Page 47 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
“Ice cream?” I repeat in a tone that impliesdo you even hear yourself?
“Why not?” He chews on a fry, completely at ease.
“Are you really not freaking out over having the s-e-x talk with our daughter? Because I feel like I’m going to throw up over it.”
“It had to happen eventually.” He shrugs those muscular shoulders that are a prominent feature when he pops up on magazines. Paparazzi love to catch him at the beach shirtless. “Am I happy about it? Hell no. I want to wring the neck of whatever kid told her this shit, but I’m not going to freak out about it, or punish her because some kid ran his mouth with nonsense, and now we have to correct it.”
“True.” I take a breath. “This parenting thing is hard.”
“It is.” He takes a sip of water, clearing his throat. “But I think we’re doing a pretty good job. I mean, no one’s perfect, but I don’t think we’re the worst.” He fiddles with the utensils even though he doesn’t need them. “As for what we should say, I think honesty is the best policy in this case. We don’t have to give details.” He cringes, his lips pinched like he tastes something sour. “Personally, I don’t want to lie and say the stork dropped her off either.”
“I agree. I always thought we wouldn’t have to deal with these difficult conversations until she’s older, but here we are.”
He reaches across the table, gripping my hand for a moment before pulling it back with a shake of his head like he’s done something he shouldn’t have. “It’ll be okay. Don’t overthink it.”
After waiting for Spencer to take photos with the waitress and some patrons, as well as sign autographs, we finally make our way out of the restaurant. He walks in front of me, pulling on a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. His t-shirt is tailored to his lean chest and stomach, hugging in all the right places, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s custom made for him. Surely no one would drop hundreds of dollars for a custom basic tee, but I guess with the money he has now, a couple hundred probably seems like nothing.
He pushes the door open, nodding for me to go first.
That’s when the flashing lights explode across my vision.
“For fucks sake,” he growls.
I’m blinded by the lights, but I can sense myself being tucked against his body. I know it’s his from the feel and smell. His body is as familiar to me as my own.
“I’ve got you.” His lips are close to my ear as he shuffles along, ignoring the questions shouted at him from the paparazzi.
“Spencer! Spencer! Who’s your lunch date?”
“Spencer! Are you off the market now?”
“Over here! Smile! Give us something!”
“Who’s the woman, Spencer?”
“My car is around the corner,” he murmurs in my ear.
I’m too taken by surprise to voice anything about leaving mine behind. The last thing I want to do is turn around and handle that horde. I let him guide me into a parking lot, the shouts following.
“Fuck.” He fumbles in his pocket, yanking out his keys. Normally I would smile at the Pascal—from Tangled—keychain dangling from his hand, a gift Monroe chose for him on his last birthday, but it’s impossible to bring a smile to my lips under the current harassment.
“Who are you?” Now their shouts are directed at me.
“Are you dating?”
“Who is she?”
“Give us something!”
“Spencer! Spencer! Spencer!”
There’s a chirping sound and then Spencer’s opening the door to the black Range Rover, with heavily tinted windows, for me. He practically shoves me inside while yelling at the paparazzi.
“Back off! Can’t you see you’re upsetting her!” He closes the door and I reach up, feeling the dampness on my cheeks. I don’t even know when I started crying. “Get your pictures. I’m fucking leaving.”
I watch in the sideview mirror as he spreads his arms wide. He stands there for ten full seconds before he rushes to the driver’s side and the assholes follow.
Spencer slams his hand down on the locks, tosses his baseball cap in the back, and starts the car all in one breath.
