movie.
But reality shows were wide open. You just had to know how to package yourself and look amazing in a bikini. Lainey had decided she was going to nab the role of the Girl Next Door. At first, she’d thought she’d go for being the villain—it was a flashier role that would get more attention—but then decided she didn’t want to get typecast so early in her career. The villains became Internet jokes; the Girls Next Door landed jobs co-hosting
The View
.
But first Lainey had to find the right show. The survival ones were out—she didn’t have any survival skills, and besides, those people all started looking nasty once they’d spent a few days away from makeup and hair conditioner. The talent shows, where you had to dance or sing, wouldn’t work since Lainey couldn’t do either.
Her best bet was probably one of those looking-for-love shows, where a group of women competed for the attention of some walking, talking Ken doll. The only real problem was that you started as just one of a group, so you didn’t get any real screen time until you made it into the top three or so. But Lainey was convinced that she could make herself stand out, especially if there was a chance to appear in a bikini. She just needed a shot—one shot—and she’d make it work. And it was now or never. Lainey was already twenty. The way she figured it, her prime bikini years were numbered.
But a baby was definitely
not
part of the plan. She stood and leaned toward the mirror over the sink, puffing her cheeks out to see what she’d look like fat.
Gross
, she thought, blowing the air out.
There’s no way in hell that’s going to happen
.
And there was also no way in hell she was going to pay for an abortion out of her L.A. fund. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulders and marched out of the bathroom, down the short dingy hallway and into the tiny living room. Travis was sprawledon the couch, watching an episode of
The Simpsons
and breathing loudly through his mouth.
When they’d first met—at the gym, both waiting for the leg press machine—Lainey had thought Trav was hot. Sure, his features were a bit too thick to be considered handsome—his nose was wide and his lips were fleshy—but his ripped arms and perfectly defined abs made up for it. And even if he wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, Trav took care of himself and made a good living as a salesman at the local Toyota dealership. This was a stark contrast to her previous boyfriends, so Lainey had been willing to overlook his less-than-sparkling intelligence.
But that was before the steroids. One of Trav’s bodybuilder friends had gotten him started. The drugs made Travis’s chest and arm muscles pop out like a superhero’s, but they also gave him a cavemanlike brow ridge and caused an ugly rash of acne to spread over his face, shoulders, and back. Lainey had thought that the side effects might be a deterrent to Trav’s continued juicing, but he seemed almost fascinated with his zits. He’d spend hours staring into the bathroom mirror, squeezing them until green pus erupted out. It was revolting. Even worse, he was irritable all the time and picked fights with Lainey for no reason. And he never wanted to go out anymore—all he did was go to work, go to the gym, and then return home to zone out in front of the television. Lainey was fed up with him.
And now the dumbass had gone and gotten her pregnant.
“I need to talk to you,” Lainey said.
Trav didn’t look up from
The Simpsons
. “What about?”
“Turn the TV off.”
Trav didn’t respond, nor did he turn the TV off. He didn’t even lower the volume. Her irritation boiled over into hot anger.
“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you,” Lainey said.
Travis finally looked up at the word
asshole
, his expression sullen. “What?”
“Do you remember when you told me that I wouldn’t getpregnant? I told you to pull out, and you said you didn’t have to because that steroid shit meant you
But reality shows were wide open. You just had to know how to package yourself and look amazing in a bikini. Lainey had decided she was going to nab the role of the Girl Next Door. At first, she’d thought she’d go for being the villain—it was a flashier role that would get more attention—but then decided she didn’t want to get typecast so early in her career. The villains became Internet jokes; the Girls Next Door landed jobs co-hosting
The View
.
But first Lainey had to find the right show. The survival ones were out—she didn’t have any survival skills, and besides, those people all started looking nasty once they’d spent a few days away from makeup and hair conditioner. The talent shows, where you had to dance or sing, wouldn’t work since Lainey couldn’t do either.
Her best bet was probably one of those looking-for-love shows, where a group of women competed for the attention of some walking, talking Ken doll. The only real problem was that you started as just one of a group, so you didn’t get any real screen time until you made it into the top three or so. But Lainey was convinced that she could make herself stand out, especially if there was a chance to appear in a bikini. She just needed a shot—one shot—and she’d make it work. And it was now or never. Lainey was already twenty. The way she figured it, her prime bikini years were numbered.
But a baby was definitely
not
part of the plan. She stood and leaned toward the mirror over the sink, puffing her cheeks out to see what she’d look like fat.
Gross
, she thought, blowing the air out.
There’s no way in hell that’s going to happen
.
And there was also no way in hell she was going to pay for an abortion out of her L.A. fund. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulders and marched out of the bathroom, down the short dingy hallway and into the tiny living room. Travis was sprawledon the couch, watching an episode of
The Simpsons
and breathing loudly through his mouth.
When they’d first met—at the gym, both waiting for the leg press machine—Lainey had thought Trav was hot. Sure, his features were a bit too thick to be considered handsome—his nose was wide and his lips were fleshy—but his ripped arms and perfectly defined abs made up for it. And even if he wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, Trav took care of himself and made a good living as a salesman at the local Toyota dealership. This was a stark contrast to her previous boyfriends, so Lainey had been willing to overlook his less-than-sparkling intelligence.
But that was before the steroids. One of Trav’s bodybuilder friends had gotten him started. The drugs made Travis’s chest and arm muscles pop out like a superhero’s, but they also gave him a cavemanlike brow ridge and caused an ugly rash of acne to spread over his face, shoulders, and back. Lainey had thought that the side effects might be a deterrent to Trav’s continued juicing, but he seemed almost fascinated with his zits. He’d spend hours staring into the bathroom mirror, squeezing them until green pus erupted out. It was revolting. Even worse, he was irritable all the time and picked fights with Lainey for no reason. And he never wanted to go out anymore—all he did was go to work, go to the gym, and then return home to zone out in front of the television. Lainey was fed up with him.
And now the dumbass had gone and gotten her pregnant.
“I need to talk to you,” Lainey said.
Trav didn’t look up from
The Simpsons
. “What about?”
“Turn the TV off.”
Trav didn’t respond, nor did he turn the TV off. He didn’t even lower the volume. Her irritation boiled over into hot anger.
“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you,” Lainey said.
Travis finally looked up at the word
asshole
, his expression sullen. “What?”
“Do you remember when you told me that I wouldn’t getpregnant? I told you to pull out, and you said you didn’t have to because that steroid shit meant you
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