchless speedrunning Kirby’s Adventure, whatever that meant.

Are your buddies local children that you babysit? Or do you legitimately know other men your age who share your interests?

The thing about dorks is we stick together. Mostly for gaming purposes, but also because it wards off jocks, gutter clowns, and other Stephen King–like threats.

She laughed, then fired off a response.

Actually, Stephen King says the real monster is adverbs.

On Monday, temperatures cooled down, and Nicole stopped by Mari’s new office in Playa del Rey. Mari, as usual, was multitasking: flagging every last inch of a pitch deck, guzzling an iced matcha latte, and picking apart Nicole’s rather tepid recap of her literally hot date with Logan.

“I’m sorry, he took you where?”

“The Tar Pits?”

“And you just grilled him about his sex life? In broad daylight?”

“Essentially,” Nicole said, collapsing deeper into a bright red womb chair. And then, because she wasn’t a liar, and she would never withhold pertinent information from a friend, she offered up another little detail. “We also may have discussed why he never got married.”

Mari raised an eyebrow. Nicole looked around.

Mari’s office was nice—really nice. She’d only been working here since May, but already, she seemed right at home.

Almost two years ago, when Mari realized that Logan was never going to leave Porter Sloane, she took another second-in-command job at a small, female-focused agency in Venice where she suspected she could rise to the top sooner.

When that didn’t pan out, she called every agency owner in town and asked for a meeting.

Within six weeks, she had three offers to run her own show.

“Listen,” Mari said, “I’m not going to pretend to understand how you two weirdos flirt. But whatever the hell you guys are doing, it’s definitely not casual sex.”

“It couldn’t be more than that, anyway,” Nicole said. “I’m the most entangled person on Earth.”

Mari whirled around in her chair, propping her heels up on the coffee table.

“If you really think it’s nothing serious, why don’t you just tell him?

He’s the nicest guy ever. And it’s not like he’s twenty-three.

He’s probably gone on a date with someone who has kids.

It’s kind of what happens in your thirties. ”

Nicole, now flipping through a coffee table book about white space, didn’t know how to respond to that.

The truth was, she didn’t completely understand why she hadn’t told Logan about the pregnancy.

All she knew was she liked the way it felt when they were together.

That she didn’t want anything to change.

That she didn’t want him to see her any other way than exactly how he did on Saturday evening, when he drove her home, walked her to her front door, then got down on his hands and knees and let Nero lick him in the face.

Nicole knew Logan deserved the truth. And she would tell him, eventually.

But not until she was sure. And yes, she knew the embryos were screened, that Valerie had carried both her previous pregnancies to term, that Friday’s bloodwork looked great.

None of that mattered. Before he told her to get lost, she had to be absolutely certain.

She needed to hear that heartbeat. She needed proof that her life was going to irrevocably, irreversibly change.

At least, that was what she kept telling herself every time he made her laugh or looked at her some kind of way.

“We’re just having fun,” Nicole said, flipping to the book’s next page. Very carefully. “That’s all. I swear.”

Mari issued her a knowing glance. “Have you ever had casual sex, Nicole?”

“Yes. Well, no. Well, yes, but not on purpose? It was weird, and kind of an accident. But it’s different with Logan, anyway. Because we were friends first, and because we’ve known each other so long, and—”

“Oh my god, girl.” Mari tossed her phone into her bag and nodded Nicole toward the door. Mari had an afternoon meeting downtown, but they still had an hour to grab lunch before she left. “Do you want him, or not?”

“I … well … it’s …”

Mari laughed in Nicole’s face as they walked across the floor of the bustling agency—everyone typing or talking or handling this or checking on that—and stepped into the corridor.

Nicole frowned. “I don’t know what I’m doing! Help me!”

“You’re overthinking this,” Mari said. “Take off the ring, for starters. That should help quite a bit. And then, just try and screw him. He slows you down, that’s how you know you’ve got a problem on your hands.”

“What, like some kind of truth serum? Why would I even need that?”

Mari called the elevator. “Because, Nicole, sleeping with someone for fun does not typically require this much … talking.” Another knowing glance, which Nicole expertly averted. “When are you going to see him again, anyway?”

“I’m actually not sure. He’s supposed to go to Chicago tomorrow. And then he has a panel with Quentin at the end of the week, some conference in San Francisco, I think.”

“Oh! I’m going to that!”

“Really? That’s … that’s amazing!” The elevator dinged. They stepped inside, and Nicole pricked the lobby button with her index finger, leaving it pressed against the warm plastic shell long after it’d begun to glow. “I’m really proud of you. It’s so cool to see you like this.”

“Come on, Nic. You’re doing it too. Your podcast is—”

“What’s good around here? Where should we go?”

“I mean it,” Mari said, dropping her hand to Nicole’s wrist. Nicole shook it off. “Your story is amazing. You built something, and people actually listen. You don’t realize—”

“Please, can we not? Can we not pretend I didn’t give up what I gave up? That my podcast is anything close to a legitimate career?”

Mari scratched the back of her neck, then exhaled. “There’s a new place across the street that makes a decent Cobb. It’s fast too.”

Nicole agreed, and the elevator doors opened, and off they went to buy boring little salads, settle into a seldom-used, stark-white outdoor sectional, and shoot the shit.

They talked about Mari’s next pitch, whether she’d have time to meet Paige for a quick drink Friday, and if she should swipe left or right on this physical therapist who was very tall, dark, and handsome but also owned three parakeets.

Nicole was midsentence, pontificating whether a grown-ass man caring for several expensive birds was a red flag or a green one, when Mari’s phone rang.

“Sorry,” she said, rising to her feet. “I have to take this. Give me, like, five, okay?”

Nicole nodded, and then she just sat there, watching Mari pace and laugh and work her magic from across the courtyard.

She just sat there and pretended she hadn’t nearly had that too. That, when push came to shove, she hadn’t been so quick to buy the dream Gabe was selling … and accidentally leave the rest of herself behind.

Later that afternoon, the clinic confirmed Valerie’s betas had doubled perfectly again.

They scheduled the seven-week ultrasound for two weeks from Friday.

Nicole texted Gabe the appointment time and nothing else.

And then, realizing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she called her over-the-moon, utterly clueless parents with the good news.

And when that was over, she FaceTimed Paige.

“When are you going to tell Mom what happened with Gabe?”

“Hopefully never.”

“And what about the podcast? Shouldn’t you put out a statement or something? Your listeners probably think you’re dead.”

“Aren’t I, though?”

Once she’d hung up, Nicole went out for a run.

When she hit her goal—thirty minutes, the longest she’d managed in years—she just kept going.

Her lungs burned. The sky blurred. She ran anyway.

And then, when she could no longer breathe, when she could no longer see, when the shit had finally, mercifully, been kicked out of her, she came to a sudden halt, wiped her stinging face with the sleeve of her shirt, and walked home.

She was sitting at her kitchen table, covered in sweat and dirt and tears, contemplating the shit show that was her life, when her phone dinged. Three times, in rapid succession.

My meeting got moved.

I may have spent the whole day reading American Pastoral.

I am unwell.

Nicole snickered. She’d warned him, hadn’t she?

I prescribe Pride bodies twisted and knees bent so their feet fell only inches from each other’s.

That middle cushion—last week, uncharted territory and little more than a resting place for buzzing phones nobody bothered to answer—had become a neutral zone. A place to toe the line.

“You’re loving this shit, aren’t you?” he said.