They moved into their bedroom and while Jameson went out into the sun room he'd had converted into an office, she walked into their closet. As she combed through hangers to find a suitable barbecue outfit, a phone rang from the next room. Jameson chattered away for a long time. She picked out multiple pieces of clothing, discarded most of them, then picked out some more all while he talked.

She finally got her day time outfit down – shorts and a plaid button down, keeping it authentic. But she wanted to change after sunset, and she couldn't decide whether or not to go silly or go sexy. She leaned against the dressing table, waiting for his phone call to end. When she realized over half an hour had passed, though, she decided enough was enough. She grabbed several hangers full of clothing and walked out of the closet.

“Jameson,” she hissed his name. He glanced at her as he slowly paced in front of their bed, but he didn't respond.

“No, no,” he was talking into the phone. “I'm talking court side. You'll be able to bullshit with the guys on the bench.”

Tate rolled her eyes. The Celtics, of course. Jameson gave exactly zero fucks about basketball, but he had friends and clients who enjoyed the sport, so he had season tickets, the best seats, everything.

“Just really quick, help me,” she whispered. That time, he didn't even bother glancing at her. Just completely ignored her as he kept pacing. There was a bowl of popcorn at the foot of the bed and every time he passed it, he took out a couple kernels and nibbled at them.

“We can do that ... maybe make a weekend of it ... I'll see what Tate's got planned.”

“Tate could tell you right now, if you'd give her a second,” she offered. He continued ignoring her and flicked a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

“No … no … I'll book the restaurant, your taste is shit … remember that last dinner?”

“Jameson,” she whispered again, pacing alongside him and holding up her armful of clothing. “Just two seconds – which is better?” Nothing. It was like she wasn't in the room. “Jameson, I forgot to tell you – I signed up to be in Ang's new porn, I need a plane ticket to L.A.” Normally any mention of Ang got a reaction, but not that night. “Oh my god, Jameson! Aliens! On the back lawn! And they're stomping through the rhododendrons!”

She'd gasped and pointed for that one, but still got zero reaction. She glared at him. Fine, he thought he could ignore her? She'd pull out the big guns. He finally paused in the conversation and shoved some more popcorn into his mouth. Tate seized the moment.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I'm pregnant.”

She had expected a reaction. Maybe a glare, or a snarky comment. What she got, though, was much more dramatic. Jameson sucked in so hard he inhaled popcorn. He dropped his cell phone as he hacked and coughed. He finally had to bend over and lean a hand against the mattress. While he pounded at his chest with his free hand, the bowl of popcorn fell to the floor, scattering kernels everywhere.

“Jesus, are you alright? Should I get Sanders to give you the Heimlich?” Tate asked, tossing her clothing onto the bed.

“No,” he wheezed hoarsely. “What the fuck did you just say!?”

“I'm doing porn with Ang and there's aliens in the back yard.”

“What?”

“Oh, and I'm pregnant.”

If she'd ever thought about it, Tate would've figured that watching Jameson go pale would've been funny. Actually seeing it happen, though, was a different story. She almost felt bad.

“You're pregnant?” he demanded, staring hard at her.

“Yes, Jameson. With triplets. Eight months along – don't I look great?” she asked, turning to the side and showing off her flat stomach.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.

“I'm not pregnant, you idiot, I just wanted your help picking out an outfit.”

“I … what?”

“You were ignoring me, I wanted to get your attention.”

“And that's how you do it? Jesus fucking christ, Tate, I almost had a goddamn heart attack!” he snapped, finally standing upright.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd react like that, I was just trying to be funny,” she explained, holding up her hands.

“I'm not fucking laughing.”

He was actually mad. She'd just blurted out the most ridiculous thing she could think of, something she'd felt sure would catch his attention, and he was acting like she'd just shot his favorite dog.

“Clearly,” she retorted. “And I'm sorry the idea of me carrying your child is enough to stop your heart.”

“Tatum, I'm pretty sure the idea of you being in charge of a tiny human being's life would be enough to give anyone a heart attack.”

“God, you're an asshole.”

“That was a very important client you just embarrassed me in front of.”

“Please, you embarrassed yourself. You do realize that babies are often a result of sex, right?” she informed him. He rolled his eyes and strode towards her, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

“Yes, and that's why all those brilliant doctors invented birth control.”

“Which isn't 100% effective.”

“Tate, are you actually trying to tell me something here, or are you just being annoying?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

“Neither. I'm just pointing out that there is at least a 1% chance that I may someday have to tell you I'm pregnant, and that if I ever do, you had better not fucking react like that,” she snapped.

“I make no promises.”

“Sometimes I seriously think about hating you.”

“Please,” he snorted, hooking a finger into the top of her pants and yanking her close. “You couldn't stop loving me if you tried.”

“Keep putting that to the test.”

“Stop talking. I thought you wanted my opinion on what you should wear tomorrow,” he reminded her as he plucked at her clothing.

“Wanted, as in past tense. Now I don't care what I wear to your stupid fucking party,” she grumbled, not moving as he undid the button on her pants and pulled down the zipper.

“Pity,” he sighed, shoving her pants over her hips, causing them to pool at her feet.

“Why?” she asked, raising her arms as he yanked and pulled her shirt over her head.