Princess and the Player (Strangers in Love)

It’s not every day your friend gazes at a pile of pregnancy-test boxes like they’re a stack of Christmas presents.

Cece taps one with a manicured fingernail. Her voice, like her, is airy and sweet. “This one has rapid detection. How preggo are you, honey?”

“If I am, I guess ten weeks, and don’t ‘honey’ me. You only do that when you’re trying to calm me down. I. Am. Fine.”

“You sent the 911 text. You’re freaked.” She pats my arm. “It’s okay. We’re here, and we never leave a man down.”

I wince at her glamorous makeup, upswept blonde hair, and shimmery evening dress. “I ruined your dinner party. Sorry.”

She tsks. “Don’t worry about George. His ex-wife saw us together, which is what he wanted. She left him two years ago for her fitness trainer—so cliché. He’s one of my favorite clients.” She pokes me. “My offer is still open. I can hook you up with a job. Men love petite women. Makes them feel like all alpha.”

I met Cece our freshman year in art school. A gorgeous girl from the Gulf Coast of Alabama, she was working part time at the makeup counter at Barneys when a lady pulled her aside and asked if she’d be interested in dating wealthy men. She dropped out of college, makes six figures, and flies between here and LA. Before I landed at East Coast Ink, she got me in at the agency. I went on a few dates; then Donny gave me a callback, and that was it.

“Clients like pregnant women, huh?” Standing up, I mimic a belly over my stomach and puff out my cheeks. I waddle around the room.

“But you say it’s just a bug.”

I flop back on the couch and throw my head back as I groan. “It totally is. Right? Say you think it is. Please.”

She sighs. “Your boobies are sore. That’s the first indication—or so I’ve heard.” A gleam grows in her eyes. “Would it be the worst thing in the world? You’d be a good—no, a great mom, and I’d be the perfect ‘aunt.’ Oops, wrong thing to say. Calm down, honey. Don’t get all red in the face; it’s not good for our ‘maybe baby’—”

“Brogan?” I call out. “Cece’s annoying me. Are those drinks ready?”

He comes in from the kitchen and leans against the doorjamb and chuckles. With wavy auburn hair, he’s tall and muscular with a sleeve of pink and teal roses up his arm. They match the tattoo on my back and the circlet tattoo around Cece’s ankle.

He’s five years younger than us with cut cheekbones and a square chin that hints at stubbornness. We met Brogan at a party where he attempted to charm us with his British accent—but we knew it was fake. We started a game to pay him five bucks for every person he convinced he was British. By the end of the night, he’d emptied our wallets; then he took us to breakfast.

He gives a martini to Cece, grabs his own off the bar, and then hands me a glass of water. My second. “Drink this, and try to pee again.”

“My bladder has drawn up. In fear. I may never pee again. Can you die from that?”

“Doubtful. Worst-case scenario, your bladder will back up to your kidneys and cause them to fail. Could be fatal.” He flashes a smile that transforms his handsome face into breathtaking. “That advice comes to you from a man who dropped out of med school. Take it or leave it.”

He plops down on the other side of me and throws an arm around me. “I’m feeling bad. I’m the one who got you the guest pass to Decadence.”

I lean into him, and he smells like citrus, the one scent that hasn’t made me gag today. “But you weren’t the one who told me to lock genitals with Tuck Avery.”

“Nice image,” he says dryly. “Oh, get this—Prince Rolex had his membership revoked at Decadence. Tuck came back a week after you were there and demanded a meeting with the owners and got it. I didn’t mention it earlier because of the NDA I signed at work, but now that you know who he is . . .”

“Would he have been kicked out anyway?” I ask.

“Probably not. He’s a Wall Street shark and wealthy as shit. Tuck’s the one who got him removed permanently.”

“Well, well, well, Tuck’s good baby-daddy material already,” Cece quips, accentuating her southern drawl. She ignores my evil eye and stirs the olive in her martini with elegant swishes. “I’m surprised it took you this long to notice something was up.”

“I lost my fiancé and job. And I’m not pregnant. Really. I just know it.”

She leans in. “I have this friend—more of a friend of a friend, really. Poor girl didn’t know she was pregnant until she started having contractions. Had her baby in an Uber on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Hope she left a good tip,” Brogan says.

“Can you imagine the surprise? She’s on her way to a party; then boom, there’s a baby coming out of her vagina,” Cece adds.

I laugh nervously as we lift our glasses, and we clink them together. “What a wonderful story. Now, moving on; here’s to me having a stomach bug—something I thought I’d never say.” I finish my water, grab the tests, and take off for my master bath.

They jump up and follow, breathing down my neck.

“I adore baby blankets. Oh, and the cute little onesies,” Cece says, then squeals. “Better yet, I could make baby clothes, maybe do era themes—polyester shirts from the seventies, acid-washed jeans for the eighties, or those neon colors from the nineties? I could open an Etsy shop! An online store! I’d be the queen of baby clothes! Too much? Hmm, yeah, you’re getting red again, and you’re right; yeah, no one, and I mean no one, should ever wear neon.” She pouts at my glare. “I can’t have kids, remember? Big old hysterectomy at twenty. Damn that endometriosis.”

“I can’t have a baby for you.”

She splays her arms out, blocking me from the bathroom door. “Francesca. You’re only born with a certain number of eggs, and thousands die each month. Who knows how many you have left? You aren’t Fertile Myrtle. This might be your last egg.”

“I have plenty of eggs! And I’m not”—I wave my hands around my abdomen—“some kind of chicken.”

“Different eggs,” she says.

“I know! I was being funny—or trying to.” I scrub my face.

Brogan whistles. “It’s never good when Fran isn’t funny.”

“Fran is right here,” I mutter. “And I finally need to pee, so move, and let me get to the bathroom.”

“You’re not twenty anymore,” she says. “You’ve got lines in the corners of your eyes, a few gray hairs—”

“I do not!”

“And, as my dear dead mama used to say, you’re no spring chicken—oh look; we’re back to chickens.” She laughs.

Brogan waves his hands like a marquee. “Picture this: two girls, a guy, and a baby.”

Then he plays “Sweet Child O’ Mine” on his phone.

“You too?” I ask on a groan.

“I’d be an awesome uncle.”

“Guys!” I call. “I’m unemployed with no health insurance; plus there’s no father—well, there is, but . . .”

“Consider him a sperm donor. Prime, top-of-the-line swimmers,” Brogan says as he toasts me with his martini. “You may have hit the jackpot. Buckets of money.”

“No jackpot! No buckets! No swimmers! I am not pregnant!”

“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Cece says with the smile of an angel.

“Stop quoting Gandhi all the time. It doesn’t apply here!” I push past her and shut the door in their faces.

With shaking hands, I pull up my cropped shirt and rub my hand over my concave stomach. At least that’s good—I mean not good that I seem to be losing weight like crazy but good that there’s no baby bump. When do baby bumps show up? I have no clue.

I unwrap the first test, read the directions, pee on one stick, and then do two more.

Edward and I talked about kids—well, he did. When his mother brought up grandkids, I just nodded and smiled.

I sit on the closed toilet and rub my forehead.

My own story begins by being left on the steps of a police station in the snow in a small town in Upstate New York. All I had with me was a car seat, a blanket, and a locket engraved on the back with “Francesca.”

I picture a woman leaving me.

Did she cry?

Why did she never come back?

Does she ever wonder about me?

The police ran a story about me on TV. They put my story on a billboard. They searched records for babies born as Francesca; they searched for birthing mothers named Francesca—and got nothing that matched.

My parents abandoned me.

With that kind of baggage, am I even mother material?

I shove it aside and stand.

I’ve barely gotten my joggers up when they spill through the door.

“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on watching me pee.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt the flow,” Cece calls as she races to the sink, where I put the tests.

Brogan snatches one first. “Nothing yet—”

“Gross! That has pee on it,” I call out.

“I work at Decadence. Pretty sure I’ve touched pee before.” He stares down at the stick as if it’s the Holy Grail.

Ignoring them, I grumble as I get to the mirror, brush my hair, and sweep it into a high ponytail. My cheekbones are stark, the hollows beneath clearly defined on my pale face. I take off my glasses and stare into my eyes as a cold sweat breaks out over my skin. Fear curls over me, and I dash out of the bathroom and go back to the den so I can’t hear them talking. I flip on the TV, loud, then pop another Triscuit in my mouth. “See. No nausea,” I say to myself. “No baby bump. Not pregnant.”

My phone pings, and I pull it out of my bag. More texts from Edward. My hands curl.

See me.

Talk to me.

Francesca.

Come on.

I’m begging.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry.

The bell from the downstairs front desk rings, and I push the button on the wall. “Yeah?”

Herman’s slightly nasally voice comes through the intercom. “Francesca, hi. Edward showed up. You told me to send him away, so I did.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem.”

Lost in thought, I don’t hear my door opening over the sound of the TV; I don’t hear someone walking down the hall, then entering the den. A hand touches my shoulder.

Flinching, I turn as I gasp. “Jesus! Edward! What are you doing here?” I put a hand to my heart. “I hate people sneaking up on me!”

“Sorry.” His whiskey-colored eyes hold mine. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Your door was cracked, and you were talking to Herman—”

“Is that him?” Herman yells. I still have my finger on the button.

“Yes,” I say tersely. “In the flesh.”

“I’m so sorry, Francesca. He must have walked in with some residents. Want me to send security up?”

I glance at Edward, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jeans hang on him. Good.

I sigh. I don’t want any drama on my floor. Several of the residents are older.

“Do you plan on murdering me, Edward?”

He shakes his head, then calls out, “I’d never hurt her, Herman. Sorry I gave you the slip.”

Oh, but he did hurt me, and my face must say that because he drops his gaze.

I exhale. Part of me has wanted to see him again.

Is it because I still care, or is he a habit? I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and I wait for the usual bite of pain mixed with longing to hit, and it does, but it’s muted, focused on what’s happening in my bathroom.

“I’m fine, Herman. Brogan and Cece are with me.”

“Good. One more thing,” Herman says. “Tuck Avery came by earlier and asked if a Francesca lived here. I said yes but didn’t give him your last name or apartment number, but, um . . .”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“He wanted me to describe you, and I’m not good with things like that. I said you were sweet and pretty. Is there an issue with you and Mr. Avery?”

“He didn’t believe I lived here. I’ve been here for years!”

“Well, we do have over three hundred residents.” He chuckles, then says, “You sure you’re okay with Edward?”

I tell him yes, turn off the intercom, and then lean against the wall as I stare at Edward.

“Hey.” He runs a hand through his thick mink hair, tugging on the ends. My heart twinges. It’s what he does when he’s anxious, and there’s a stupid part of me that wants to soothe him.

The same age as me, he’s the only man I’ve ever loved besides my first love. But I don’t want to think about Levi now. Not with Edward here. Those memories still hurt too.

“What do you want?” I ask, my throat prickling with emotion.

He lifts his hands. “I don’t know, really. I walk past here at least once a week. I can see your apartment from the street, your balcony . . .” He trails off, his teeth toying with his lip ring.

“You won’t see me walking past yours.”

He sighs. “I know. I—I’m sorry you lost your job. I didn’t know. I came in the next day, and your station was empty. Harlee—”

“Don’t go there. Don’t. I have the job thing under control.” Not true, but fuck him.

“Good. I mean, it should have been me that was fired. I have my trust fund to keep me going, and you don’t—”

“What else do you need? I’m kinda busy.” I dart my eyes to the hallway that leads to my bedroom, wondering what’s keeping my friends. Over the noise of the TV, they probably can’t hear me and Edward.

“Remember how we met?”

I shrug. I met him when I was twenty-seven at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen where he was singing (badly) in a band and waiting tables. We had mediocre sex in the bathroom, and I forgot about him.

He eases closer to me. “After we hooked up, you wouldn’t give me your phone number, so I showed up at East Coast Ink.”

“You were determined—points for that. I shouldn’t have told you where I worked. It would have saved me years of wasted time.”

“I came to see you for a week straight and tried to talk to you—”

“Right, right. We all know this story, Edward. I ignored you until you drew cutesy sketches of us together on dates, one of us at the movies, one of us kissing, blah, blah, blah. I got soft and gave you a shot. We dated, I got you a job, we got engaged, you fucked Harlee, and we ended. That sums it up. What else you got?”

Hurt flashes on his face. “I’m not sure you even wanted to get married—”

“Hold up. This is your excuse for cheating? I wasn’t ready? I wore your ring! Leave.” I push him toward the hallway to the foyer.

“Let me talk!”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Fine! Let it all out.”

His words come in a rush. “After we got engaged, it took three weeks for you to put the ring on and tell people. You didn’t like my mother, even though you let her pick out your dress, the cake, the flowers, the venue. She even did our registry—”

“Your mother wanted a society wedding. She paid for it.”

“I know.”

My anger ratchets up. “You broke my trust and my heart! I don’t give it away freely, Edward!”

“I know.”

“You can’t use me as your scapegoat!”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that! You should have told me this before. You were with her for . . . I don’t even know how long. Coward.” I practically spit the word.

He shuts his eyes, then opens them, wetness in the depths. “I—I wanted to be your everything, but I was terrified you’d hurt me. I was messing around with her, I don’t know, to see if, God—I think I wanted you to catch us. I couldn’t end us. Because I needed you too much.”

Pain knifes me right in the chest.

He wanted to hurt me.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Did I even know him at all?

Why do I get fooled by these losers?

His fists clench at his side as he beats them against his leg. “I’m sorry, okay? Sorry, sorry, sorry. So damn sorry . . .”

“Stop, please,” I snap.

Tentatively, he lifts his hand to touch my hand, and I pull away.

He rubs his eyes with his palms. “Have you ever wanted something even though you knew it was bad for you? It was like that for me, and I knew in my gut you were going to break me. Someday down the road, you’d wake up and realize that—what the hell?”

Madonna’s opening chords to “Papa Don’t Preach” blare from my bedroom. Cece sashays into the den slowly, a hairbrush in her hand as she sways her hips and sings the lyrics about a girl who tells her father she’s pregnant and wants to keep the baby. In her other hand is one of the pregnancy sticks. She holds it high, dancing to the beat with her eyes closed, a triumphant smile on her face. Brogan pops into the den, gets behind her, and does Madonna’s “Vogue” dance, then the Running Man.

My stomach pitches.

I make it to the couch and fall on my ass, gasping as I stare up at the ceiling, my whole world realigning.

I’d convinced myself I wasn’t.

Impossible . . .

It can’t be.

Stay calm. Breathe in; breathe out.

One step at a time. One step at a time . . .

Brogan rushes over and pulls me into his lap and rocks me as he murmurs in my ear that he’s sorry they’ve been teasing me, that they’ll support me no matter what I do, that they’re my family forever and ever, that we made a vow to stick together, that he loves me, that she loves me.

“Cece. Stop,” Brogan yells.

She opens her eyes and sees me and Brogan, then Edward. An angry squeal comes as she heads his way. “What the hell? No! You aren’t allowed here!” She bares her teeth. “If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to stab you in the dick—with these.” She holds up the hairbrush and the stick. “Hear me good, Edward. I put up with your whiny ass for years, but I am not a nice person. I will destroy you. I will grind this stick in your balls, then take a picture of you writhing on the floor. I’ll add it to my burn book with happiness in my cold, cold, dead heart!”

He backs up. “What the hell . . .”

“Just go, Edward, before she murders you.” I push myself to standing.

He turns to me. “Who’s pregnant?”

I grab a tissue off the end table and wipe my face. I hadn’t realized I was crying. Dammit. “Apparently me.”

“Is it mine?”

I flinch at the eagerness in his voice.

Cece pokes the end of the brush into his chest. “No, Einstein! Does she look five months pregnant to you?”

A sharp knock bangs from my door, and we all jerk. What now?

“That’s my Chinese delivery,” Cece says with a grunt as she takes Edward by the arm and drags him down the hallway to the front door. “Time for you to skedaddle. Don’t ever come here again. If I see you, I will break all your fingers—feel me? You’ll never draw again.”

They disappear into the foyer.

I hear the door opening, a long pause, and then rustling sounds. I picture Cece shoving him out the door. Then comes her sugary voice: “Well, bless, sorry you had to see me throw out the trash! Tuck Avery as I live and breathe, and I thought it was just noodles. What a surprise. Look how handsome you are! The perfect catnip.” Five bucks says she has her hand over her heart.

“Um, thanks?” comes his husky voice.

Send him far, far away, I mentally channel.

“I’m Cece,” she coos.

“Nice to meet you.” There’s a low rumble of a laugh, then: “Is Francesca here?”

I groan. Will this night ever end?

She calls back down the hall. “Someone to see you, honey! He’s pretty. Can we keep him?”

“Behave, and give me a second,” I yell as I dash to the bathroom, straighten my hair, throw cold water on my face, rub on cherry ChapStick, switch to mango and then watermelon, and then dart back to the den.

I can’t see her, but Cece is still at the door, yammering about football and the weather.

I twist my hands, trying to rustle up my nerve to face him.

“Are you going to tell him?” Brogan asks.

“What? Why?” I give him a wide-eyed look as I grab the box of Triscuits off the coffee table and eat one furiously. “Plus, it could be a false positive.”

“All three tests? Fran—”

I give him a pleading look. “For real. Think about it, Brogan. Would you want to know?”

He pauses, then sighs. “You mean if I wasn’t into guys and got a random woman pregnant during a one-night stand at a sex club?” His lips purse. “Not really.”

“And why is that?”

He frowns.

“Come on,” I say. “Be truthful.”

“I wouldn’t want to know because I don’t care about her. It was a one-time thing.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m also into guys, so this is like comparing apples to oranges—”

“Doesn’t matter.” I tuck in another cracker and head for the door.