When You Least Expect It

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Please calm down,” India said.

  But I couldn’t calm down. “Do you not get that we’re in a financial crisis? Seriously, do you not get that? We owe a lot of money. More than we can pay off anytime soon. We have no savings left. None. And every month, the bills coming in are more than we make. Which means every month, I have to figure out what I can get away with not paying and still avoid having our water or power turned off or our mortgage foreclosed.” I could hear my voice rising into a near-shout, but I couldn’t stop myself. “And while I’m conducting this horrible balancing act, you’re off buying, what?” I looked down at the Visa bill, now crumpled in my hand. “A four-hundred-dollar handbag? God knows what at The Gap? Seven hundred dollars of maternity clothes? Do you not see how insane that is?”

  India crossed her arms and glared at me. “And do you have any idea what couples in this very city are willing to pay for a healthy baby? A Coach handbag is the least of it. There are birth mothers out there getting cars and apartments and bank accounts. It doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not, or if it’s moral, it’s happening. What if Lainey finds out? Do you want her to dump us and run?”

  “We have a contract,” I said.

  “Which means nothing, as you well know! She has the right to change her mind at any time up until the point that the adoption papers are signed. Do you get that? At any time. And she can’t even sign the papers until forty-eight hours after the birth.”

  “And so, what? You’re going to let her hold us hostage until then?”

  “Stop being so dramatic. She’s not holding us hostage. She didn’t ask for anything. I offered to get her that stuff,” India said.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I told you. I want to keep her happy,” India said.

  “Even if it means driving us into bankruptcy? Because that’s where we’re headed. We could lose our home, India. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t think things are as bad as you’re making them out to be. We both have good jobs. With all of the extra work I’m doing, my earnings this year are up,” India said.

  “Which would be great, except for the small fact that you’re giving all of that extra money to Lainey to replace her income!”

  “So now I’m the bad guy because I don’t want our birth mother inhaling nail polish?”

  “I’m not saying you’re the bad guy,” I said. “But it’s simple math: We can’t spend money we don’t have. The end.”

  “Aren’t you up for a new contract with your publisher? Why don’t you ask for a larger advance?” India suggested.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  The last shreds of my self-control dissolved. “Because right now, I’ll be lucky to have any advance at all.”

  India stilled, her hand resting on the back of a black dining chair. “What does that mean?”

  I suddenly remembered—a moment too late—that I hadn’t told India about the latest crappy royalty statement; that I had, in fact, been purposely keeping this information from her. Partly, I didn’t want to upset her, not when she was already under so much stress, first from the failed infertility treatments and now the pending adoption. But that wasn’t the whole truth. I also hadn’t wanted to admit my failure. I stared at the table, unable to look her in the eye.

  “My books sales are down. The last time I spoke to my editor, he wasn’t what I’d call optimistic about the future of the series,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrugged. “You’ve had enough to worry about lately. I didn’t want to add to it.”

  “You didn’t want to add to my worries,” India repeated.

  She stared at me, blinking in a dazed way. My anger softened. I knew what she was going to say before she even said it: We were a team. She always wanted to know what was happening with me, good or bad. We loved each other and that was all that mattered.

  But what she actually said was “What the hell sort of a pathetic excuse is that?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been lying to me?”

  “I didn’t lie,” I protested.

  India snorted. “Please. Don’t even try to argue that holding back that sort of information from me wasn’t deceptive. Especially in light of the constant, never-ending discussions you insist on having about our finances.”

  My anger flared up again. “So let me get this straight. To you, this,” I held up the credit card bill again, “is an acceptable thing to do. But my not telling you about a work problem that hasn’t even happened yet is unacceptable?”

  India was gazing at me as though I were a stranger. “Why can’t you be with me on this?” she asked. Her voice was no longer angry, but instead was tinged with such sadness I went cold. I had a sinking feeling that this was one of those Big Moments, that whatever I said next could make or break us, and I had no idea how to make it better.

  “I don’t know what you need from me,” I said helplessly.

  India pressed her lips together, and her eyes filled with tears. I wanted to stand up and take her in my arms, to hold her and smooth away her sadness, but I couldn’t. I was too angry, too overwhelmed by the situation. So I just sat there, with the table and what felt like a vast space between us, and looked helplessly up at her.

  “Jeremy,” she began.

  But before she could finish, the kitchen door opened and shut. Georgia’s voice rang out, mingling with Lainey’s laughter. There was the clatter of footsteps across the hardwood floors, and then Georgia and Lainey—giggling together like a pair of teenagers—appeared behind India, framed in the doorway to the dining room. Lainey looked from India to Jeremy, and her smile slowly disappeared.

  But Georgia, clearly oblivious to the tension, said, “What’s for dinner? I hope there’s something more than those vegetables in the colander. Lainey’s craving garlic bread.”

  India attempted a smile for Lainey’s benefit. “You are?”

  “No, Georgia is,” Lainey said. “I hate garlic bread.”

  “Traitorous girl,” Georgia bellowed. “That’s the last time I buy you the extra-large popcorn at the movies.”

  “You should have gotten me the Raisinets, too,” Lainey said, throwing Georgia an evil grin.

  “I’ll go finish dinner. And if you play your cards right, and stop griping about the vegetables, I’ll make you your garlic bread,” India said. “But someone’s going to need to go to the store for French bread. We don’t have any.”

  “I’ll go,” Lainey offered. “I’m still craving Raisinets.”

  “Thanks. Let me get my purse and I’ll give you some money,” India said.

  Without looking at me, she walked out of the room, with Georgia and Lainey trailing in her wake.

  I wandered outside. Before I even saw him, the rhythmic thud of a basketball on pavement told me Kelly was out shooting hoops. He was wearing a sleeveless gray T-shirt and long baggy shorts, and was dribbling the ball with a practiced ease.

  “Hey,” I said, walking up his driveway.

  “Hey,” Kelly replied. He bounced the ball to me. I dribbled a few times, then took a shot. The basketball rolled around the rim and then fell out.

  “Great,” I said flatly.

  Kelly crowed with laughter. He retrieved the ball, bounced it back and forth between his legs, and then took a shot. The ball swished through the net.

  “And that’s how it’s done. Nothing but net,” Kelly said, throwing me the ball.

  I bounced the ball twice and took another shot. This time it rattled on the frame, but eventually fell in. This gave me a ridiculous rush of pleasure.

  I knew why Kelly annoyed India so much. With his expensive toys, young girlfriends, and gobs of disposable income, it was hard not to resent how easily everything came to him. Even his job, managing his hip downtown bar, was glamorous. But although I wouldn’t admit it to India upon pain of scrotum waxing, a small part of me envied Kelly. His success, hi
s money, even the women. His life seemed so easy. And so unlike mine.

  “Who’s the hot chick I keep seeing coming and going from your place?” Kelly asked.

  It took me a minute to think of who he was talking about. “You mean Lainey?”

  Kelly shrugged. “I’ve just seen her from a distance. Dark hair, long legs, nice ass.”

  “Lainey,” I confirmed.

  “What’s the story with her?”

  “She’s pregnant. We’re adopting her baby.”

  Kelly whistled and shook his head. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to go into detail about our infertility. And, if I did, I wondered how I could make it clear that it was an issue with India, and not me, without violating India’s privacy. Ever since one of India’s book club friends had, after too many glasses of wine, laid a sympathetic hand on my arm and asked if my sperm count was low, I now worried that everyone immediately assumed the fault lay with me.

  “She’s pretty hot for someone who’s knocked up,” Kelly said. “Is she single?”

  “Dude,” I said. “Do not hit on our birth mother.”

  “Why not? Pregnant sex is hot. At least, it is until they get huge. But there’s that period right in the middle, when their tits get really big and they’re up for it, like, all the time,” Kelly said. “In fact, it was the only time my ex-wife was ever up for it.”

  I caught the basketball Kelly tossed to me. “That is way too much information.”

  Kelly laughed. “There she is now,” he said, looking across the street toward our house. Lainey was leaving, the infamous Coach handbag slung over one shoulder. She glanced over in our direction and nodded once. I raised my hand in a listless wave. Kelly lifted his chin and called out, “Hey there.” Lainey climbed into her dented car and pulled out of the driveway.

  “Smoking hot,” Kelly said, watching her drive away.

  I shook my head and turned to take another shot at the basket. This time the ball whistled through the air and sank straight through the net without touching the rim.

  I wanted to talk to India, but she successfully avoided me for the rest of the evening. Georgia decided to hang around after dinner, and she and India ended up watching some insipid television show with Lainey about people who were set up on blind dates. It didn’t seem very realistic, and I couldn’t stomach Georgia’s ongoing commentary about how it was a fascinating insight into modern youth and good research for her poetry, when it was clear that she was really just delighted to ogle the shirtless young men and their washboard abs. I retreated to the dining room, closing the folding doors behind me.

  I was just getting settled in to discuss theories about the plots of upcoming Future Race books with the FutureRaceFanatics board when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I said. I expected it to be India, wanting to finish our talk. I was surprised when Lainey slid open the pocket door and walked in.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  Lainey wandered around the dining room, looking at the pictures on the wall—a series of framed botanical prints India had unearthed at a thrift store—and a collection of conch shells on the sideboard. She picked one up and lifted it to her ear.

  “Do you hear the ocean?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “I never could, either.”

  Lainey put the shell down. “What do you do in here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You spend all of your time shut up in here,” Lainey said.

  “I’m working,” I said, wondering why she was making me feel defensive. Surely I didn’t owe her an explanation for how I spent my time.

  “So, what, you’re writing a book?” Lainey asked.

  I nodded. She glanced at my computer screen, where the FutureRaceFanatics website was on display. Damn. I’d forgotten to minimize it.

  “What’s that?” Lainey asked. Before I could answer, she walked swiftly around the table—she moved surprisingly fast for a pregnant woman—and leaned over to squint at the screen. “Future Race Fanatics?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a message board,” I said. I reached for the mouse, but Lainey had stepped closer, blocking my access. I couldn’t even reach around her; her rounded stomach was in the way.

  “What sort of a message board?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing, really. Just a forum where people discuss books,” I said. “Aren’t you watching that show with India and Georgia?”

  “No, it was boring. What kind of books do they discuss?”

  “Actually, it’s a board about my books,” I admitted.

  “Really? Cool,” Lainey said. “I want to see what they wrote.”

  Before I could protest, she had dragged a chair over, settled herself in, and taken hold of the mouse. She began scrolling down, reading the thread I’d just opened.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said.

  Lainey ignored my sarcasm. “Wow, they really like your books. Except for this guy.”

  “What guy?” I asked.

  “Someone called Xerxon. Nice name.” Lainey snorted. “He basically thinks your books suck.”

  So my old nemesis was back. Xerxon had posted quite a few unflattering critiques of my work on the boards, but he hadn’t been around in a while. I thought HippyChick had driven him off.

  “That goes along with the job. Not everyone’s going to like everything I write,” I said, trying to sound magnanimous, even as I leaned closer to read what Xerxon had written.

  Haven’t you idiots ever seen Battlestar Galactica? The whole premise of Battlestar Galactica is that humans are trying to escape killer robots, known as the Cylons. JH basically rips that off in book six, by having Griff and Juliet running away from the Titans, who have amped up their brains with artificial intelligence chips. That’s why JH sux. All of his books are totally unoriginal.

  “What? Future Race isn’t anything like Battlestar Galactica,” I said indignantly. “For one thing, Battlestar Galactica takes place in space. For another, it’s a post-apocalyptic story. The only thing that Battlestar Galactica and Future Race have in common is that they both have artificial intelligence plotlines. But show me a sci-fi book that doesn’t have an artificial intelligence plotline! It’s practically required, along with a rogue protagonist and a spunky love interest. In fact, you could argue that Battlestar Galactica is derivative of Star Wars. I wonder what Xerxon would say to that.”

  But Lainey wasn’t listening. She had clicked the Reply button, and started to type surprisingly fast, considering she only used two fingers.

  “What are you writing?” I asked. I leaned forward to read.

  Xerxon is obviously a loser who doesn’t have a girlfriend and so he spends all of his time stuffing Twinkies in his mouth and insulting people. I bet he’s 15 years old and a virgin.

  Lainey hit the Post key before I could stop her.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I said.

  “Trust me, this will totally get under his skin. Nothing annoys a nerd more than being called a virgin,” Lainey said.

  “How do you know that?” I asked. As an ex-nerd myself, I knew this was true, but I had a hard time picturing Lainey spending much time hanging around with geeks.

  “I went to high school,” Lainey said.

  “Where you apparently spent your time tormenting nerds,” I said.

  Lainey clicked the Refresh icon for the webpage. There was a new post. We both leaned forward to read it. It was written by HippyChick, who was thrilled that someone was helping her flame Xerxon. She posted a message highly supportive of Magnus, including a liberal usage of exclamation points.

  “That chick has issues,” Lainey commented.

  “Yeah, but she’s on our side. And she’s a fan,” I said. “So don’t insult her.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” Lainey said.

  Xerxon didn’t take long to respond. By the fourth time Lainey had refreshed t
he page, he had posted.

  I have a girlfriend, and she’s really hot. So if anyone’s a loser, it’s you. Loser.

  “I think you succeeded in getting under his skin,” I said.

  “I’m just getting started,” Lainey said.

  She started typing again, rattling off yet another insult. This time, Lainey wasn’t content with maligning Xerxon’s virility. She went on to insult his mother, hypothesize that his obesity was likely caused by an unhealthy dependence on deep-fried fast-food products, and finished by suggesting that he had immoral intentions toward various barnyard animals. HippyChick was jubilant. Xerxon was outraged, and began yelling—signified by his typing in all capital letters—that he’d have us banned from the FutureRaceFanatics board.

  “I probably will get banned for this,” I said ruefully.

  “Because I called him a chicken fucker?” Lainey said.

  “Yeah. I’m guessing that will probably do it. Boards like this usually have rules about not attacking fellow posters.”

  “Sorry,” Lainey said. “I guess I had some pent-up aggression I needed to release. It’s the hormones.”

  “By all means release it. I’d hate to see what you’re like if you get any more pent up than that,” I said.

  “So, this is where you disappeared to. What are you guys doing in here?” Lainey and I looked up. India was standing at the door, holding a pint of rocky road ice cream in her hands. “Do either of you want ice cream?”

  “Absolutely,” Lainey said, springing to her feet. “I’m starving.”

  “I’m shocked,” I said.

  Lainey rolled her eyes, but smiled. She headed out of the dining room toward the kitchen, plucking the ice cream out of India’s hands as she passed.

  “What were you two doing?” India asked.

  “Surfing the net,” I said. “Lainey was giving me a lesson in how to get back at my critics. Remind me not to get on her bad side.”

  “Okay.” India hesitated. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Lainey was out of earshot. “For spending some time with Lainey. Making an effort.”