Page 66 of I Wanna Be Your Lager

“Neither did she. But she does now.”

I blow out a deep breath. We now know the downfall of knowing random facts. This is going to require a beer. Pushing myself to my full height, I grab a pint glass and fill it with beer from the tap. Since he’s been in here several times, I know what he drinks. I place the full glass on the coaster. “It’s on me.”

He eyes the beer before reaching for it and taking a sip. “Thank you.”

What do I tell him? It’s obvious he needs help, but I’m not the one who should give it to him. Where’s Rylee when you need her? I can’t stall much longer. By then, he’ll have finished his beer. Dates. Dates. Dates. OneDate. I perk up. “I think I know what your problem is. You need to build up some confidence for when you go out on your dates.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Nora’s creating a dating app?—”

“I have the date. I just need to not have her hate me by the end.”

“No. This isn’t a traditional dating app.” I pull out my phone and unlock the screen. I click on the app, and my profile pops up. “This app is for when someone needs a date to a function but doesn’t have one. It’s no strings attached. No expectations. You just show up as someone’s date. You could use it to go on some practice dates. Get comfortable dating without all the pressure.”

He checks out my profile and some of the menu options while nodding. “How do I join?”

He passes back my phone, and I shove it in my pocket. “You’ll have to talk to Nora. It’s still in beta testing, but it should be live soon. I’m sure she’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks. OneDate seems like it could be the cure to my problem.”

I’m a fucking genius. Move over, Rylee. There’s a new advice giver in town. Just kidding. Rylee can keep the position. This shit’s stressful. On the note of providing amazing advice, I really wish someone could give me some in return. It’s getting harder and harder the longer we wait to tell Jake.

THIRTY-TWO

CALLING MR. SHART

Eve

Have you ever been forced to do something you don’t want to do, but it’s the responsible thing to do? This is me. I’m going on record to say that adulting sucks. All I want to do is stomp my feet, cross my arms, pout, and say no. It worked when I was five. Why can’t it work now? Over the past two weeks, my anxiety skyrocketed every time I thought about picking up the phone. Life would be so much better if I didn’t have to make this phone call. Ugh. Fine. He deserves to know. But I already know what his reaction will be. How could I do this? I’m trying to trap him. It’s my fault. Blah. Blah. Fucking blah. Shit Bag doesn’t believe in consequences for his actions. Let me point to Exhibit A. Cheating on his wife with me as his girlfriend. Why is this so much harder than when I told Lach I was pregnant? Maybe because I’m dreading having to tell Fuck Nugget he’s going to be a daddy. I’d much rather have it be Lach’s. Surprise, surprise, life has to punch me in the tit and give me the worst possible human as the baby daddy. I cross my arms over my chest and pout. I need to rip this off like a leg wax strip.

Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my contacts until I find his number and unblock him. Calling Mr. Shart flashes on the screen. It rings a few times. I throw up a silent prayer that his voicemail picks up, and I can just leave him a courtesy message. Unfortunately, everything is against me, and he picks up on the fourth ring.

“Eve, I’m so glad you called. I knew we could work this out.”

My jaw clenches. “Oh, there’s nothing to work out,” I seethe. “And I don’t think this phone call is one you’re expecting.”

“Of course I was expecting your call. It’s okay to still be in love with me. I feel the same.”

He loves me but can’t even say it. Ugh! Why the fuck do I care? I don’t. This is just one of the many reasons he’s a piece of shit. I jump to my feet. If only there was a way I could punch through the phone and wring his neck. “Oh, fuck no! Sorry to burst your overinflated ego. But I’m calling to tell you I’m pregnant.” Goodbye, hairy wax strip. “And it’s yours.” It’s silent for a few seconds, which is out of the ordinary for the used douche. I check my phone to make sure he hasn’t hung up on me, but the timer continues to tick away.

“What do you mean, pregnant?” His words are a low whisper.

“I’m pregnant, as in with child. A small fetus is growing inside my uterus. It will make its grand appearance in about six months. I’m that kind of pregnant. And unfortunately, it’s yours.”

“How do you know I’m the father when you were sleeping around as soon as you left the hotel room in Florida? Or the guy claiming to be your boyfriend?”

I pinch my eyes shut, needing to channel my inner zen. “Based on time of conception, you were the only one I was sleeping with.”

“What the fuck, Eve? How could you do this?”

I rear my head back. I shouldn’t be surprised this is his take because I called it, but I am. “Excuse me? It takes two people to have a fucking baby, asshole.”

“I have a wife,” he whispers. “I can’t be having a kid with someone else.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I pace from one side of the living room to the other. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before sticking your dick in me while having a wife.”

“What do you want? Money? Five thousand? Ten thousand? My wife can’t know about this.”

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