“I can’t do this,” Molly suddenly mutters, dropping her fork onto her plate.

Oh, thank God. Thank the good sweet lord I don’t have to go back on my word and tell her I changed my mind.

“You’re the sweetest guy in the world for doing this, but…I can’t,” she whispers with a shake of her head.

Good, because I still want to put my penis in her, but I don’t think I can stomach it knowing some other dude’s baby would be looking at it, judging it and saying something like, “My dad’s was bigger than yours, asshole.” She still looks like she might throw up. I need to say something nice and comforting.

“Okay. Want to order dessert?”

Yeah, real smooth, buddy.

Molly sighs and I wonder if she’s mad I gave in so easily or because the diner’s dessert selection sucks. What self-respecting diner doesn’t serve apple pie?

“Stupid, selfish, irritating moron…” she mumbles, resting her elbows on the table and dropping her head into her hands.

So, I guess it’s me, then.

“Look, I’m sorry, Molly. I really like you. Like, really like you. You’re smart, beautiful, and the most amazing pastry chef I’ve seen come through that school. I like you too much to be able to just sit back and be okay with you….you know.”

I wave my hand and move my eyes down in the general direction of her stomach.

“I think my services would be better served if I…I don’t know, beat the shit out of the guy who did this to you,” I continue, talking faster so she doesn’t hate me too much for going back on my word to help her. “Give me his name, and I’ll make sure he steps up to the plate for you. I can roundhouse punch his face and give him a nice left hook kick to the kneecaps.”

She slowly lifts her head from her hands and stares at me.

“Have you ever been in a fight?” she asks skeptically.

“Uh, hello? Have you seen these guns?” I ask, flexing my bicep and giving it a nice little pat for emphasis. “I’m a fighting machine.”

She doesn’t need to know the one and only fight I participated in happened in the fourth grade with Tommy Knittle when he called me a sissy for bringing in a plate of cookies I’d made to share with the class. I showed him, though. He said he’d give me two black eyes if I didn’t eat all three dozen cookies myself in front of everyone on the playground. It only took one black eye, thank you very much.

“That’s sweet, but it’s roundhouse kick and a left hook punch,” she informs me, trying to hide a smile.

“I’m Italian. We do things a little more hardcore where I come from.”

“Aren’t you from Ohio?” she asks skeptically.

“I meant my mother’s house. If you can dodge a wooden spoon, you can dodge a fist,” I inform her, trying to maintain as much coolness as I can. “Enough talk about me, let’s talk about the scum bag who put you in this situation.”

So what if I haven’t been in a fight since elementary school? I can beat the shit out of bread dough and I’m sure it’s the same thing as some guy’s face.

“Did you mean it when you said you liked me?” she whispers.

I can’t believe that hasn’t been obvious over the last few years, especially from the number of times I leaned over her shoulder to compliment whatever she was making just so I could smell her hair. She always smells like cinnamon and apples and it drives me crazy. Now she’s going to smell like cinnamon, apples and someone else’s sperm. I don’t know who this loser is, but I’m sure his spunk smells like toxic waste. I shouldn’t have waited so long to make my move. She stuck with toxic waste spooge when she could have had pineapple spooge. (Page 35, Section 2 of Seduction and Sugar: Pineapple Dump Cake and Making Your Jizz Taste like a Tropical Island Getaway)

“Yes, of course I meant it,” I tell her, saying good-bye to my fantasy of Molly telling me I taste like a Piña Colada while I take a big sip of ice-cold water to cool my libido.

“Why do you have to be such a nice guy? Why can’t you be a jerk like that cookbook author, Alfanso D., who hates kids?” she complains. “I bet the D. stands for dickhead.”

The water immediately goes down the wrong pipe, and I start choking and coughing, slamming the glass onto the table to smack my fist against my chest. Molly jumps up from her seat and races around to me, sliding into my side of the booth to pat me on the back through my coughing fit.

Even hacking up a lung of ice water, I can’t avoid the scent of cinnamon apples as she leans in close to me and asks if I’m okay. Dammit, why couldn’t she smell like ass and toxic jism instead of a delicious dessert?

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I tell her between coughs, subtly scooting a little bit away from her on the bench.

Her hand drops from my back and she smiles. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who almost chokes to death at just the mention of that guy’s name. If you aren’t following him on Facebook, you should, just to see what asshole thing he’ll say next.”

She laughs and if I wasn’t the dickhead in question, I’d probably laugh right along with her. Molly turns to face me on the bench, tucking one leg up underneath her. My eyes glance down to her flat stomach and I try picturing it all ginormous and gross with arms and legs kicking through the skin trying to claw their way out, instead of how her laugh makes my dick tingle and how if I told her I’m the one saying asshole things on Facebook she’d give me one of those left hook kicks to the nut sack instead of another smile.

“Sorry, I know I’m being weird. Evading your questions, changing the subject, and talking about some idiot on Facebook that pissed me off,” she explains. “I can’t lie to you when you’re being so honest and nice.”

Honesty is my middle name. Right after Lying Dickhead Asshole.

She looks away for a minute, blows out a huge breath, and then turns her head back to me, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.

“Marco, I’m not pregnant.”

Now my eyes move to the general region of her crotch area, and I wonder if I should have paid better attention in health class since I’m guessing she must have lost the baby somewhere between Third Street and the second refill of our drinks, and I had no idea it could happen so fast and without my knowledge.

“Um, do you need to go to the hospital or something?” I ask lamely. “Boiling water or clean towels…I could flag down the waitress.”

I don’t know much about losing a baby, but I’m guessing it’s not as simple as losing your car keys and she probably needs medical assistance at the very least. And why do they call it losing a baby? You didn’t misplace it. I’m pretty sure you know where that thing is at all times.

Molly laughs again and shakes her head, and I’m a little surprised she isn’t more torn up about this. I cried when I lost my favorite star frosting tip. I mean, allegedly. Like I’d really cry over a little piece of stainless steel I found by chance at a garage sale three years ago that made the perfect fleur-de-lis I haven’t been able to recreate with another tip since it disappeared months ago.

“I didn’t lose the baby, Marco. I was never pregnant to begin with.”

Her words make my mouth drop open and save me from the embarrassment of telling her the tears in my eyes are from allergies and not a frosting tip whose loss I can neither confirm nor deny still haunts me to this day.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth as soon as you offered to help me. I’m not pregnant, and I understand if you hate me for lying to you,” she tells me sadly.

All thoughts of the perfect fleur-de-lis fly from my brain and it’s all I can do not to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.

“Come again?” I whisper.

No, really. I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants when you said you weren’t pregnant and I’d like to do that again, please.