[18+]
Paige opens her leg away from Riley's face.
"That's the worst idea ever. Here," she says, and hands him the condom wrapper to dispose of. She puts one knee on each side of Riley and crawls down his torso. Riley remains on his back and drops the wrapper on the nightstand.
"Jerry practically offered us a job if we'd have a kid," Riley counters as Paige settles. Reverse Cowgirl is not her favorite, but every time Riley compliments the view, her heart flutters. She's pleased with her figure and shudders at the thought of what childbirth would have done to it. That's probably reason three not to have kids, in her mind.
"Have you gone soft on me?" Paige asks. Riley checks. No, it's all good. "We agreed long before we got married—no kids."
"I could see having a cute little you or me around," Riley says. Paige scoffs. Riley stays on point. "Who's going to take care of us when we're old?"
"Having a kid does not guarantee that. We could outlive them or they could grow up hating us."
"Come on," Riley says, "who could hate us?"
"Any kid who found out we had him just to get a job. That might be the worst thing you could do to a child." Paige leans forward and crawls toward the edge of the bed. Riley knee-walks, left, right to join with her.
"Worse than appearing in gang-bang porn during your third trimester?"
"Remind me to put filters on your internet access," Paige says.
"We've got to do something, babe," Riley says. "Just think about it."
"Okay," Paige agrees, "and you think about this: Even if you knock me up tonight..."
"Should I ditch the condom?"
"No!" Riley flips Paige to her back. "All I'm saying is that if I got pregnant, it's still nine months till we can join the mommy and daddy club. We don't have nine months of money left. And even if your cockamamie plan was the least bit viable, there were no infants at that party. Oh, god." She's getting close. "We don't need a baby, my friend." (Closer) "We need..." (Closer) "a" (and she's crossing the finish line) "Fully... formed... child!" Riley holds still as Paige's torso convulses.
"That sent you over the edge?" He asks.
"You have about ninety seconds till my body loses interest," Paige warns. Riley's not concerned.
"And thirty seconds to spare."
Sixty seconds later, Riley falls to his back beside Paige. His chest heaves and his mind races until he lands on an idea. "I may have figured it out." Paige is sleepy.
"That's nice," she whispers with eyes closed. Riley turns off the lights and stares at the ceiling, stuck on her orgasmic phrase, 'fully-formed child.'
Two days later, Riley sits on the toilet, vaping. He's off cigarettes completely, but Paige doesn't know about the vape pen. He's trying to wean himself off the nicotine using oils with less and less, in increments.
Paige pounds on the door. "Riley!" she calls from the hall. Riley jerks and drops the pen into the bowl. "Come on. We're ten minutes late."
He rolls up a sleeve and retrieves the pen. Then he dries it on a face towel and slips it into a small box that also holds spare oil cartridges. Last, he stashes the kit into a vanity drawer, before opening the door.
"How many times a day can you do that?" Paige asks, assuming he was pooping.
"How many times can you forget to buy flax oil?" he counters.
They take Riley's car downtown, near to the theater where they won their Emmys two years ago. He pulls into a parking lot on Spring Street and hands the valet a five-dollar tip in advance. He'll tip the guy again on the way out. This is just a little something to ensure the valet handles the Maserati with care.
The inside of the building is a throwback to Raymond Chandler's Los Angeles. The halls are long and dim. The hardwood floors show wear from decades and decades of foot traffic. You can feel the thick, multiple layers of paint.
Paige and Riley navigate an upper floor, reading the business names stenciled on pebbled glass office doors.
"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," Paige says. "It is so not going to work."
"Love your can-do spirit dear." Riley spots their destination. Paige is still unsure.
"There's no guarantee this will get us anywhere with Jerry," she says. Riley sympathizes.
"We can turn around right now and take Webster's offer. But once we go down that road, there's no going back. Is that what you want?" Paige lets out a long sigh. She does not want to work in reality television. "We're good at what we do," Riley presses on. "But we need a little booster rocket. I believe in us and I'm not ready to pack it in yet. Are you?"
"You really still believe in us?" Riley kisses her. "All right," Paige gives in, "Let's do this." Riley smiles and opens the door that reads: "Charlene Mackerel, Family Law."
The office is not a dive but nothing fancy. Seated at an ancient wood desk in an inexpensive business suit, Charlene exudes positivity.
"I have to say right off the bat how commendable it is that you're interested in an older child," Charlie says. "Like black cats, they're just plain harder to place into adoption."
"Adoption?" Riley questions. "That sounds so permanent."
"It is."
Paige steps in. "Ms. Mackerel..."
"Call me Charlie."
"Charlie," Paige continues, "We're looking for something a little more temporary."
"Temporary?"
"A try-before-you-buy sort of thing," Riley explains.
"To make sure we're right for parenthood," Paige corrects Riley's levity. Charlie raises an eyebrow.
"You want to kick the tires."
"That's a good way to put it," Riley says.
"We're talking about a human life." Again Paige tries to set things right.
"I assure you we are taking this very seriously," she says. Charlie leans back and thinks for a moment.
"We could look into fostering," Charlie offers.
"How do we do that?" Riley wants to know.
"First there's a thorough background check. Arrests... financials." Riley and Paige stumble over an assurance there is nothing criminal in their past and their money situation is solid. That last part wasn't exactly a white lie, more of a beige. But Charlie has more to say.
"Followed by a series of interviews and a home inspection. It's a safety inspection to make sure the environment is child-friendly."
"We could change a few things," Riley understates. Charlie has even more information.
"There are training courses required. Depending on need, we could place a child with you in twelve months or so." That's not great.
"Twelve months?" Riley asks, omitting the 'are you kidding' running through his mind.
"Is that a problem?" Charlie says with a cocked head.
"We were hoping to get started sooner, rather than later," Paige says. Charlie thinks for a moment, rapping an index finger on her desk while considering options.
"Are you open to fostering outside your race? Might shave off a month or two."
"Ms. Mackerel," Paige starts.
"Charlie." At the time of Charlie's birth, there was no question that Charlie's birth certificate should identify the newborn as female. Though the world is more complex and gender definitions are in flux, Charlie finds none of the current choices an acceptable descriptor. So until something better comes along, Charlie eschews pronouns altogether, and identifies as Charlie, period.
"Charlie," Paige says, "we have what you might call an immediate need."
Charlie gives Paige's phrase careful consideration. Confident in an understanding of the situation the Welphelts hint at, Charlie leans forward with a serious demeanor.
"What's your budget?"
From the outside, the foster home is an average lower-middle-class home in south L.A. Charlie escorts Paige and Riley to the front door.
"It's just a meet-and-greet," Charlie tells them. "Don't feel obligated to commit to the first child you see, no matter how adorable he may be." Good advice.
Inside, the house is a pigsty. The Welphelts can overlook the clutter strewn about every room, the dirty dishes left under the couch, and the grime on the walls. They can even forgive the aroma best described as rotten Brussels sprouts. The thing that pushes them past their limit is the six-year-old orphan boy seated at the breakfast table slathering his hair with oatmeal, rocking and singing an indecipherable song lodged somewhere deep in his mind.
Paige turns green-faced. Charlie rushes the Welphelts out to get fresh air.
"So cleanliness is a priority," Charlie says. "Good to know. Helps us refine our list."
On the drive to the trailer park in San Bernardino, Charlie tells the Welphelts that the child they are about to meet is a little older, but if they go in with an open mind, they might find exactly what they are looking for.
What they find is a 'child' standing six feet tall, with a full beard. He has excellent manners, but not excellent enough.
The lawn of the third house, a bungalow in Toluca Lake, has not a blade of grass out of place. Paige takes notice of the pansies bordering the cement path to the house.
"So far, so good?" Charlie asks. Paige gives a semi-certain nod. "I'll take that as a yes," Charlie says before ringing the doorbell.
Mrs. Evans, a very clean woman in her forties answers the door. "Ms. Mackerel. Right on time." She speaks in an old-fashioned clipped mid-Atlantic accent. Charlie does not correct Mrs. Evans' use of 'Ms.'
"These are the Welphelts," Charlie introduces.
"Ah, yes. Please come in," Mrs. Evans invites.
Paige and Riley can't help but notice how impossibly clean and unlived-in the place appears.
"You have a lovely home," Paige says.
"Thank you. I've always found a clean environment to be comforting." The conversation stops dead. Mrs. Evans breaks the silence with a loud, "Children!"
Three children file into the living room and form a rigid line. There are Robert and Anthony, African American brothers. And then there is Missy, a Caucasian girl clutching a stuffed animal, Missy. The boys are polite, though, for an unknown reason, Anthony speaks only Spanish. Missy is quiet. You feel she's sizing up the room before she engages with these strangers. Riley attempts to break the ice by reaching out toward Missy's stuffed animal.
"Who's your friend?" Riley asks. The answer comes as a sharp, "No!" Robert sets Riley straight.
"Nobody touches Squiggle."
"Oh. I'm very sorry," Riley tells Missy. "I should have asked. May I shake Squiggle's hand?"
"No, you may not." That settles that.
Mrs. Evans instructs the children to show the Welphelts their rooms while she and Charlie prepare lemonade for the guests, using lemons picked from her own tree.
On the way to see the children's rooms, Paige and Riley learn that Robert is ten and his little brother Anthony is eight. Missy is eleven.
"So you're their older, wiser sister," Paige tries to engage Missy.
"I'm not actually related to them," Missy says. "You get that, don't you, ma'am?"
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Mrs. Evans huffs breaths and tries to cut lemons, but Charlie kissing her neck and molesting her through her skirt is distracting. Charlie has negotiated a payment to her for lending the Welphelts a foster child.
"They will pay that every month?"
"For at least six months," Charlie says, and dials up the finger play.
"Oh, Ms. Mackerel, I need more..."
"Come on, we've already agreed on the price." That's not what Mrs. Evans meant.
"I need more..."
"Time? I'll ask them." Mrs. Evans struggles to complete a sentence.
"More..." Charlie gives up.
"I got nothing." Finally, Mrs. Evans gets her message across.
"More lemons!" Oh. Charlie grabs a cut lemon in each hand and clutches Mrs. Evans around her arms, the fruit jutting out from her boobs like torpedoes. Mrs. Evans grabs the lemons and squeezes. The lemons squirt a metaphor.
The boys show Riley their room. There are no children's belongings in sight. It's kind of creepy.
Missy's room is also devoid of anything child-like. That makes Paige sad. Missy seems to be unfazed.
"Are you looking to adopt, or just browsing?" That's a direct question.
"We're considering everything," Paige stretches the truth.
"Have you checked out a lot of kids?"
"We've seen a few. How long have you been in the foster system, Missy?"
"Since my mom died two years ago. My adoptive mom that is." Paige tries to relate to Missy's situation.
"You know, I'm an orphan, too." Missy meets Paige's revelation with a blank stare.
Paige and Riley take a moment alone in the back yard to discuss their options as if they're deciding whether to 'Love or List' their home. All three kids are well-behaved. But boys that age can be a handful. Maybe a black child would give them some street cred, but they can't break up the brothers. And two children would put them over budget. Missy's a little weird but very bright. She also has the bonus of being the same age as Jerry's son, Jona. Paige has one last issue.
"Before I sign off on this, I need you to promise that you'll step up and take responsibility for her - all the feeding and cleaning. Can you handle that?" Riley holds up two fingers.
"On my honor. Have we made a decision?"
"I think we have."
Missy looks out the rear window of Riley's car as Charlie, Mrs. Evans, Robert and Anthony see her off. Standing just behind the adults, Robert and Anthony shake their heads and mouth 'Don't leave us' with panic in their eyes. Riley checks the rear-view mirror and sighs.
"I'm sure they will be fine," Paige says.
Missy adds, "What choice do they have?" Good point.