by Zoey Oliver
“I look like a hippopotamus,” I correct her, glaring at my own trunk-like area where my ankles used to be, before my calves and feet became one long cylinder.
“Oh, stop exaggerating,” she scolds me. “You’re carrying twins. You’re twenty-three years old. You could probably put on another fifty pounds and then drop it right away. Young people are so springy!”
“See? That’s what I keep telling her!” Bea interrupts. I wonder if the stethoscope is long enough to strangle both of them at once.
“Now just lie back and relax,” she instructs me, yanking out the familiar ultrasound machine. She squirts a big glob of goo on my belly and starts rolling the transponder around. Instantly little black-and-white silhouettes pop up on the screen, and my bad mood melts away.
“Oh, wow,” I say softly. I see two round heads, bobbing back and forth. I can even make out the ghostly images of fingers flexing, strangely small legs kicking out. My belly wobbles from side to side, in time with the visual image on the screen.
“That’s pretty freaking cool,” Bea observes.
“You are such a sweet couple,” Dr. Lopez sighs. “I wish all my ladies were as sweet as you two.”
Bea rolls her eyes dramatically, but I don’t correct her. I found that when people hear that I’m single and pregnant with twins, they can get pretty judgey. I think I am better off just letting her think I’m in a committed relationship, even if it is with this crazy broad over here.
“Everything sure looks healthy!” Dr. Lopez announces. “You’re moving right along at twenty weeks. They can probably hear you, so you could sing to them if you wanted. Play music for them, maybe. Some people enjoy that.”
“Seriously?” I ask, wondering what kind of music fetuses enjoy.
“You bet! They’re almost getting to the real life people point of their development. As a matter of fact, you’re basically halfway. And you look amazing… just keep doing what you’re doing. Do you want to know the gender?”
Bea squeals in delight. “Hell, yes, we do!”
“No, wait!” I interrupt. They both look at me, eyes wide, waiting.
“It’s just… I mean…”
Dr. Lopez pats my hand, drawing the gown modestly back over my swollen belly, which is now officially bigger than my giant boobs. I’m giant everywhere and only going to get bigger, if what they tell me is true.
“I know it’s a lot to process, Ava,” she says sweetly, in that voice people use when they think I’m being a crazy pregnant lady. “Why don’t I just write it down for you? I will put in an envelope and you can decide later what to do with it. Open it or don’t open it. It’s totally up to you.”
“I want the envelope!” Bea announces.
“Do not give her the envelope,” I tell Dr. Lopez sternly as she’s writing something down with her back to me. She dramatically inserts it in the envelope and licks it closed, then raises her eyebrows at Bea as she hands it to me. I tuck it safely under my left butt cheek, fairly certain Bea is not going to go after it under there.
“Okay! I’ll see you in a month. You can just make an appointment with the receptionist on the way out.”
When Dr. Lopez is gone, Bea folds her arms in front of her and glares at me.
“You know, that’s a pretty rude way to treat the mother of your children, Ava,” she growls.
I snort, then shrug, letting the gown fall into the laundry basket and pulling my maternity dress back on. It’s remarkably comfortable, actually. Most maternity dresses are nice and loose around the middle, gathered under the bosom. I still look like a shapely girl, as much as I can anyway. Way better than the potato sacks they dressed my mother in twenty five years ago.
“We can all find out at the same time, on the big day,” I say reasonably. “It’ll keep everybody from trying to name them too. Everybody can just butt out. The less information, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re a jerk,” Bea informs me.
“Yeah, well, you’re a jerk too, and you’re not even pregnant,” I shoot back, slipping into my ballet flats.
She shrugs, which I take as some kind of silent agreement.
As we walk out, I watch an extremely pregnant lady waddling past the reception area. That’ll be me, in just a few more months. I guess I don’t waddle just yet. So I’ve got that going for me.
“Will you tell your mom at least?”
“Nope,” I say as I push the down arrow button on the elevator.
I press my lips together tightly, trying to suppress the wave of emotions that starts to come over me. I don’t want to feel these feelings, not now. I’ve got an envelope with my babies’ genders right there in my purse. I’ve got everything to be happy about. I don’t want to be sad.
“So, uh… when’s the last time you talked to him?” Bea asks me in a small, gentle voice.
I look up at the LED display, trying to figure out how long the elevator is going to take to get to the garage.
“Ava?” she prods.
“Two months,” I finally answer.
“All the way back when you told him you didn’t want to talk to him anymore?”
“Yep,” I admit.
She shrugs. “I suppose it’s good that he’s finally learning to be obedient?”
“I suppose.”
I lean heavily against the rail as the elevator zips us back down to the parking garage. Two months really is a long time.
“You know, you could invite him to the shower…”
My eyebrows go up. “Excuse me? The what?”
Bea smiles hugely, clapping and bouncing up and down. “The shower!” she announces brightly. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you yet, but your mom and I have been planning it! We’re throwing you a shower, you pregnant twerp!”
“You don’t have to do that,” I object as we walk through the parking garage. Bea’s little Honda is always hiding in parking spaces, and we never remember to write down where we left it.
“Of course we need to do that!” she gasps, appalled. “Baby showers are awesome! You get to have presents… and brunch… and play stupid games, with bows on your head, diaper cakes for dessert… It’s classic!”
“Oh my God, no. Baby showers are the worst!”
She nods, clearly excited. “I know! We’re having so much fun setting it up!”
I roll my eyes, finally spotting the broken taillight of Bea’s humble little car. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a baby shower, but it is really sweet of her to do this.
“And you’re planning this all with my mom?”
She winks at me. “Sure am. She’s really excited. You should totally talk to her more often! I don’t think she’s even mad anymore, honest.”
“I do not believe you one little bit.”
She wrinkles her nose, cringing. “Well, I’m pretty sure she’s a whole lot less mad than she was before. That part is true. And… I mean… you can invite Ethan.”
I open the creaky door, turning to fall into the passenger seat, which is pretty much the only way to get into the car anymore.
“I don’t think I’m ready to do that. It’s not a good idea.”
“I didn’t say that you had to date him,” she objects. “You could just invite him to the shower. Let him give you presents. Let him feel a little bit included. Like it or not, they’re his babies too. He should get to suffer through the baby shower too!”
“Well, you do have a point about the suffering…”
As Bea navigates back through the parking garage, I pull out my phone and stare at it. I don’t really know what to say. Is this even a good idea?
Would you like to come to my baby shower?
I hit send, then make a face. That was a stupid message. After two months, that’s all I’m going to say to him? Lame.
Yes.
My heart does a little leap.
“He says he is coming.”
“Hooray!”
Can we have dinner first? No strings. Just to touch base?
“Oh
shit. He wants to have dinner.”
Bea hunches over the steering wheel, looking back and forth at traffic, trying to time her left turn.
“So have dinner with him,” she says distractedly.
“I just said I didn’t want to see him anymore!”
She sucks her teeth in disgust. “Have dinner with him, Ava. Don’t be such a baby. You don’t have to fuck him or anything. You already did that.”
“Ouch, cold,” I remark.
“Sorry,” she says immediately, pulling out into traffic. “You know you shouldn’t talk to me when I drive.”
“Yeah.”
I scowl at the phone, wondering what to say. She’s right. I am being just a little bit immature.
Dinner. Yes.
I send the message, then drop my phone back into my purse, not resolving not to wonder too hard about what I just did.
***
We have dinner at a little French bistro near the bridge. I walk up cringing, expecting there to be paparazzi surrounding Ethan, and a hundred questions hurled at me. But there doesn’t seem to be anybody. In fact the street is practically deserted.
It takes me a second to realize that the man who is staring at me as I approach is Ethan. He seems taller. Certainly leaner. He’s wearing jeans and an untucked, button-down shirt.
“You look different,” I muse as I come up. “Have I ever seen you wearing jeans before? Not counting when we were kids.”
He just shrugs, his face crinkling into that familiar smile. I instantly count the laugh lines around his eyes, then scold myself for being so emotional.
“I’m pretty sure you have not,” he admits. “I think these are the first jeans I ever bought as an adult person.”
He gestures toward the front door of the restaurant, gallantly opening it for me. My mouth salivates immediately as soon as I smell the tang of lemon and broth, garlic and rosemary.
Even the maître d’ doesn’t seem to recognize us. He smiles politely and guides us back to a private table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, holding my chair out for me politely. I do my best to sit down like a normal woman, not one who has just put on twenty pounds in the last couple of months.
“Thanks for coming,” he smiles. I realize immediately that he didn’t tell me I look beautiful. The way he is looking at me, he’s thinking it. But he didn’t say it, even though that’s what he always said first. It seems strange, but kind of nice. The Prince Charming act seems to have dissolved, at least for the moment.
“I think I like the blue jeans,” I confess. “Kind of macho. Like a lumberjack.”
He chuckles deeply, the sound reverberating in his chest.
“It’s funny you say that. I’ve been working on… a project. Something macho, I guess you could say.”
“A project?”
His eyes twinkle. “Kind of secret project, really.”
“I can keep a secret,” I shrug.
“Well… okay. How about this. Can I host a baby shower for you? Secret location and all that?”
I glance up at him, startled. He staring at me intently, but not in an overbearing way. I can tell he’s curious about my answer and excited to tell me his secret even though he probably won’t just yet.
“I guess you’d have to talk to my mom? Bea? So… I am probably not authorized to say yes. Maybe?”
He snaps his menu closed triumphantly. “Excellent. It’s a good enough answer for me.”
I have to giggle. “What is up with you?” I wonder aloud. “Are you on drugs? You really do seem different.”
He rolls his eyes and chuckles again, a sound I didn’t realize how much I’d missed hearing. “I guess hard work has just been really good for me,” he explains humbly. “You’ll see. I promise.”
Though I want to order one of everything on the menu, I restrict myself to beef bourguignon and fresh bread. Lots of bread. They have to bring us two extra baskets before I’m done.
It takes a little while, but eventually we begin talking, just making polite conversation. I tell him about work, leaving out how I’ve been scrimping to decorate the babies’ room. Leaving out how my clothes fit me, or anything else that sounds like a complaint. I tell him that I enjoy the work, and I really do.
We talk for a long time, and I realize I don’t want it to be over. I’m not ready to go home yet.
“I was wondering,” I sigh as the waiter takes away the dishes. “Maybe… it’s pretty late. Do you think I could just stay over? At your place?”
His eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t tease me or anything. “I’d love that.”
Perry is waiting outside with the Rolls when we’re done with dinner and he drives us back to Ethan’s condo building. We don’t say anything, but I don’t even know what I would want to say right now anyway.
As soon as we’re alone, his hands find my hair and he holds me, rocking slowly back and forth, dancing that silent dance that I remember from the patio at the beach house.
Inhaling against my hairline, he smells my hair like he always does. The little details somehow escaped me before. But now I appreciate them when my body feels so weird. I guess I took everything for granted before. Easy things are hard now. I have to be conscious of where I am and what hurts and what feels good all the time. I feel conspicuous and swollen, worried that people are judging me all the time.
But when he pulls away, I don’t see any of that. There’s absolutely zero judgment in his eyes as he tugs on the straps of my dress, pushing it from my shoulders. He smiles sweetly, drinking me in. I’m not embarrassed at all. I’m not even as shy as I was when we first met.
He picks me up as though I’m as light as a feather, and carries me to the bedroom. We kiss all the way, eager and thirsty, needing to find each other.
We make love quickly, both of us finding relief, finding the path to ecstasy without stopping, without meandering. I’m so grateful to be close to him, to feel this familiar comfort, I almost cry.
He gazes into my eyes when he comes, holding my head in his hands, forceful but careful not to hurt me. I want to tell him he doesn’t need to do that—I’m sturdier than I look. But I think it is sweet that he’s thinking about it.
As we drift toward sleep, I watch his face change, becoming more relaxed, outlined by the silvery moonlight that comes through the window. Did I really give this up? Did I really push him away?
Here in his silent room, his hand casually cupping the fullness of my swollen belly, his breath bathing my breasts in sweet warmth, I think it could’ve been possible. Maybe if we both tried a little bit harder, it would have been possible for us to stay together. To explore this whole thing together.
Or maybe not. Because he is different. There were layers of phony Ethan I used to have to press through to get to the real Ethan. Those layers are gone without a trace tonight. What’s left seems so real, I can’t imagine why he kept it hidden.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ETHAN
I hear a whole parade of footsteps on the porch, but I give it a few seconds more before opening the door. Quietly, I stand on the other side, just listening. Aden sounds hopeful, but a little nervous. It sounds like he’s bargaining for the release of hostages.
Bea is sassy, yet holding back. She’s trying to be reasonable, to move everyone forward.
Aden says something to his mother, and I hear her murmured response. She’s not yelling, so that’s good.
After a few more moments I hear that unmistakable grunt. Ava’s father. I’m not sure what to make of that sound, at all.
I open the door, pretending that I haven’t just been standing there eavesdropping. I couldn’t hear the words, but I was right about the tone. They all start talking immediately and turn toward the door, plastering smiles on their faces that vary in degree of sincerity.
Ava’s father Bert doesn’t bother. He’s not planning on smiling.
“Come in! Please come in,” I say, stepping aside and opening the door with a flourish.
Aden s
hrugs as he walks past me, making a face like he tried, but failed. He was supposed to butter them up, so they’d get here hating me slightly less. I guess it didn’t work.
Bea just rolls her eyes instead of saying anything to me. I guess I have to work on that too.
But Ava’s mother Evelyn is as polite as ever. Even if she’s little cold, she is still a lot like Ava. She never entirely gives up.
“Here, let me take that for you,” I offer, lifting the bags from her hands.
“You have a beautiful home,” Evelyn says politely, looking around.
“He better,” Aden announces. “He’s been working on it day and night for the last three and a half months.”
Evelyn’s eyebrows go up. “Is that so? Well, it shows.”
I can’t help but smile. It’s nice to get a little bit of affirmation, especially after so long.
“Well, we better get started,” Bea announces as she heads down the hall toward the kitchen. “Holy cow! Evelyn! Come look at this!”
Evelyn smiles fondly. “I guess I need to go look at the kitchen,” she sighs apologetically, leaving the foyer.
Bert looks at Aden, and Aden glances at me. We stand there uncomfortably for a few more seconds, wondering how the hell we’re supposed to get through this.
“So, who wants to get drunk?” Aden finally asks.
“It sounds a great idea,” I admit.
Bert just grunts.
We sit in the parlor, drinking bourbon even though it’s not even noon yet. It’s just a bourbon kind of day. Bert scowls at everything in the room, piece by piece.
“So, when are your guys getting here?” I finally ask Aden.
He takes a nervous swallow. “I’m catering this shindig,” he explains to his father. “Remember Danny? The chef? I got rid of him. I have a new chef. You’re gonna love it.”
Bert just grunts.
Aden looks at me, rolling his eyes. This is a little bit more difficult than he was anticipating, I guess.
“So… about two hours,” he continues uncomfortably. “They’ll have everything set up in the kitchen, and people will start coming in about two-thirty, Bea said. Ava will show up at three. Or three-thirty, knowing Ava.”
