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Authors: Paula T Renfroe
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into the shower within the next ten minutes, she’d still be able to keep her eyebrow appointment with Guadalupe in Manhattan.
“Sweetheart, when are you getting off the pill?” Sean asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“What? Where’d that come from?” Lang asked, confused.
“I’m ready to start our family, Lang. I know we said when you’re thirty-five, but what’s a year earlier?”
“Um, baby, I’m only thirty-three—that’s two whole years earlier.”
“Not really. You’re not factoring in the nine months of pregnancy. I want the baby born no later than your thirty-fifth birthday. I don’t want to just be getting started at thirty-five.”
Lang slid off her husband and back into her shorts. “Wow. I guess I had a different understanding of our timeline.”
“Look, Lang, I don’t want to wait anymore. You asked me to wait for you to pitch and sell this magazine idea that you had, and I did that. What is it we’re waiting for exactly?”
“I dunno, the right time, I guess.”
“But what makes thirty-five a better time for you than thirty-three?”
Lang had to carefully consider her answer because she wasn’t really sure. One thing she was certain of, though, was that she definitely didn’t want to still be messing around with Dante if and when she was finally ready to get pregnant. That was a bit too foul, even for Lang. But she couldn’t plan on ending something that hadn’t even begun. And now surely wasn’t the time to confess to her husband that she was actually reconsidering having children, period.
“Baby, I want to start our family, I really do,” Lang said hesitantly, concerned more about appeasing him than admitting the truth. “And you’re absolutely right. There really isn’t a reason to wait, except I have to know in my heart that I’m ready to be a mother.”
“What exactly are you saying, Lang?” Sean asked.
“I’m saying we have to time this pregnancy right. I need to get proactive in naming an executive editor and grooming that person to take my spot so I can take at least a six-week maternity leave.”
“Okay, now you’re speaking my language,” Sean said, reaching inside her shorts.
“Babe, I gotta get ready for my appointment,” Lang said, sliding away from her husband’s reach. “We don’t have time for round two right now, but there’s always tonight.”
“Keep talking. I like what I’m hearing,” Sean said, smiling.
“Oh, really? You think we can take the sequel to the bedroom the next time?”
Sean laughed, grabbing his basketball shorts off the floor, sliding off his wife beater, and heading toward the bathroom in all his naked splendor, leaving Lang alone in the “black love” room to smooth out her cushions and fluff up her pillows again.
Chapter 7
“You’re callin’ me, frontin’ like everything’s lovely, when really you’re pissed to hear that I’m not available and at your service.”
S ean dropped Lang off at a Starbucks within walking distance of the salon. Her appointment with Guadalupe wasn’t until three, so she ordered an unsweetened Venti iced coffee with light ice and heavy cream and then leisurely strolled toward Excellent and Innovative a few blocks away. As she passed a popular seafood restaurant with outdoor seating, she spotted a diamond-white Escalade.
Okay, he doesn’t have the only iridescent white Cadillac SUV in New York City, Lang thought, kneading away her brewing anxiety. The mental massage lasted only seconds though. Her black lace thong still hung from his rearview mirror.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered. Okay, this could be just a coincidence , she thought. But Lang knew better—she’d also seen his vanity plates, UNVME . Shit, shit, shit, I wonder where he is .
Lang glanced around, looking out for both Sean and Dante. Did Sean say he was going to watch a game on West Third Street or play in a game at Chelsea Piers? Either way, neither was far enough for her to feel even remotely
“Sweetheart, when are you getting off the pill?” Sean asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“What? Where’d that come from?” Lang asked, confused.
“I’m ready to start our family, Lang. I know we said when you’re thirty-five, but what’s a year earlier?”
“Um, baby, I’m only thirty-three—that’s two whole years earlier.”
“Not really. You’re not factoring in the nine months of pregnancy. I want the baby born no later than your thirty-fifth birthday. I don’t want to just be getting started at thirty-five.”
Lang slid off her husband and back into her shorts. “Wow. I guess I had a different understanding of our timeline.”
“Look, Lang, I don’t want to wait anymore. You asked me to wait for you to pitch and sell this magazine idea that you had, and I did that. What is it we’re waiting for exactly?”
“I dunno, the right time, I guess.”
“But what makes thirty-five a better time for you than thirty-three?”
Lang had to carefully consider her answer because she wasn’t really sure. One thing she was certain of, though, was that she definitely didn’t want to still be messing around with Dante if and when she was finally ready to get pregnant. That was a bit too foul, even for Lang. But she couldn’t plan on ending something that hadn’t even begun. And now surely wasn’t the time to confess to her husband that she was actually reconsidering having children, period.
“Baby, I want to start our family, I really do,” Lang said hesitantly, concerned more about appeasing him than admitting the truth. “And you’re absolutely right. There really isn’t a reason to wait, except I have to know in my heart that I’m ready to be a mother.”
“What exactly are you saying, Lang?” Sean asked.
“I’m saying we have to time this pregnancy right. I need to get proactive in naming an executive editor and grooming that person to take my spot so I can take at least a six-week maternity leave.”
“Okay, now you’re speaking my language,” Sean said, reaching inside her shorts.
“Babe, I gotta get ready for my appointment,” Lang said, sliding away from her husband’s reach. “We don’t have time for round two right now, but there’s always tonight.”
“Keep talking. I like what I’m hearing,” Sean said, smiling.
“Oh, really? You think we can take the sequel to the bedroom the next time?”
Sean laughed, grabbing his basketball shorts off the floor, sliding off his wife beater, and heading toward the bathroom in all his naked splendor, leaving Lang alone in the “black love” room to smooth out her cushions and fluff up her pillows again.
Chapter 7
“You’re callin’ me, frontin’ like everything’s lovely, when really you’re pissed to hear that I’m not available and at your service.”
S ean dropped Lang off at a Starbucks within walking distance of the salon. Her appointment with Guadalupe wasn’t until three, so she ordered an unsweetened Venti iced coffee with light ice and heavy cream and then leisurely strolled toward Excellent and Innovative a few blocks away. As she passed a popular seafood restaurant with outdoor seating, she spotted a diamond-white Escalade.
Okay, he doesn’t have the only iridescent white Cadillac SUV in New York City, Lang thought, kneading away her brewing anxiety. The mental massage lasted only seconds though. Her black lace thong still hung from his rearview mirror.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered. Okay, this could be just a coincidence , she thought. But Lang knew better—she’d also seen his vanity plates, UNVME . Shit, shit, shit, I wonder where he is .
Lang glanced around, looking out for both Sean and Dante. Did Sean say he was going to watch a game on West Third Street or play in a game at Chelsea Piers? Either way, neither was far enough for her to feel even remotely
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