Page 9 of I Think He Knows

Either way, Dr. Lemay would tell me it’s progress.

Ultimately, I’m glad I got pregnant. My daughter is the crowning achievement of my life. And Steven is an idiot and a fool for not wanting to know her.

But while I’m proud of the job I’ve done as a single mother, I understand that she’s becoming more and more aware that we are a family of two. And I worry sometimes that I’m not always going to be enough for her. Case in point: I may make a mean s’more, but I’m not a great candidate for accompanying my daughter to a daddy daughter campout.

How on earth do I explain to her that she will not be “getting a new daddy” within the month? Or maybe ever?

Because I’m not going on this date tonight to find a husband, per se. Although, long term, that wouldn’t be the worst outcome.

I’m going because I’m on a mission to get over my stupid, unrequited crush on my best friend of almost a decade. Once and for all.

With perfect precision timing, my phone vibrates in my lap.

Carter:What time should I get myarseto the mall, then?

4

CARTER

“How about Zac Efron’s birthday party? It’s two weeks from Friday.”

I let out a heavy exhale as I rack the barbell above my head, then look up warily from the workout bench. “Where is it this year?”

Last year, it was on a boat. A big ass boat. In the Mediterranean. Which was actually a lot of fun until a certain former teen pop star took some mushrooms of the magic variety and dove off the boat on the premise of wrestling a shark that he believed was sassing him. I had to dive in after him and fish him out by his neon-pink swim shorts. Idiot.

Anthony checks his notes. “It’s going to be at that club you don’t like in West Hollywood.”

“The one with the aerial dancers?”

“Yeah, that one. Guess he’s keeping the party small this year.”

I screw up my nose. Anthony’s right, I don’t like that club. Last time I was there, one of the supposed aerial dancers was much less aerial than she was meant to be and booted me in the head with her stiletto. I still have the scar by my temple. That little puncture bled like a son of a gun, and I don’t particularly want a repeat performance. Or more photos of me in the tabloids looking dazed and bloodied in a nightclub.

You’d be surprised how many of those have turned up of late. Or not surprised at all, if you believe the things you read about me.

“Put me down as a maybe,” I say as I pick up the bar again. Fourth and final set.

In my peripheral, I see Ant recross his legs and roll his eyes theatrically. He’s perched delicately as a bird on the sidebar of a nearby squat cage. “I’d give my left—actually no, my right—testicle to be within twenty feet of Zac. I mean, the man iseveryman’s man crush, and you’re allput me down as a maybe because I’m personally offended by aerial dancers.” He says the last bit slowly, in a grunty, low tone that I assume is meant to be mocking my voice but sounds more like a disgruntled caveman.

Which is how he probably views me, come to think of it.

I give my assistant squinty eyes. “You have a preferred testicle?”

“You don’t?”

I do not. But Idowant to end this conversation about our anatomy, so instead of responding, I continue extending and retracting my arms, forcing the stacked barbell that’s almost impossibly heavy in motion, enjoying the burn of lactic acid through my biceps and chest. I’ve grown to love working out. It’s an important part of my job as I’m expected to keep my body in prime condition. Workouts are necessary, even on my days off like today, but I like the endorphins.

“Okay. So, a ‘maybe’ for Zac’s party,” Ant murmurs. “Let’s circle back to today’s schedule. I need you to be at the airport by noon. We land around three local time in LAX, and then you have that early dinner with Freya DiMauritz.”

“Oh, yeah. Did Elena confirm that’s happening then?”

Elena Sanchez is my manager and a force to be reckoned with. To the point where, from the moment I set foot on LA soil after my days off, my schedule is jam-packed to the extreme. Not that I can blame the woman. She’s spent the past few weeks having to work overtime herself, thanks to me.

“Yup,” Ant says cheerily. “It’s an opportunity for you two to get papped together.”

“K,” I say on an exhale. I hate the word “papped”—it reminds me of pap smears, which I learned about in great detail nine years ago while sitting in the waiting room at the hospital as Lana Mae was having Legs. I accidentally stumbled upon the world’s most descriptive pamphlet on the topic, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to delete the information from my brain. But I don’t bother to explain this aloud because I really have had enough anatomy talk for one day.

Eight… nine… ten.