Page 92 of Maid of Dishonor

Chet throws his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes. “Maya, what do you want from me? You wanted to get married, so I said yes. Now you don’t want to get married, so I’m saying okay. What more do you want?”

“I want you to care!” she shouts. “I want you to care that I’m pregnant with your child. I want you to care that my life is never going to be the same. I want to not feel like your afterthought!” Her bottom lip quivers, but she doesn’t cry.

Chet shakes his head. “I care, Maya,” he says, sounding exasperated. “That’s why I’m saying let’s do whatever you want.”

He doesn’t get it. And to be fair, I can see why he thinks deferring to Maya is the right thing to do. He simply doesn’t understand—and he doesn’t understand because she’s right, hedoesn’tcare. Not the way he should if they ever wanted to make this work. It was fairly simple for him to agree to the wedding, because he didn’t care enough to want more than what would help him. Now it’s easy for him to setasidethe wedding, because he’s not dying to be married to her.

“Fine,” Maya says, holding up one hand to stop him from saying anything else. “You don’t—but fine. It’s fine.” She blinks a few times, squeezing her eyes closed as though to ward off her tears. “Thank you for respecting my wishes.”

My heart breaks for her then. It rips right down the center as she thanks Chet for doing what he thinks he’s supposed to do.

She just wants someone to love her.

Chet nods and then pauses, scratching his head. “Should I just, like, give you some money for the baby? Or…”

At this Maya shakes her head, sniffling. “I’ll be in touch about that,” she promises. She pauses, then says, “And are you going to want to meet the baby? Are you going to want visitation rights?”

“It would be cool to see it, like, once, maybe,” Chet says. “Or you could send me a picture when it’s born. But I don’t—I’m not sure I would feel the need to be an active part of its life,” he says.

Because this isn’t my conversation, I don’t say anything about him calling the baby “it.” I do, however, end up with a mental image of some sort of E.T.-like alien baby growing inside Maya. It’s a disturbing thought.

That being said, though, I do find myself strangely grateful that Chet is being so forward and honest without being rude. This conversation was never going to be easy between them, but it could be going a lot worse.

Maya nods, looking relieved at his answer. “I can send you a photo after the birth,” she says.

“Cool.” And he genuinely looks content with that. “So…I guess this is it, then,” he says, bracing his hands on his knees and then standing.

Maya follows suit, standing next to him. “I guess it is,” she agrees tiredly.

Chet turns toward her and wraps her in his arms. “You’ll be an awesome mom, babe,” he says. “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” she says, nodding against his chest. Then, pushing him gently away, she says, “Give Yolanda my love.”

“Oh,” Chet says, looking surprised. He points one thumb over his shoulder, toward the front door. “She’s actually waiting in the car. You want to come say hey?”

“You brought—she’s waiting in the—” Maya begins incredulously, but then she just sighs. “No, Chet. I’m good.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” And then, just like that, he’s leaving—silently and, it seems, completely contentedly.

I look at Carter. Carter looks at me. And judging by our twin looks of relief, I know we’re both thinking the same thing: that it’s over. It’s over, and there will be no more planning, no more omens, no more bridesmaid’s dress fittings.

“Who wants to watch a movie?” Maya says, surprising me.

“Oh,” Carter says from next to me, sounding just as surprised as I am. “Yeah, let’s watch a movie.”

Maya nods. “Good. A movie. I’ll find something.”

I know we’re going to end up with another indie drama, but right now, I don’t even care. If that’s how Maya wants to escape, we’ll do it.

As soon as Maya excuses herself to go make popcorn, Carter turns to me, and I’m surprised to see him looking way more serious than I expect.

“Sam,” he says, taking my hands in his. “I would care. If you told me you didn’t want to marry me, I would care. And that’s not a proposal,” he adds quickly, “because I’m not ready to get married, Sam. I need at least, like, a year, to wrap my brain around loving someone this much, but—”

“Whoa, whoa,whoa,” I cut him off, my eyes widening further with every word he says. “Carter, we don’t need to get married in a year—”

“I know,” he says. “I know we don’t. I’m just—” He breaks off, running his hand through his hair. “What I’m saying is that I would care. And that you’re—you’re part of my five-year plan.”

His hands are clenched so tightly around mine, his eyes so vulnerable and his words so impassioned, that I can’t do anything other than lean in and kiss him.

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