A week after my embarrassing meltdown, Beckham pushes the baby stroller down the sidewalk toward the office of Real Point. Jaci has been begging us both to come by the office.
Today, she bribed us with the promise of an early look at the print copy of our magazine. She ended up pushing the launch date back. I’m still not sure exactly why, though her reasoning was simple enough: it needed more time to be refined. Still, that just didn’t seem like the real reason, not that I was about to question my boss on her decisions with her publication.
When we reach the building, I hold the door open so he can maneuver the stroller in without trying to balance the heavy door too.
“Just so you know, if you weren’t pushing Bee, I would’ve let it shut on you.”
He throws his head back with laughter, steering the stroller toward the elevators. “Taking lessons out of my book now, are you?”
“You need some of your own medicine now and then.”
The doors slide open to the elevator, and we hop on to head up to the office floor. I’m excited to introduce the baby to our colleagues. It’s weird, having a baby, and how you want to show them off. It’s basically a crying trophy that says, I had sex.
Almost immediately when we reach the floor, we’re crowded by our coworkers, who want to ooh and ahh over the baby. I can’t help but watch with a smile while Beckham proudly tells them all about Bee, how good of an eater, sleeper, and pooper she is.
He takes the Proud Papa Award for sure.
“Oh my God, she’s precious,” Jaci croons, wiggling her finger at Bee. “Look at all that hair and those rosy cheeks. Do you just stare at her all the time?”
“More than I’d like to admit.” I laugh, unable to take my eyes off my daughter.
Jaci coos over the baby for a minute longer before straightening and smoothing her hands down her skirt. “Let me grab that sample for you. Again, great job, guys. I’m proud.” She gives my arm a light squeeze, then pats Beckham on his shoulder and exchanges a look with him before her heels clack down the hall to her office.
I give Beckham a questioning stare, but he shrugs it off. I can’t help but narrow my eyes on him. It feels like something more is going on here.
“Sulli, don’t tell my girlfriend,” Brendan begins, peering down at Bee, “but I think I might want one of these.”
“Dude, I’m not telling her a thing.” Beckham laughs with a shake of his head. He exchanges a look with me that seems to say he thinks Brendan is crazy.
“Have you had a hard time adjusting?” Layla asks.
“Not too bad. She’s a pretty good baby, but you definitely don’t get much sleep.”
“She’s worth it,” Beckham adds, making a silly face at Bee. I don’t tell him that she’s too young to understand what he’s doing. I just let him do his thing.
Jaci returns, holding out a stack of flat sheets of paper. “Let me know what you guys think.” She tacks on a wink at the end, and again my curiosity is piqued.
Beckham pushes the stroller over to one of the community tables, then spreads out the papers so we can take a look at what the cover and some of the inside spread will look like.
I stare in awe at how it’s all come together, all the hard work we put into it over months while still managing our regular workloads.
“Your photos are stunning.” I can’t stop staring at all the black-and-white images of the women I interviewed, how elegant and powerful they look, how Beckham managed to capture so much behind their eyes with just his lens.
“Your writing is impeccable.”
And we’re both so grossly in love that, apparently, we can’t stop showering each other with flowery compliments. I could puke from the sickly sweetness of it all if I weren’t so happy.
Jaci claps her hands together, then clasps them under her chin. “I’m so thrilled you both love how it’s turning out. It’s going to print this month. I think this is going to be huge for Real Point. Truly. Everyone, can we give these two a round of applause?” I blush, hiding behind Beckham when our coworkers start clapping. I don’t do well with attention. “Once the issue is out, we’re going to have a party. A baby-friendly one, I promise.”
“As long as there are mimosas, I’m down.” Beckham shakes his head, amused. I look through the spread, my brow crinkling in confusion when I note there’s a prominent blank space in both the article and photos. “What’s this about?” I point. “This shouldn’t be blank.”
When I look up, Jaci is giving a head nod to Beckham.
What is going on?
Beckham clears his throat. “I approached Jaci and told her there was a noticeable absence in our article.”
“An absence?” I blurt out, looking from the sheets of paper back to him. “Did we forget someone? I—”
“We did.”
“Who?”
He stares at me significantly. “You.”
“Me?” I point to my chest. “What are you talking about?”
His blue eyes are both somehow sad and full of love at the same time. “When you started here, I said something pretty awful to you about how you must have gotten this job. Do you remember?” I swallow thickly at his words, nodding. “I’m sure that was a contributing factor in giving you the idea for all of this.” I nod again. “So it only seems fitting that I interview you and you’re included.”
“I . . .” I’m at a loss for words. “How long have you been planning this?”
“A few weeks now. I had to get it okayed with Jaci, and—”
“And of course I said yes,” she pipes in with a smile. “I think readers will be intrigued by the two of you, and even though I was angry at first to learn of Beckham’s treatment toward you, I think it helps prove the point of this special issue. This happens everywhere.” She spreads her arms wide. “It even happened here.”
“You can say no, honeybee, but I think we should do this.”
Everyone around us is enraptured with what’s going on. I wonder if they were aware of all this beforehand or are just learning about it like I am.
“All right,” I answer, nodding with a certainty I’m not positive I really feel. It’s nerve racking thinking of my story being printed alongside these others, my picture included. “I’ll do it.” My voice sounds stronger this time, my spine steeling.
Beckham smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good.”
“Why are you so happy? Everyone’s going to know what an asshole you are now.” He throws his head back with laughter. There’s no missing the shocked expressions from those around us. “Are you really going to interview me and write this portion up? I can’t exactly write my own interview. That would be . . .” I wrinkle my nose at the very thought. “Weird.”
He chuckles again. “I already told you, baby—I’ll be interviewing you, and so that means I’ll be writing the article. Taking your photo too.”
I look around, feeling my nerves return, but everyone looks so encouraging. “When are we doing this?”
“Right now.” Jaci claps her hands. “We’ve got the baby. You two go on.” She shoos us away.
I look back over my shoulder at her as I follow after Beckham, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu, reminded of the day when he came to collect me at my computer and chewed me out in his office for snitching on him.
God, how things have changed since then.
He closes the door behind us and sits down behind his desk, motioning for me to take the chair in front, just like he did all those months ago. After rolling up the sleeves of his button-down, he cracks open his laptop and brings up a new document.
Those intense blue eyes meet mine. “State your name . . . for the record.”
“For the record?”
He grins. “Yeah, isn’t that what all you writers say?”
I laugh, feeling more at ease, which I realize is exactly what he was going for. “No, that’s court.”
“Well”—he spreads his arms wide—“welcome to my courthouse then. Shall we begin?”
It’s such a simple question, but I smile in response because it feels like so much more, as if he’s asking whether we should begin the rest of our lives. I might not be ready for marriage, and there’s baggage I need to work through, but I do know I’m ready for whatever comes our way.
He said to me once that our baby was a pretty little mistake, but I think it’s a better description for us. We tend to think that mistakes are messy, things that need to be fixed, but sometimes they can be beautiful. That’s us.
So I give him the only answer that matters.
“Yes.”
