by Julia Kent
“Put those on,” I remind him, like I always have to remind him when we get takeout delivered.
“Huh?”
“This isn’t Gerald’s nude sculpting class. Don’t be rude. Put on pants.”
I can feel his eye roll from here, but he does it.
Two minutes later, we’re naked in bed, cross-legged and eating our respective pizzas straight out of the box.
“Nothing but the finest money can buy for my dear wife,” Declan cracks, a dot of tomato sauce on the corner of his mouth. I bend over the pizza boxes and lick it off.
“This is fun,” he declares, reaching for one of the two cans of soda he ordered–well, Dave ordered–with the pizza.
“How did Dave know I like Moxie?” I ask, popping the top on mine, taking a sip.
“It’s in Grace’s notebook.” Dec pulls another piece of pizza out of his box and uses his tongue to guide a sensually long string of mozzarella into his mouth.
“Grace kept track of that kind of detail?”
“Sure did.”
“Wow.”
“She even documented your birth control prescription, strength, dosage, the whole bit.”
“Did she know the kind of condoms you used while you and I were dating?”
He stiffens. No, not there.
“Oh, Dec. Gross.”
“Gross is your pizza.”
“Come on. Your assistant bought your condoms for you?”
“Look, Shannon, executive assistants run every detail of a C-suite executive’s life.” He’s not saying no, which means... yes.
“Now Dave knows?”
“I doubt Dave cares. And besides, we’re not using condoms.”
“Which means Dave will figure out fast that we’re TTCing.”
“TTC what?”
“Trying to conceive.”
“Oh.” Shrug. “So?”
“I was hoping to keep it private.”
“Your mother knows. That ship sailed so long ago, it’s called the Santa Maria.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re acting like Dave’s a lady’s maid who is watching your sheets for your period so she can tell your mother when you’re late.”
“Someone’s been watching a little too much White Queen lately,” I mutter.
“What’s White Queen? I’m citing portions of the social history of England.”
“You can be really obscure, Declan.”
“I blame the scent of your abominable pizza.”
“Quit making fun if it!”
But I laugh anyhow, caught up in the fun.
“Forty-five and a half more hours, huh?” he says, closing his pizza box and moving it to the ground, settling in with pillows behind him as he chugs his soda.
“Yep,” I say, eating the rest of my slice and mimicking him. We find ourselves next to each other, reeking of garlic, stomachs full, hearts happy.
“Life is good.”
“Life is great.”
“Dec?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. This is the best vacation we’ve ever taken.”
“It’s only been two and a half hours, Shannon.”
“I know.”
Chapter 7
Shannon
* * *
“Reese’s Cups?” Amanda asks, like we’re going through a UN disaster-team checklist.
“Check.”
“Cherry Garcia?”
“Two pints.”
“Salt’n’vinegar chips?”
“Yep.”
“Ibuprofen?”
“Uh huh, but only if it’s super bad, and only after it starts.” In case. Just in case. I know I shouldn’t hold out hope, but...
“And ginger ale,” I add.
“That’s new.”
I shrug. “My stomach’s acting kind of weird.”
“Okay… People magazine?”
Groan.
“And tampons.”
“That bad?”
“Hasn’t even started yet. But I’m out.” It’s day twenty-eight and I know I’m going to be sporting a giant overnight pad with batwings tonight. Poor Declan’s going to have to sleep on the couch because my bloated body will sink my side of the bed for the next five days.
“How do you know it’s coming? Maybe you’re pregnant?”
I glare at her. “I have had a monthly period for seventeen years. My period is almost an adult. My period will be able to be drafted and sent off to war soon. My period’s about to go off to college. Its privacy will be protected from helicopter parents by FERPA. You dare to ask me how I know? I know. You know I know.”
“Oh, I know now. That period’s coming, all right. You are bitchy as hell, Shannon!”
“I am PMSing while TTCing!”
“Then no wonder you’re OTL with your BFF.”
“OTL?”
“Out to lunch.”
“No one uses that as an acronym!”
“I was feeling left out.” Amanda’s nose scrunches as her eyes dart to a corner of the living room, over by the fireplace. “What are all those?” Three big stacks of large cardboard shipping boxes dominate, the top one open.
“Take a look,” I offer.
She does, pulling out tiny containers of flavored salt. Specialty salt-based creams. Salted soap.
“You doing a promotion with a salt company?”
“No. Declan bought one of everything from my favorite store in Portland.”
“One of everything?”
“I gave a bunch of it away to Mom, Carol and Amy. What’s left is my favorite stuff.”
“Why did Declan buy one of everything for you? You’re not the diva type.”
“I can totally be the diva type!”
“Shannon. Please. You feel guilty when you don’t shop at thrift stores.”
“Because it’s bad for the environment!”
“We had this talk in Vegas when you got married. You have a thing about money.”
“I did. I did have a thing about money. But if you must know, Declan bought me all this as a way of apologizing.”
“For what?”
“For not telling me he made a mistake.”
Amanda surveys the boxes. “Huh. Amateur.”
“Declan’s an amateur? At what?”
“Not Declan. You. You should have held out for jewelry. Once you’ve got them pinned down as being wrong, you have all the leverage.”
“STOP! You sound like one of the Real Housewives from those television shows.”
“Speaking of television,” she snickers, pointing to the screen.
In silent companionship, we grab our goodies, curl up on the couch, and start channel surfing.
“Zombies?”
“No.”
“Serial killers?”
“I’m facing plenty of blood this week. No.”
“Cheesy romantic comedy?”
“Who the hell wants that? Pfft.”
“Drama?”
“I don’t want to cry.”
“World War II documentary?”
“When did you become a grandpa?”
She sighs. “You’re as bad as Andrew.”
“Andrew has good, discerning taste about the entertainment he consumes. I am flattered.”
“Uh, sure. Right. Let’s call it that instead of picky and weird.” She hesitates, clearly ready to say something else, but she doesn’t.
“Spill it.”
“What?” She looks genuinely surprised.
“I can read you like no one else, Amanda Hortense Warrick McCormick. You want to say something else.”
“Please don’t use my full name like that. When you spell it out, it makes me want to change it to Jane Smith.”
“I’m not letting you wiggle out of this.”
“Fine. Andrew wants a baby.”
“With you?”
“No. With Oprah. OF COURSE, with me.”
“Why?”
“Why do couples have babie
s? Because they want to raise kids and have a family.”
“You guys just got married.”
“I know.” She won’t look me in the eye.
“Oh, God,” I groan. “Those stupid, stupid men.”
“I know!” She throws a pillow across the room, as if Andrew were standing there, being stupid. “He doesn’t want Declan to have the first grandchild.”
“Who cares about having the first!” I shout.
We look at each other and say in unison, “They do.”
“Those two are the only men in the world who could invent a babython!” I fume.
“What is a babython?”
“They’re like triathlons, only the swimming portion involves sperm, and running involves basal thermometers and temperatures telling you it’s fertile time. And instead of competing with your husband to see who finishes first–ahem–it’s all about beating your brother-in-law.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. I don’t understand it, either. And I’ve got a six-foot-tall animatronic teddy bear, too.”
“Mine is seven feet tall!” Amanda chirps.
I glare at her. PMS glares have sharper edges than regular ones. She flinches.
“Hey,” she says in a hurt voice. “At least I got a fair-trade coffee plantation as a result of the bizarre rivalry between Declan and Andrew.”
“You didn’t get anything! You don’t own the plantation.”
“Yeah, actually. I do.”
“Please don’t let Declan know. Please. Otherwise, I’ll own a plantation somewhere, too.”
“You probably do and don’t know it.”
“Do you want a baby?” I ask her.
“Sure. Someday. But I want a few years with him before.”
“Was he talking about babies before he found out Dec and I are trying to conceive?”
“No.”
“Smoking gun.”
“Yep.”
“Are you telling him no?”
She blushes. “I’m not saying no to all the sex.”
“You’re having unprotected sex all the time?”
“We’re using protection.”
“You’re lying to your own husband about protection?”
“What? No! I would never do that. He knows we’re using birth control.”
“Then... I’m confused.”
“He gets really turned on by competition.”
“Ew!”
“It’s weird. I know. But we can’t judge other people’s arousal points. It’s really not fair. You have some quirks, too. We all do, Shannon. Remember your Danny DeVito phase?”
There is not enough ice cream in the world for this conversation.
“You pinkie promised never to talk about that. And if you ever do, I have two words for you: Howard Stern.”
She shrieks. “It was a dream! I couldn’t help it! I have zero arousal quotient for him.”
“Your subconscious says otherwise. Licking a life-sized lollipop in the shape of Howard Stern?”
“It tasted like cotton candy and butterscotch pudding,” she says, eyes going soft as she yields to the memory. Her face twists into a quick, disapproving scowl. “Don’t you dare tell Andrew.”
“Don’t you dare tell Declan.”
This is the best part of having a friend you go way back with: mutually assured destruction.
“So Andrew turns into a rabbit when he thinks about having babies?”
“What does my vibrator have to do with this?”
“I didn’t–oh, never mind.”
“Anyhow... he wants me to go off the pill so we can have the first grandchild and make James proud or something.” Her eyes flit to my left hand. “He says Declan got to give you their mother’s engagement ring. We should give James the first grandchild.”
“Is he serious?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think so?”
“But you’re not sure.”
“He’s a McCormick man. They’re hard to read.”
“It sounds like he thinks he should compete, but doesn’t want to compete.”
“Is Dec doing this to beat Andrew?”
“Huh?”
“Did Declan start the whole ‘let’s have a baby’ conversation because he wants to be first?”
“No.” My turn to go hazy and gooey with memory. “We just came to the idea together.”
“Mutual orgasms are nice,” she says wistfully.
“Oh, sure, but I’m talking about something better.”
“Better?”
“Mutual and absolute agreement on a lifelong decision in a marriage.”
“Pretty sure that’s some kind of marriage nirvana, Shannon.”
“See? Better.” I think about what she’s saying as I swallow a mouthful of caramel, then say, “You don’t bring a whole ’nother human being into the world because you’re trying to win a contest.”
“I know that. Tell Andrew.”
“Pretty sure he knows that, too.”
“Tell me again why we keep men around?” Amanda asks, the question less rhetorical and closer to homicidal.
“Because sex toys don’t get up in the morning after sex and bring you coffee in bed.”
“Hmph. There is that,” she concedes.
“But man, the first person who combines a sex toy with a pump espresso machine is going to win the Nobel Prize.”
Amanda nods sagely, then says, “They can call it the Buzz Buzz.”
I sigh. “After our weekend away in Portland, I can conclusively state that there is nothing finer than the combination of good coffee and a real, flesh-and-blood man. No vibrator can replace Declan.”
“Same here. I’d be lost without Andrew. There’s this spot he manages to touch if we twist just right, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to buy the right device, it just doesn’t–”
I stick my fingers in my ears and scream, “WHEN DID YOU BECOME MY MOTHER?”
“Oh, please.” Her wrist flick is exactly like Mom’s. “When did you become a prude?”
“Never! But come on. Andrew is my brother-in-law. I don’t want to think about him having sex.”
“And Declan is my brother-in-law. I don’t want to think about him having sex!”
“Well. We didn’t factor this into the whole ‘let’s marry brothers’ thing, did we?”
“Nope.”
“Let’s fix it, then.”
“How?”
“How do we fix everything?”
We dig in for more ice cream.
“Look,” she says, mouth half full, spoon waving in the air like a magic wand. “We can talk about sex.”
“When have we not talked about sex?”
“We just can’t get specific.”
“Right.”
“So how was your TTC sex?”
“Amanda...”
“I mean, like, how... was it? Successful?”
“I’m about to get my period, so obviously it wasn’t successful.” I catch her look. “But it was successful enough, if you get my drift.”
“Good. Because orgasms help you conceive.”
I close my eyes. “You are not helping.”
“It’s a fact! The contractions from an orgasm suck the sperm up into the cervix.”
“You sound exactly like your mother when you cite facts like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like an actuary.”
“I was raised by her! I can’t help it. And besides, she’s right.”
“Pam is always right. Always. It’s her job to be right. She calculates being right down to a margin of error that eliminates all possibility of being wrong.”
“Not all. Just as much as possible. No one can be error free. She did make a mistake once about chicken semen.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“Cost a major agri-business conglomerate a ton of money in nonfertilized eggs.”
“You’re making my stomach hurt.” A cramp, low and pointed, announces itself, th
e pain a little sharper than usual.
“Maybe it’s morning sickness.”
“Stop.”
“You… could be pregnant, right? Technically?”
I frown. “Sure. I ‘could.’” I use finger quotes. “But I’m not getting my hopes up.”
“I know.” She nudges me. “But you could.”
“I could.”
We stuff our faces in silence.
“Yours would be the first planned grandchild for Marie and Jason.”
“What?”
“Jeffrey and Tyler weren’t planned.”
“Why are you bringing this up?”
“Carol’s fault. She mentioned it at work the other day.”
“She spontaneously started talking about her two kids being oops! babies?”
“Of course. She’s Carol.”
That actually does make sense.
“And why, exactly, did the topic of my nephews’ conceptions come up?”
“She was commenting on what a planner you are. How you and Declan are being responsible and mature in how you’re going about starting a family.”
“Oh!” I’m surprised. Carol’s always treated me like the not-quite-smart little sister. “That’s nice.”
“She said she would have planned for her kids, but two guys named Bartles and Jaymes made it impossible.”
“Huh.”
“Can you imagine getting pregnant by accident?”
“No. When I was with Steve, he insisted on wrapping it even when I was on the pill.”
“And I’ve never had an oops. Mom drilled the need for birth control into me so long ago,” Amanda says, scraping the bottom of her pint. “Every time I started having sex with someone, visions of actuary tables and stats flooded my brain. You know how guys use baseball stats to prevent premature ejaculation? It was kind of like that.”
“Better that than what Steve’s mom used to do to us.”
“Oh, my God! I forgot about that!” We descend into giggles.
“We’d head out the door for a date and she’d tell us the blood of Christ was on us. It really messed with Steve’s mind.”
“Did it make him stop?”
“Hell, no.” My stomach really hurts. “Blech.”
“Ice cream not good?”
“No. Nausea.”
“Talking about sex with Steve will do that to anyone,” Amanda says as she clicks through the channels. “Drunk History?”
“What?”
“It’s a show.”
“Oh. Sure.”
As we settle in and start watching, I take a slow, deep breath.
