Pretty Little Mistake

“I can’t believe I have to present this proposal from your couch,” Lennon gripes, trying to put on mascara. I’m not sure why holding her mouth in an O shape is going to help all that much.

“I’ll be right beside you,” I remind her.

I could’ve gone into the office while Lennon had to call in for the meeting with Jaci, but we’re teammates on this project, and I want to do it together.

“I know.” She sets down the mascara wand and reaches for a tube of lipstick, or maybe it’s gloss. It looks to have some sort of glitter in it. “But somehow you’ll manage to look impeccable, and I’ll look like me.”

“Do you have any idea how fucking hot you are?” Lennon is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Even when we were young, I knew she was a special kind of pretty. “You’re gorgeous, Len. You make me fucking crazy.”

“I don’t know if that’s much of a compliment. You’re already crazy.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I growl in annoyance. “I’m trying to be nice.”

Her lips twitch in amusement. “Try harder.”

Somehow, we both manage to finish getting ready and park our asses on the couch for the meeting. I turn on my computer, logging into Zoom to wait for Jaci.

Lennon nervously picks at the edge of her thumbnail. “What if she doesn’t like our proposal?”

“Then we did the best job we could.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though I’m feeling the nerves as well.

Jaci is meeting with every team individually over the next week; then she’ll deliberate about which proposal she’s going to choose. This whole thing feels very much like a test, one I hope we pass. As much as I want this win for myself, I find myself wanting it for Lennon even more. Who the fuck am I becoming?

Is this growth? Or is it a dad thing, since I’m going to be a parent soon and now my brain is suddenly hardwired to care about another person’s success?

Lennon wiggles around on the couch, trying to find a comfortable place to sit. She already spent five minutes this morning grumbling that her ass is sore from not being able to move around enough. I feel bad, but what else can I do?

She ceases her wiggling just in time for Jaci to start the meeting.

“If it isn’t my favorite couple.” She beams from the screen. “How are you feeling, Lennon?”

“So far, so good. I have a long way to go, so we’ll see how I hold up.”

Jaci clucks her tongue in sympathy. “I hope you have everything together. I can’t wait to see what you have for me.”

I launch into my spiel on what we want to do, the people we’ve already interviewed, and the others we have on tap should our project get chosen. Jaci doesn’t give anything away as she listens to us. I have no way of knowing if she’s connecting with our idea or not.

“This is a really important public issue that needs to be addressed in a big way,” Lennon says from my side, her eyes intent upon our boss. “Women are constantly overlooked for promotions, even when they’re more qualified, not to mention when they are in a position of power, it’s usually degraded by someone around them. We’re more than our looks or, dare I say it, our vaginas.” I have to cover my face at the word vagina, because I have the sense of humor of a prepubescent boy. “It’s wrong in this day and age for women to be told they only got where they are because they’re pretty, or sleeping to the top, or, on the other end of things, being told they’ll never amount to anything because they don’t look the part.” Taking a breath to slow herself down, she adds, “Women even face questions regarding if they plan to have kids. Men usually aren’t asked about that. It’s why I think this idea is worthy of its own stand-alone spring issue.”

We finish up our presentation. Jaci smiles, tapping her pencil against her desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Is there a hidden meaning in that tapping? Morse code? I don’t know Morse code. What if she’s telling us we’re the winning proposal, and I can’t even tell because I don’t know the fucking code?

“Thank you for sharing with me. I have a few more teams to listen to before I make my decision. Have a great day and get some rest, Lennon.”

She ends the meeting, leaving Lennon and me in silence.

A few minutes go by, the two of us frozen, before Lennon says, “Do you think she liked it?”

I run my fingers through my hair. “I have no fucking clue.”

We’ll just have to wait and see.

I lock up the guest room behind me, peeking to make sure that Lennon hasn’t decided to take this moment for a snack or bathroom break. Even though I keep insisting that she ask for my assistance, she refuses. Stubborn woman.

After double-checking that the door is locked, I mumble a greeting to Cheddar, who’s lurking in the hallway. He gives me a look that says I’m up to no good. This might be true.

On the couch, I find Lennon typing away on her computer. She stops when she sees me, lifting her blue-light glasses to the top of her head. She’s taken to wearing them recently, and I haven’t told her, but she’s giving me a glasses kink. I’ve jerked off at least five times in the past week just to the thought of her wearing those glasses and nothing else.

“Why is there paint on your shirt?”

“Huh?” I pull my shirt away from my body, shocked to find a smear of cream-colored paint across the gray fabric. And here I thought I was being so careful. “Would you look at that?” I stride into the kitchen, on a mission for some water, and a fleeting hope that she’ll forget about what she saw.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she singsongs.

The bottom of the fridge sees the annoyed face I pull. “I enjoy painting,” I call back.

“You’re telling me that you, Beckham Sullivan, are an amateur artist?”

I swipe a bottle of water, returning to the living area. There’s no point in hiding since she’s like a dog with a bone. She isn’t going to drop this conversation.

“Uh . . . yeah. I’m a creative guy. Painting is a great outlet.”

“You keep that door locked to hide your art?” She doesn’t believe me. Not surprising since I’m lying through my teeth.

“It’s private.”

Her eyes narrow on me. “If you’re painting yourself nude, that’s both weird and I have seen your penis, so I’m not sure why you’d be hiding it.”

“I’m not painting nudes.”

Her nose crinkles adorably. Finger wagging at me, she says, “I’m onto you, Wazowski.”

“I think someone’s been watching too many Disney movies this week.”

I toss my now-empty water bottle, then swipe a bag of chips from my pantry cabinet.

“It’s not my fault Monsters, Inc. is a masterpiece.”

“I’m aware—you’ve made me watch it twice this week and the sequel once.”

Her mouth drops with indignation. “It’s a prequel! Did you not pay attention? I’m putting it on again.” She slaps her hand against the couch. “Sit.”

I’ll gladly watch the movie again if that means she’ll forget about the paint on my clothes.

“Put the movie on, I’ll be right back.” I practically sprint down the hall to change out of my shirt so that the paint stain can’t serve as a glaring reminder of what I was up to.

After stuffing the shirt in the laundry basket, I yank out one in a similar color from the drawer. The dresser and closet are overflowing with my stuff and Lennon’s.

I used to think something like that would send me into a panic, the mixing of two lives; instead, I find myself liking seeing her stuff interspersed with mine. Beckham of a year ago would not believe where I am now, but I don’t find myself wishing for it to be any other way.

Lennon has the movie starting when I enter the room. I take her laptop from her, setting it on the coffee table before I pick up her feet and place them in my lap when I sit down. It’s become automatic for me to massage her feet when she’s like this. The tiny little noises of pleasure she makes are the sweetest kind of torture, and I know I’ll be spending more time with my hand later. I haven’t jacked off this much since I was fifteen.

With a gruff meow, Cheddar jumps up on the coffee table, tail swishing.

“Come here, Cheddie.” I can’t believe she’s given my cat a nickname. “Lay with me.”

He gently pounces onto the couch, curling himself on top of her. “I think my cat is in love with you.”

She pets him behind the ears, his purr loud enough to be mistaken for a freight train. “That’s because he’s a good boy who has taste.”

“I don’t know about that,” I joke, cursing when she pinches the hair on my arm. “Hey,” I scold, “I’m rubbing your feet here.”

“And I’m pregnant, so you wouldn’t dare stop.” She shoots a beaming smile my way. With a gasp so loud my heart drops to my feet because I think something’s wrong, she says, “We should do that!”

“Do what?” I growl, trying to calm my out-of-control heart. This woman is going to be the end of me.

She swishes her hand dramatically at the TV. “For Halloween next year with the baby! Since everyone we work with calls you Sulli, you’ll be Sulley.” She sounds so pleased with herself. “It’s pretty perfect since his last name is Sullivan, too, and that’s where he gets his nickname. The baby can be Boo—even if it’s a boy, I think that could work. I mean, who cares?”

“It’s a girl,” I say emphatically. “And what would you be?”

She gapes at me. “Mike, duh.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Yes, you should’ve.”

She was a Dementor this year, so a one-eyed green monster makes perfect sense.

I don’t tell her, but hearing her talk about things in the future, like Halloween, gives me hope that maybe I won’t fuck all this up. I don’t want to ruin us, but sometimes it feels like good things aren’t meant for me.