The Brave And The Toastless {41} I Love Ketchup But That Doesn't Mean I Want To Bang The Hamburglar

For fear that he'd whip open his leather motorcycle jacket and pull out a pair of binoculars with a two foot lens, I composed myself, recalled a few tips from my bounty hunter past, and pursued the six foot tall hoodlum whose shitzu-esque hair was bobbing along the horizon. I promised Pace I'd meet him later and, equally eager to keep assault and battery off of Devon's resume, he understood.

I ran quickly across the street, high-fiving the no crossing sign as I went. It was time to maim, disfigure, and introduce one new eunuch to the world, and I was going to make the best of it. Though, it did take me two weeks to get Devon's flesh out from under my fingernails after our last encounter, maybe it's time I went easy on neurotic stalker boy.
Perhaps it's time to throw him a bone.
An arsenic-laced bone to exemplify my overwhelming generosity.

When I caught up with Devon he was trying to conceal himself behind a Fitness for Geriatrics magazine, looking thoroughly engrossed with an article on cellulite, the eighth wonder of the Bingo Night-goers world.

"Devon! Don't pretend you don't know me. What do you think you're doing?" I tore the magazine from his hands and shoved it clumsily back onto a shelf. "You look like a bipedal Q-Tip. I'm sorry but a moving inanimate object is going to attract a little attention!"

Devon pulled me out of the general flow of traffic on the busy sidewalk and to the side of a building with his signature look of innocence and the classy excuse, "I was in the neighborhood."

"And you sudden felt the urge to stalk?"

"I was eating celery."

I smiled discreetly. "If you expect me to trust you then you're automatically required to trust me in return."

"You said you were having dinner with an old friend! Not a guy who you used to date and who might be the father of your fucking child!"

I scrutinized the relaxed look on Devon's face. "Are you angry or do you just need more celery?"

"I'm not angry."

I sighed and stared back at Devon with a teasing look in my eye. "Well I don't think I've ever seen you jealous."

"I'm not jealous! I have no reason to be jealous of a man can trace his family tree back to Charlie Brown!"

"Than why are you here?"

"I just got out of lunch with Donald."

"Duck?"

"No," he answered defiantly. "Trump."

"Bye, Devon." I began to walk away, thoroughly annoyed. Pace was only in for a week and I only have so many friends of the sane persuasion.

"Wait." Devon pulled on my jacket and twirled me around to hold my arms. "You don't still have feelings for Pace, do you?"

"Of course not, how could I?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" A wide grin broke out across his face.

"Nothing."

"Come on," he teased. "Just say it."

"A confession of my undying love doesn't come cheap, Devon."
"Okay, will two dollars cover it?"

I scoffed before admitting, "barely."

Devon lifted me off the ground by my waist, forcing me to wrap my legs around him. I looked down at him as he held me up and, to keep from turning into a giggly mush, a tragic symptom of reenacting anything that can conceivably be traced back to The Notebook, conjured up thoughts of the least romantic things and people ever invented, born, or tossed into a salad: Breakfast burritos, Eugene Levy, and croutons.

"Devs." Public displays of affection make people have public displays of nausea. I'd rather not be the cause of a state of national emergency, therefore I don't want anyone else to have to witness this.

"Say it."

I grinned at Devon and threw my head back in laughter. I've given up on trying to make the world a better place, screw public health and safety allow me to manifest the sickening chick flick. "I love you," I admitted.

"Specify the you," he said firmly, not letting go as I tried to wiggle out of his grasp.

"I love this walking Q-Tip!" I shrieked and people turned around to stare, either in awe of how deeply I can blush or shocked that I just confessed my undying love to an object with the sole purpose of cleaning out earwax.

"Thank you."

Devon let go of me and I landed gracefully on my feet, a talent I can only attribute to years of being dropped on my head as an infant. "You're welcome."

"So, are you coming home anytime soon?" Devon asked with a pierced eyebrow raised conspiratorially.

"After coffee."

"Maybe you two should go to a movie or something. I mean, you do have a lot of catching up to do."

"You want me to spend time with my ex?" Trying to understand Devon is like trying to play Pictionary without the pictures.

"You haven't told him-?" He looked oh-so-subtly at my belly.

"Nope," I shook my head. "I don't plan on it either." If I've learned anything from Devon and Dave it's that morals are for squares, and I for one am not about to succumb to the evils of geometry.

"Good. Look, I know you'd like to think that you're special, but I have a demanding schedule of stalking to get back to-"

"And I'm sure Kevin Bacon is just itching to call 911."

Devon smirked. "There is a reason I dress to coordinate with a police car."

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....
Pace was standing out the cafe with a desolate look on his face when I returned. Two weeks of karate was all I needed to break hearts daily.

"That didn't look very iffy to me," Pace commented casually.

"Nope. Less iffy, more spiffy." I was practically glowing. My anger had taken a hiatus due to a persistent neurological need to not care. I wonder if I can get a prescription for that.

"I guess I missed my chance."

"Yeah, I'd say you did." I returned Pace's pout with one of equally pathetic standing. "Sorry Pace, I thought about letting you down slowly but then I figured with a face like that you'd be used to disappointment."

Pace opened his mouth to defend himself put only managed to pull a pathetic goldfish impersonation maneuver before sighing and giving in, "it's true." He shrugged.
....
"I just got a pity glance from an 80 year old woman in a wheelchair," Pace complained.

"Was she carrying an oxygen tank?"

"No, why? Would that have made it any more pathetic?"

"I don't think you can get any more pathetic. I just wanted to know where you get those things."

I was walking quickly down Seattle's pier while Pace bounced around behind me trying to catch up.

"Why can't you slow down?" he whined.

"Because I caught the scent of an ice cream vendor and I'm hot on its trail."

Pace shut up and resolved to spend his precious breath mumbling the occasional complaint behind my back.

"I don't want to get ice cream," I heard him sniff.

"Why?! Why would you say something like that?! The sky isn't falling, Armageddon was not on the weather report his morning, and as of now there are no production plans for a Gigli two so why, why would you take ice creams name in vain?!"

"Honestly," Pace began, stopping on the sidewalk. "I want a memorable, sophisticated place reminiscent of a Victor Fleming movie to ask you," he drew in a deep breath, "how far along are you?"

"How far along am I into what?" I looked around the sidewalk observantly. Man selling hemp, angry pelicans, young child dangling from the pier, absolutely nothing to support the context of his question.

"I mean, how long have you been pregnant?"

I see an acting career in my future because I have the beautiful talent of acting awkward on cue, widening my eyes to twice their normal size, and stuttering so fast that any mucus in my mouth at the beginning of a statement is entirely nonexistent by its humiliating end. "If I had to guess I'd say.. five years now."

"Years?"

"Give or take a century."

"Ellie," Pace said slowly.

"Nope, never heard of 'em."

"Fine time for your brain to finalize its divorce to your vocal chords."

"My thoughts exactly," I replied.

"So," Pace stared off into the water uncomfortably but eventually found the strength to look me in the eyes. "Is it mine?"

"It doesn't have a father. I'm asexual," I retorted. The cool, calm, and collected look is impossible to achieve when I'm trying to beat off reality with my inner Russel Crowe, so I settled for elegantly unperturbed- stare at the sidewalk, stare at the sky, stare at the gum on the bottom of my shoe. Stare at my emotionally wrecked ex-boyfriend whose trying to grasp the idea of being a father? No thanks, maybe later.

"Are you trying to tell me that you don't know?"

"The latter one."

"I only gave you one choice."

"And I picked the latter one."

Pace sighed and leaned away from the pier railing. "Maybe we should go for that ice cream."

"I so love ice cream."

"Don't hurt yourself, Ellie, nothing over two syllables," Pace warned.

Why is it that I'm the one suffering from a spaz attack-nervous breakdown combo when Pace is the one who has only had two minutes to contemplate parentage?

"Is it a boy a girl," Pace asked after a few moments silence.

"I don't know," I shrugged. Neither if it takes after its mommy, the first asexual human- An Idea which is becoming increasingly appealing.

"Why not?"

"I haven't been to a doctor yet," I admitted. As far as I'm concerned being a doctor is simply the first legal occupation for a sadist to express who they truly are.

"Why not?!"

"Because I'm getting an early start on child abuse," I replied sarcastically.

........
< Surreal may be the only word to describe my evening with Pace. He was eagerly optimistic and I was stubbornly pessimist, and the only thing we were able to agree on was that stilettos aren't most reasonable choice of shoes for playing rugby in.

Relevant? That's a matter of opinion.

My excuse for not telling Pace about Ellie Jr. was that I didn't want him to worry or care and by the end of the night he was worried, he cared, and he was worried that he cared.
Over a mediating fudge brownie sundae, Pace and I reached a sort of agreement where he postpones caring until the baby is found to be definitively his, a truce Pace was reluctant to agree to but I've found that if I ramble on long enough and throw in a few obnoxious Monty Python quotes he'll agree to anything just to get me to shut up.

Pace walked me home in an extremely gentleman-like manner and I kissed him goodnight on the cheek- before wandering aimlessly into my building. I managed to locate the elevator after multiple embarrassing run-ins with the lobby's potted plants and resolved that it would take more luck than there are McDonald's in the northern hemisphere for me to be able to find my apartment in the emotionally tired state I was in.
It's times like these where I wish I was Irish.

By the time I finally entered the apartment a small colony had already been established on Mars.
Walking to my room like an extra from Dawn of the Dead, I passed Dave and McCoy curled up on the couch together with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, several mutilated stuffed animals no longer distinguishable from pocket lint, and, as I got deeper into the small interior, pieces of furniture from my room scattered around the apartment space.

I cautiously peeked into my room then shoved the door open quickly and stepped inside.
When someone evicts me from my own place I usually pull out a few kung fu moves but that's a little too risky on a full stomach.

My tiny shed of a room smelled like fresh paint, and the walls were splattered with a light pink. A wooden cradle sat in one corner of the sparsely decorated room with a giant stuffed penguin sitting next to it, a standing lamp, and a half-assembled set of drawers.
I think my heart literally swelled with joy and I just stood there thinking, that can't be healthy.

So I stood still, battling an inner paroxysm of bliss with a lethargic brain. The final score: Sleep now- parade, luau, and celebrate good times tomorrow.

I turned on my heels and tiptoed past the slumbering stooges on the couch down the hall to Devon's room.

"Devon," I whispered harshly.

"No, don't hurt me," I heard him groan.

I jumped onto his bed, smushing him the process, and wrapped my arms around his chest.

"I can always sleep later," he said and I saw a big smile on his face.

"I know I may come off as immature, but I'm not two years old. I don't need a cradle, I want a big girl bed!"

"When you stop laughing every time animal planet has a special on sperm whales"

"I love it," I told him.

"The sperm whales or the room?"

"The room." I brushed a strand of hair away from his captivating eyes. "I love the room."

"I love you too."

"I said I love it, not I love you."

"But I made it so you love me by association to it."

"I also love ketchup but that doesn't mean I want to bang the Hamburglar." I pulled Devon's covers over me and curled up beside him. "But I have one question: why pink?"

Devon rolled me over onto my side so that I was pressed up against the wall. "Because you wanted a girl."

"And somehow you figured that painting the room pink would magically change the baby's genetics."

"You wanted a girl and I've made a promise to always give you want you want."

I gave Devon a long kiss before struggling to remove my long jacket and shoes until I spied something out of the corner of my eye, furrowed my eyebrows, and began tugging on the collar of Devon's shirt.
Devon rolled over sleepily, pushing my hands away. "Ellie, I'm tired. Not now, I promise we can do kinky things in the morning."

I snorted and ignored him. "How drunk do you have to be to scrape my name into your neck with a needle?" I asked, referring to the brand new, spiraling tattoo that adorned his neck.

"Two glasses of water and a key lime pie, all of which lacking in alcohol."

"Well I'm flattered and impressed. Flattered that you'd care so much about me and impressed that even when sober you can still be a moron. Do you realize that when you're 80 the skin on your neck will hang off in rolls and suddenly your one true love will spell out Eli?"

"What are we going to name it," Devon asked dreamily. He was zoned out and running his fingers over my stomach carelessly. I'm so happy that my rants have such a large impression on him.

"That baby? I have no idea, but I was thinking something along the lines of Ellie," I said, prying Devon's fingers off of me so that I could lay down comfortably in the bed.

"Or, we can just name it Devonita," he proposed.

"Now is it slow and stupid wins the race, or slow and steady?"

"I just think it's a charming name," Devon argued.

"And Stalin was just a charming guy."