Quadruplets Make Six: Baby Makes Three, #4

Quadruplets Make Six

A Fake Relationship Secret Baby Romance

By Nicole Elliot

Hi Kittens!

I’m here to please, and I know you were hoping for another book about Libby, the secretary from Baby Makes Three.

Remember you can totally read these books out of order.

I might still have one more up my sleeve…

xxx

Nicole

One

Libby

What was the saying? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride? Well, it would be true if I was ever asked to be a bridesmaid. I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at another wedding invitation on my fridge. The door was littered with them. Over the course of the past three years, I’d gotten eighteen wedding invitations. And usually, that meant I had a lot of friends. People who wanted me to share their special day with them and celebrate on the dance floor with drinks and good food.

Not the case.

Most of them were pity invites.

By pity invites, what I mean is most of them were family. Cousins and uncles. My father getting remarried. My aunt’s third wedding. A couple of them were from my friends, but the rest of them were familial gatherings. Weddings where you had to invite everyone in the family otherwise they risked offending someone.

And no one wanted to offend anyone else in my family.

Ever.

I had yet another wedding coming up. That weekend, actually. And my parents were breathing down my neck about it. They wanted to know what kind of dress I was wearing and what color heels I’d be putting with it. Mom kept calling and asking if I needed someone to come do my makeup and Dad kept hounding me about what colors looked better against my skin than most.

It was the same old situation. They started with my outfit, instructed me as to what makeup techniques looked better against my massive doe eyes, then they criticized all the dresses I had picked out before forcing me to buy yet another one. Another dress to shove to the back of the closet after wearing it only once.

It was getting old.

I could outfit a thrift shop with the stuff I had in my closet.

But I knew the infamous question was coming. As my phone rang on the couch, startling Mozart off my lap, I sighed when I saw my mother’s name scrawling across the screen. My calico cat hissed at it, seemingly upset at the fact that my vibrating phone ruined his very important cuddle time.

Don’t worry. I’m mad, too, I said.

I knew what this phone call was about. We were a week out from the wedding and there was one question that still hadn’t been asked. One question that always started the same old argument between me and my mother. And usually, my father was there to step in. Even though they divorced when I was fourteen, they found a way to agree on this one freaking topic just to annoy me.

Just to make me feel worse.

Hello?

Hey there, sweetie. How was work? Mom asked.

It was what it was, I said. How are you?

Oh, I’m fabulous. Just picked up a new outfit for the wedding.

Hey, princess.

Dad? You’re here, too? I asked.

I am, I am, he said.

To what do I owe this wonderful conference call? I asked.

Well, your father and I were talking, and I know you RSVP’d to the wedding without a plus one, but I ran across this wonderful man in the grocery store today and we got to talking-

I don’t have a date for the wedding, Mom. And you know that’s okay, right? I asked.

Hear her out, princess. He actually seems like a nice guy, Dad said.

Is Dad here to be your moral support while you set me up? I asked.

The last time I tried to set you up with someone, you hung up on me and refused to take my calls. I figured you wouldn’t hang up on your father, so yes. I asked him to participate, Mom said.

Dad, I love you, but I’ve got no issues hanging up on you, I said.

See? Told you, Angela, he said.

Libby, would you stop being so stubborn for once and listen? she asked. He’s a wonderful man.

You mean from what you could tell in the deli section of the grocery store, I said.

How did you know I was in the deli section? she asked.

You’re always in the deli section, my father said. It’s why your cholesterol’s so high.

I did not put you on this call so you could berate me about my health again, she said.

You mean besides the fact that it’s terrible and you won’t see sixty? he asked.

I never thought I’d be happy about the two of you arguing, I said.

Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t think it would take this long to convince you to take a date to the wedding, she said.

I don’t need a date, Mom.

You need to put yourself out there, Libby. You're twenty-seven years old. I’d already had you by this point, she said.

You also weren’t working and were married by the time you were twenty-two, I said.

Because I put myself out there. You’re cooped up in your small little apartment in the middle of Chicago with no one to make sure you’re okay and some orange-colored cat that hisses at everything that moves.

No, he just hisses at you, Mom, I said.

I like that cat, my dad said.

See? Mozart likes Dad, I said.

But I have to agree with your mother on this one, he said.

Seriously, Daddy? We’re doing that shtick now? The two of you couldn’t agree on curtain colors, but you can agree on the fact that I need a date to a wedding for people I can’t even remember from my childhood? I asked.

You don’t remember Logan? He’s your father’s brother’s first child, Mom said.

We never visited his side of the family much, I said. That was kind of a lie, I had always liked Logan, I just didn’t want to go.

You can blame your mother for that, he said. See? I told you we didn’t get to see my family enough.

Oh, can it, Michael. We were much closer to your family in Wisconsin than we were to my family in North Carolina. Get over yourself, she said.

And here we go again, I said. Let’s agree to never do conference calls again.

Sweetie, the guy’s really nice. Soft spoken, nice brown eyes, head full of hair and a kind smile, she said.

So he’s a pansy, my father said.

Won’t you shut up, Michael? she asked.

You asked me to join this call. I didn’t realize you were setting our daughter up with a pansy. Our daughter deserves a man. Someone who can take care of her and protect her in that rundown apartment she’s living out of, he said.

Thanks. I think, I said.

She needs a date for this wedding, my mother said. I’m tired of people asking me why she isn’t dating. I’m tired of all my friends marrying off their children but me. I’m tired of looking at other women becoming grandmothers but not me!

So… me having a date for the wedding is somehow about you not having grandchildren? I asked.

And your mother’s gone off the deep end, Dad said.

I have not. My reasons for her having a date are valid. I’m worried about you, sweetie. You never get out, your friends say you’re pulling away…

You mean the assholes from high school I never kept up with because they pushed me into lockers and stole my clothes from gym class so I couldn't get changed? I asked.

Language, princess. No one likes a potty mouth.

Says the man who yells ‘fuck’ at the TV like it keeps the Brown’s playing. Look, I don’t need a date to the we-

Yes, you do, my mother said.

Holy crap, I don’t need a date because I have one!

What in the world had just flown out of my mouth? The phone conversation went dead silent as my mind started to swirl. A date for a wedding? I didn’t have a date for this wedding. I could hear my parents breathing as I stood up from the couch, walking over to the measly living room window that overlooked the alleyway down below.

A date for the wedding.

Shit.

I’d just told my parents some nonexistent man was taking me to this wedding.

Oh my gosh. I knew you were holding out on us. Why did you RSVP for only yourself if you had a date? my mother asked.

Because I only asked him to go with me a few days ago, I said.

What’s his name, princess? How long have the two of you been together? my father asked.

The two of you can bombard him with those questions at the wedding. But um… he’s about to pick me up soon so I have to go, I said.

Wait, you’re going on a date? And you didn’t tell me!? my mother asked.

I haven’t met this boy yet, my father said.

Well, I haven’t lived with you for six years, so you won’t meet him until the wedding, I said. I gotta go you guys. Love you.

Make sure you wear makeup! my mother said.

And don’t forget to wear things that flatter your hips, my father said.

Thanks. Yeah. Got it. Okay… bye guys.

Bye!

I hung up the phone call as I stared mindlessly out the window. Great. Now I had to come up with a date to this wedding. Or I could show up alone and tell my parents he dumped me. That could work, too. But then my mother would start prowling around again at my cousin’s wedding for someone not related to us that I could dance with.

And that would be horrendously embarrassing.

I made my way back to the couch and crossed my legs. Mozart jumped into my lap and settled down, his tail wrapping around my wrist.

I know you want me to pet you, just hang on, I said.

I opened up my internet and did a quick Google search. ‘How to find a last-minute date to a wedding’. Surely the internet could help me in one of the many areas of my life I kept screwing up. I scrolled through the multiple blog entries and clicked through pages. I ignored the sponsored links as my eyes fluttered around the screen of my phone. And when I was about to close my internet and relegate myself to being broken up with by some nonexistent boyfriend, a window popped up on my phone.

Date Night?

I scrolled through the contents and read through all the advertisement material. I’d heard about this application before. I heard some of the women at work talking about it. From what I gathered from my eavesdropping sessions, it was a website that helped people hook up. It was popular because it made connections between people almost instantaneous. I wasn’t looking for someone to have sex with, but I was looking for someone instantaneous. A man to pop out of thin air, help me navigate this wedding, then go away.

And I was desperate enough to get curious.

I downloaded the application onto my phone and created a profile. I chose a picture of myself from my photo album on my phone, then went through the rigmarole of filling out the profile. It was all very basic. Name. Age. Height. Body type. Likes and dislikes. A small introductory paragraph that described me in a nutshell.

Me.

How would I describe me?

‘Hi, guys.’

No. That was wrong. So, I backspaced it and tried again.

‘Hello, gentleman.’

Yikes. Way too sultry. The last thing I had going for me was sultry.

‘To the men who have stopped by.’

A letter. Okay. I could get behind this. Write it like a letter.

‘To the men who have stopped by. Hello. My name’s Libby.’

Now what?

I groaned, then flopped my head back onto the couch cushions. What in the world was I supposed to say about myself? Hello, my name’s Libby and I live in a small apartment with my cat, Mozart? But don’t worry, I’m not some crazy cat lady!?

This was a bad idea.

My phone vibrated in my hand with a message from someone. I furrowed my brow as I opened it, navigating away from the letter of pathetic nuance I was writing to all of the men who wouldn’t stop by my profile. I clicked on his profile and thought he was pretty handsome, so I navigated back to his message.

But once I read what he wrote, I was no longer interested.

‘Hey there, Libby. Got anymore pics?’

Rolling my eyes, I went back to my profile. I finished typing up a little bit about myself, including what I did for work and some of the hobbies I enjoyed. Reading. Taking long walks. Drinking way too much tea. There was no point in trying to frame it any other way. If