“No,” he replied to me and then grinned. “But I lick my stepmom’s pussy with it all the fucking time.”
I gasped. It still puts shivers down my spine as I imagine him telling me that. It’s sinful. But so delicious. It was noon. The sun was streaming in onto our naked bodies. And he was telling me he loved me.
But he was also smirking. And without another word, he pivoted his face lower, showing me with kisses as he traveled down my body.
He kissed down my breasts. And my stomach. Until he reached the folds of my pussy. I sighed. Then gasped.
All of a sudden, he stopped, and looked up at me.
“I love you, Jocelyn,” he said to me. And I still remember the giant smile that went through my face. “In case you didn’t get it from before. You’re that girl.”
I can’t remember much more after that because he made me cum so hard I think I blacked out for a few moments. But I do remember that. And that’s all I need.
Three.
That’s how many days ago Lance and I were out, having lunch at Per Se, when a reporter from the New York Daily Journal stopped by.
“You’re Mrs. Anders,” he said. “Mind if I take a picture with you and your lunch date?”
I know that it was a common term. Lunch date doesn’t have to mean a romantic date. Two people can enjoy lunch together and make a date of it. But is that how Michael would interpret it? Would it hurt the campaign?
All of a sudden, the feeling of absolute joy that I felt a month ago as Lance told me he loved me began to evaporate. Instead I saw the scandal. The newspaper headlines. Michael divorcing me. Running my name through the mud. One thing I knew for sure is that Michael excelled in the politics of personal destruction. And Lance. He would try to go after Lance. And Lance would fight back.
They say there’s a big reason you shouldn’t cheat. I honestly don’t consider myself to be cheating, hun. But I still lied, I think. And it made me feel sick.
I barely managed to excuse myself and make it to the bathroom where I ran into a stall and threw up, heaving until I was exhausted. It wasn’t till at least twenty minutes later I came out again.
One.
That’s how many hours ago I realized that I may have gotten a panic attack three days ago and gotten sick, but it didn’t explain the next morning. Or this morning, for that matter. And I know my body, I can tell when something is different. And the fact that I’m late.
Ten.
That’s how many minutes ago I checked the pregnancy test I bought at Duane Reade. It’s the second one I’ve checked. I went ahead and went downstairs and bought them an hour ago after feeling like it was something I needed to do.
Zero.
That’s exactly how many ideas I have as to what the hell I’m going to do now that I’m pregnant.
Jocelyn
It's been an entire week of worrying myself sick, and honestly, I'm physically sick even without all of that worrying. If I smell coffee—something I normally love—it has me running to the bathroom with wave after wave of nausea. If you've never experienced morning sickness, consider yourself lucky. Seriously. It's brutal. Why do they call it 'morning sickness' anyways? Morning, night, afternoon—it doesn't discriminate. It'll hit you whenever and where ever it wants to. And let me tell you, even ordinary things like toothpaste and my favorite perfume make me sick. I tried to set up a spa date with one of my old friends—I thought that maybe I needed to get out, get my thoughts cleared, pamper myself a bit, and re-connect with the people I've been close with—but I couldn't have been more wrong. I had to apologize to the massage therapist for vomiting in her waist basket when I knew I wouldn't make it to the bathroom. I swear, the smell of all those candles with the fragrant lotion just sent me over the top. It was overkill.
I wish I could describe that sme
ll to you, or any smell that gets jumbled to your senses when you have morning sickness because I know what you're probably thinking—spas smell great—and you're right, they do unless you're suffering from an extreme case of morning sickness. But do you want to know what my body thought of the scent? My body treated it like it was the smell of belly-button lint on a hot summer day, or the cognitive dissonance that happens when you think you smell a slice of peperoni pizza, but realize it's someone's body odor. You see what I mean? Not good. Not good one bit. All I can say is that this last week has been a total life adjustment, and the constant worrying just amplifies it a thousand times. I've been feeling so sick every single day that when I saw Michael reading the newspaper this morning during breakfast, it hit me. I have to tell him. I can't put this off any longer. He thinks I've just had a touch of the flu or something all week. How long can I keep that ruse up? You can only lie for so long before it catches up with you, and besides, you want to step off a sinking ship before it's underwater, right? I'd rather sit down and tell Michael what's going on, than have him find out some other way. Honesty is the best policy. I've always believed that. I know you probably don't believe me, given everything that's transpired between Lance and I, and I can't blame you. But I mean it.
I can hear Michael sitting at his desk in his study. My heart is thumping in my chest like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. I'm quietly pacing the hallway. I know I need to just do it. I need to gather every ounce of courage I have and walk into his office. It's now or never, but every time I reach for the door, my hand shakes and I pull it back. What's wrong with me? I've always prided myself on being a strong woman. I need to pull it together. I need to own up to the truth of the matter and speak honestly with my husband. Right now. Do this Jocelyn. I have no idea how he's going to react, but I can't worry about that right now. I step toward the door again. I can hear that he's just finished taking a call and has said goodbye to whoever was on the other line. Now's my chance. I need to step in before he's distracted with something else. I take a deep breath, ignore my hammering heart, and I push the door open.
Michael looks up from the book in front of him. It's a self-help book of sorts about effective leadership. I can tell he's confused. I never walk in here, so I'm sure he's wondering what the hell I'm doing in her now.
"Can I help you?"
The way he asks is so impersonal. It's as if I were walking into a store and a clerk asked me the same thing. It's like we're strangers—guests living under one roof and sharing a bed, but outsiders to one another.
"We need to talk," I say. As soon as I say it, I wish I had used a better set of words. Whenever someone says they need to talk, it casts an ominous shadow over a conversation before it even starts. But I couldn't help it. It was the fist thing to tumble out of my mouth. Can you blame me? It took every ounce of courage I could muster to even get this far. And sure enough, I see Michael frowning. His brow is furrowed into a deep crevice across his face.
"What could you possibly need to talk about right now? Can you see I'm busy? This campaign requires my full attention, Jocelyn."