The Revelation (30 page)

“Wowza.” I’m speechless for a moment. “Well, I think
I’m gonna have to disagree with you—it sounds to me like you’re
not
as ideal a sperm-donor as you think. I’d prefer my spawn
to have a father who wants them, first of all—that’s always
nice—plus, I’d want my spawn to inherit a little bit of humility
along with their chiseled cheeks and rock-hard abs.”

“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. From an
evolutionary
standpoint, humility is completely
counterproductive. Does a peacock say, ‘Aw, shucks,’ about the
feathers on his tail? No, he’s genetically engineered to
flaunt
his tail. Why? So he can attract the best peahen in
the flock.”

“Peahen?”

“The female version of peacock. The name for male
and females together is actually ‘peafowl.’”

“And you know this factoid because?”

“Because I grew up with Jonas. The dude’s got so
much weird shit trapped in his brain, it’s bizarre.”

I chuckle. “Well, I’m not a
peahen
, I’m a
human. And, either way, I don’t wanna make a baby with you—human,
peafowl, or otherwise. Not for really reals and not as part of an
evolutionary experiment. I’m too selfish. I’ve seen what it takes
from watching my mom, and no thanks—I’m quite happy going to work
and yoga classes and doing shitfaced karaoke.” I shrug.

Josh squints at me, apparently disbelieving my
sincerity.

I shrug. “What can I say? You can add
no-baby-no-thank-you to the list of ways I’m like a dude. I’m
missing the baby-gene—it’s not personal to you. I don’t even like
going to my friends’ baby showers.” I shrug. “But, hey, I’m only
twenty-four. Still a wee little baybay. Check back with me in ten
years when my biological clock is ticking like an atomic bomb—who
knows if I’ll be chomping at the bit to board the baby-train then?
You never know, I guess.”

“Hell no,” Josh says. He swigs his drink. “I won’t
give a shit about your ticking clock when you’re
thirty-four
. Pfft. Optimal child-bearing-age is twenty-six.
You’ll be no good to me when you’re thirty-fucking-four.”

“Why the
fuck
do you know the ‘optimal’
child-bearing-age for a woman? You’re creeping me out.”

Josh laughs heartily. “Jonas. I told you, the guy
knows everything. Ask him the life span of a blue whale or the
average rainfall in the Amazon or how to make a cherry bomb out of
paperclips and he’ll know it off the top of his head. The dude’s a
freak.” He sips his drink. “And Jonas says twenty-six is the magic
number. Past that, you’re just a useless sack of ovaries and
fallopian tubes, baby.”

I burst out laughing. People aren’t supposed to talk
this way. I absolutely love it.

After we finish laughing at the sheer ridiculousness
of our conversation, there’s a long, awkward beat. I keep waiting
for him to speak, but apparently, he’s waiting on me. Well, hell. I
might as well call out the pink elephant sitting smack in the
middle of the room.

“So does that mean you might want little Faradays
one day with some trampy little twenty-six-year-old? Is that what
you’re saying?” I ask.

Josh clears his throat. “Actually, no. I don’t know
why I just said all that. I was just trying to be snarky, but it
backfired. For some reason, whenever I’m with you, I say crazy shit
I’d never normally say. It’s like I get some sort of Kat-specific
Tourette’s Syndrome.”

I laugh. “I know the feeling—apparently, it’s a
two-way syndrome.”

“Actually, I’ve never been able to picture myself
having kids—but, then again, I’ve never been able to picture myself
more than two weeks into the future, unless you’re talking about
something business related, of course. Ask me to draw up a
five-year business plan for Climb & Conquer, and I’m your guy;
ask for year-to-year projections on a new investment, I’m on it;
but try to pin me down to coffee next week, and I freak out.”

“Gosh, I hadn’t noticed,” I say.

He ignores my sarcasm. “But, hey, same as you—check
back with me in ten years. Maybe guys have a biological clock,
too.”

I sip my drink, trying to seem casual, but my heart
is about to hurtle out of my chest and splatter against the wall. I
can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Guys don’t have a
biological clock,” I say. “Men can unleash their super-sperm any
ol’ time, even after every single one of their ball-hairs has
turned gray.”

He laughs.

“And, anyway, knowing you, I’d think I should check
back with you in
fifty
years, not ten. Given your extreme
terror of commitment, I wouldn’t want to cause you undue
stress.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good idea. I’ll unleash my
super-sperm at eighty. That way, when I go to the drugstore, I’ll
be able to buy diaper cream and denture cream at the same time.
One-stop-shopping.”

I laugh. “Awesome. You’re gonna win so hard at the
game of life, dude.”

He laughs. “‘Hey there, whippersnapper! I can’t find
my teeth! Let’s make a baby!’”

I laugh again. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure your
twenty-six-year-old tramp is gonna go weak in the knees over your
eighty-year-old ball sack and wrinkled ass. Talk about a
gold-digger—we both know that poor girl’s gonna be looking at her
watch every five minutes, just waiting for you to die.”

“Well, my future gold-digging spawn-carrying
twenty-six-year-old might not get weak in the knees over my saggy
ball-sack, I’ll grant you that, but she’s gonna cream her panties
over my wrinkled ass, I guarantee it. I mean, seriously, who could
resist a wrinkled ass stamped with ‘YOLO’?

I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Josh. Fifty years
from now, your twenty-six-year-old spawn-carrier won’t even know
what YOLO stands for. By then, YOLO will be the equivalent of
‘Daddy-o’ or ‘far out.’”

Josh puts on his “old man” voice again. “Damn kids.
Back in my day, YOLO ass-tattoos were the bees’ knees.”

“That statement will be a bald-faced lie—I don’t
care how far into the future you make it.”

“Aw, come on. Just wait. I’m a trendsetter, baby.
Sure, the trend hasn’t caught on
yet,
but it’s coming,
you’ll see.”

We share a huge smile.

“I really think we’re on to something here, Kat. If
I wait ’til after I’m diagnosed with dementia to have my first kid,
then I can have him and forget he was ever born all in the same
day.”

“Brilliant. Talk about a surefire way to solve your
fear of commitment.” I take a long swig of my very strong drink.
Wow, the vodka’s really hitting me hard.

Josh blanches. “Why do you keep saying I’m afraid of
commitment? You said that earlier, too. I’m not.”

I don’t reply. Oh shit. He looks genuinely offended.
“Oh,” I begin, at a loss. “I’m sorry. I thought I was saying
something that’s just a basic fact, like, ‘Your eyes are
blue.’”

“I had a girlfriend for three years, Kat,” he says.
“I’m not the least bit afraid of commitment.”

I feel the urge to laugh out loud, so I drain my
drink.

“I had a girlfriend for
three
years,” Josh
repeats. “I know how to commit.”

Fuck it. The vodka is giving me liquid courage.
“Honesty-game?” I ask.

He makes a face like he’s just bitten into a lemon.
“Yes?”

“You’re a commitment-phobe, Josh,” I say simply.
“Text-book.”

“No, I’m not. Absolutely not.”

“Yep.” I take a swig of my drink. “You are.”

“A three-year relationship isn’t a commitment?
What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?”

“About a year—with Nate.”

“Ha! You’re one to talk.”

I take another swig. “This isn’t about me and my
horrible relationship skills.” Oh wow, Josh put
a lot
of
vodka into my drink, didn’t he? “We’re talking about
you
and
yours
—
and the fact is you’re deathly afraid of commitment in
any form. Yes, you had a girlfriend for three years—and certainly
that meant
something
, I’ll grant you that, but it sounds
like it was three years of a whole lot of nothing. I’m sorry to
break it to you, but you and your girlfriend apparently never
talked
about anything real. You couldn’t be yourself around
her at all—and the minute you revealed who you really are, what you
really want, she shamed you and ran off with Prince Harry. So, yes,
you were in a relationship for three years, and, yes, it shows you
have character and integrity, but it doesn’t prove you’re not
afraid of commitment. I mean, in a way it proves your fear of
commitment even more so.”

“More so? Really? How do you figure?”

“Because you must have stayed with a woman like that
for a reason. You must have known deep down she was every bit as
incapable of emotional intimacy as you are. You liked that she
never required you to reveal a goddamned honest thing about
yourself in three freakin’ years.”

He looks shocked.

I press my lips together. Oh shit. I just dropped
another one of my atomic bombs, didn’t I? Oh fuck. That was harsh.
Honest, but harsh.

I just can’t help myself. Ever since reading Josh’s
application (and seeing Emma’s beautiful, shy photo in Josh’s Sick
Fuck folder), I’ve had somewhat of a fixation on this Emma bitch.
On the one hand, I’ve felt the primal urge to rip her limb from
limb for hurting Josh. And, on the other hand, I’ve honestly been a
bit obsessed with trying to figure out why the heck he stayed so
long with a woman who was so obviously his total mismatch in every
way (other than the fact that she’s literally the most stunningly
beautiful creature I’ve ever seen).

Josh looks floored. Pissed, I’d even say.

“Damn, that drink you made me was really, really
strong,” I say, my face turning hot.

Josh’s jaw muscles are pulsing like crazy.

Shit. Maybe I’ve totally misjudged this. Maybe he
can commit. Hell, maybe he was on the verge of asking Emma to marry
him, for all I know. Oh, jeez, yes. Maybe that’s why he now says
marriage isn’t in the cards for him? Is Josh just a case study of a
man with a shattered heart? But, clearly, I can’t ask him if he was
about to propose. It’s too sensitive. I opt for something slightly
more innocuous. “So did you and Emma live together?”

Josh makes a face I’m not expecting, like he’s
embarrassed about what he’s about to say. “No. It was a
long-distance relationship. She lives in New York.”

Oh, Sweet Jesus. Is he frickin’ kidding me? “It was
a
long-distance relationship
?” I boom, totally shocked.

“Yeah. So?” he says, clearly defensive. “I get out
to New York all the time for work. I saw her a lot.”

There’s a very long silence.

Josh’s face is bright red.

I’m sure mine is, too.

James Bay is singing to us about scars.

I feel like I’ve said way, way, way too much. My
inner-bitch just came out full-force. God, I suck sometimes. “So...
what’s your favorite movie of all time?” I ask brightly. “If you
could be anyone from *NSync other than Justin Timberlake, who would
you be? Do you have a spirit animal?”

“You’re not what I’d call the world’s foremost
expert on relationships,” Josh says, his voice low and intense. “I
wouldn’t exactly hire you to write the definitive textbook on
How to Have a Healthy, Lasting Relationship
.”

I part my lips, speechless.

His jaw is clenched.

I squint at him for a long moment, trying to look
like a badass—but then, goddammit, tears prick my eyes. “You’re
right,” I finally say. “I pretty much suck at relationships.” I
wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry for saying all that stuff. I shouldn’t
have said it.”

He twists his mouth and exhales. “If you hadn’t said
it, you’d still be thinking it.”

I don’t correct him. He’s right.

He shakes his head. “I must say, you have quite a
knack for
not
kissing my ass, Kat.”

I smash my lips together.

“I’m not used to it,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say.

Josh shakes his head like he’s chastising me. “No
apology required.”

I bite my lip.

He grazes his fingertips up the length of my arm and
my skin electrifies under his touch.

“You get really sassy when you’re buzzed, you know
that?” he says.

I nod. My crotch is suddenly burning.

“But you know what?”

I wait.

“I
really
like sassy.”

I bite my lip. My heart is racing at his simple
touch.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” he asks softly. His
fingers move up my arm and drift along my jawline. “When I said
you’re a flop-dick when it comes to relationships?”

I smile. “Oh, is that what you said? Jeez, that’s a
whole lot meaner than what I
thought
you said. All I thought
you said was you wouldn’t hire me to write some textbook.”

He chuckles. His fingertips skim the length of my
hairline.

“I’m not mad at you,” I say softly. “I’m the
opposite of mad at you.”

He smiles wickedly. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Josh touches my chin and my body ignites. He leans
in and kisses me gently.

We sit and stare at each other for a moment. A
legion of butterflies has unleashed inside my stomach.

His eyes drift to my empty glass. “Would you like
another one, Party Girl? The night is still young.”

“Yes, thank you. But not nearly as strong this time,
Playboy. I wanna be fully conscious for whatever might happen next.
Something tells me it’s gonna be good.”

He smirks. “Good idea.” He stands, grabs my glass,
and heads toward the kitchen—but before he turns the corner, he
turns back around. “Hey, Kat. Thanks for always playing the
honesty-game with me. So few people do that with me—most people
just kiss my ass.”

“Well, you can hardly blame ‘most people,’
Josh—you’ve got a truly kissable ass.”

He grins. “Thanks to the ‘YOLO’ stamped on it—which,
I’m telling you is gonna be all the rage one of these days, mark my
words.”