Something Blue

by Emily Giffin

  Ethan went on to tell me that he had measured a crib at Peter Jones and had determined that two would fit along the long wall. And that we could put a pad on top of that bookshelf and use it as a changing table.

  I grinned and told him it was an excellent plan. “Now open your gift!” I said, handing him his package.

  He opened it with exuberance, tearing off the paper, tossing it aside, and holding up the leather messenger bag I had found to replace his tattered nylon one. My only splurge in weeks. I could tell he loved it, because he immediately went to his room and brought out his old bag, unloading his papers and folders and transferring them to his new one. He swung it over his shoulder, then adjusted the strap slightly. “It’s awesome,” he said. “I look like a real novelist now.”

  He had begun to make a lot of comments like this lately. I could tell he felt anxious about the progress—or lack of progress—he was making on his book.

  “Still having writer’s block?” I asked sympathetically.

  “Yeah. I feel like Snoopy stuck on that one line: ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”

  I laughed and reassured him that surely all great authors struggled with occasional writer’s block, and that I knew he’d make some good headway in the new year.

  “Thanks, Darce. I appreciate that,” he said sincerely.

  Then we curled up under a big blanket on the couch and watched a video of It’s a Wonderful Life. Right around the part where the uncle accidentally gives the envelope of money to Mr. Potter, Ethan hit the pause button and asked if he could fast-forward to the end. “I can’t stand this part. It’s too frustrating.”

  I agreed. As we watched the grim scenes blur forward, I couldn’t help thinking about my own life—specifically the rift with my mother. She had not contacted me once since I had sent her the note from London. I firmly believed that the ball was in her court, but by the end of the movie, as we watched the happy family scene where George Bailey’s youngest daughter says, “Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings,” I decided to let go of my pride and call home.

  Ethan was supportive of the idea, so I nervously dialed up my home in Indy. As the phone rang, I almost hung up, but grabbed Ethan’s hand instead. My mom answered after five or six rings.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, feeling scared and small.

  She said my name icily and then silence floated over the wires. My mother was a champion grudge holder. I thought of my own grudge against Rachel, figuring that you didn’t get these things from strangers.

  “Did I interrupt dinner?” I asked.

  “Not really. We were just finishing. Jeremy and Lauren are here.”

  “Oh,” I said. “How are their wedding plans coming?”

  “Just fine.”

  I waited for her to ask how I was, whether I was still in London. When she didn’t, I offered it up awkwardly. “I’m still here in London…. You got my note, right?”

  She said that she already knew I was in London, even before receiving the note, as she had run into Annalise’s mother at the mall. She added that it had been embarrassing to hear of my whereabouts from someone else, which I thought was a petty point to raise given the fact that I had written her a note, and that I had been the one to phone her first. But I didn’t let this deter me from telling her how sorry I was for disappointing her. I told her that it was understandable how shocked she had been upon my news. That no mother would want her daughter to get pregnant so fast on the heels of a broken engagement to another man. I also told her that she was right about Marcus. “He was a big jerk, Mom. I’m not with him at all anymore. I see now that you just wanted what was best for me.”

  Ethan squeezed my hand and nodded, as if to say, “Keep going. You’re doing great.”

  I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “So anyway, I had an ultrasound here in London…and I found out what I’m having.”

  “A girl?”

  “No. Not a girl. I thought it would be a girl too. But it’s not a girl.”

  “So a boy then? That’s great,” she said emotionlessly.

  “Well, yes. But…it’s actually…two boys. I’m having twins. Identical twin boys! Isn’t that just the most craziest thing ever?”

  In my mind, I could hear Rachel instructing me that it’s either “the craziest” or “the most crazy”—not “the most craziest.” But this seemed an appropriate time to break the grammar rule. To me, having twin boys was the most craziest. “Can you believe that, Mom?”

  I braced myself for the worst, but it didn’t hurt any less when I got just that. She did not congratulate me. She did not ask about names. She did not ask how I was feeling. She did not say that she was happy for me. She only asked how in the world I was going to manage twins. Tears stung my eyes as I calmly reassured her that I intended to make things work in London. I told her that I was looking for a job and was sure something would turn up. I told her of our plans to fix up a nursery in Ethan’s flat, smiling at him gratefully. I told her how much I loved London, rain and all. Then I wished her a merry Christmas and told her that I loved her. I told her to tell my dad and Jeremy, and even Lauren, that I loved them, and that I’d be sure to call again soon. She said she loved me, too, but she said so briskly, with no warmth at all.

  When I hung up, I lowered my head into my hands and cried. Ethan stroked my hair and said softly, “You did good, Darce. You did the right thing by calling her. I’m proud of you.”

  “I shouldn’t have called. She was awful!”

  “Yes. You should have…. Don’t let her get you down. You can only control your own actions. Not other people’s reactions.”

  I blew my nose and said, “I can’t help feeling this way. She’s my mother.”

  “Parents often let you down,” he said. “You’ll just have to do a better job being a mother to your boys. I know you will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, Darce, you’ve shown your true colors lately.”

  I blew my nose again. “What do you mean by ‘true colors’?”

  “I mean…you are a good person.” Ethan touched my arm gently. “A strong person. And you’re going to make a wonderful mother.”

  Over the years, I had received endless compliments and ego-stroking words from countless men. You’re beautiful. You’re sexy. You’re incredible. I want you. Marry me. But this sentiment from Ethan was the nicest thing I had ever heard from a man. I put my head on his shoulder, basking in it.

  “I’m going to try, Ethan. I’m really going to try.”

  The next morning Ethan and I awoke and sleepily wished each other “Merry Christmas.”

  “What are we going to do today?” I asked him.

  “We’re gonna chef it up,” Ethan answered joyously.

  We had gone grocery-shopping two days earlier, and his small English refrigerator was packed to the gills with all of our ingredients.

  “What else?”

  “Cooking Christmas dinner will take most of the day,” he said.

  I asked if he wished we had waited to open our gifts. I knew that Christmas wasn’t about presents, but there is always a bit of a letdown when that part of the holidays has passed. Although, for once, I had enjoyed giving more than receiving.

  Ethan said he preferred opening gifts on Christmas Eve, and then said, “I could give you something else though…”

  I looked at him, and I think my face registered surprise. Was it my imagination or was his tone suggestive? Was Ethan coming on to me? Before I could answer, he continued innocently, “How about a poem?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I said, feeling relieved that I hadn’t responded inappropriately and embarrassed myself. “What’s the title of this poem?”

  He thought for a second and then said, “‘Hot Mama.’”

  I smiled and told him to go on, remembering his funny impromptu rhymes in high school. He cleared his throat and started rapping, inserting little rhythmic sputters and head bobbing along the way:

  Y
ou’re one hot mama in your sexy gown.

  The cutest little preggers girl in town.

  You envisioned buying girly toys.

  But instead you’re having two bouncing boys.

  You took the news in stride and did not cry or pout.

  ’Cause you know what motherhood’s really about.

  And no one will make a finer mutha.

  Your baby is lucky and so is his brutha!

  We both cracked up. Then he threw one arm over me and hugged me just as one of my babies delivered a sharp kick.

  Ethan’s face lit up.

  I laughed. “You felt that?”

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  “He got you.”

  “He sure did,” Ethan murmured. He rested his hand on my stomach and gently pushed.

  One baby responded with an impressive jolt. Ethan chuckled. “That’s wild. I still can’t believe you have two babies in there!”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I feel like I’m running out of room. It’s starting to get really tight.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Sort of. It’s just this weird pressure down there. And I’m starting to get this annoying back pain.”

  Ethan asked me if I wanted a massage.

  “Are your back massages as good as your foot massages?”

  “Better,” he said.

  “Hell yeah, then,” I said, as I rolled onto my side.

  Ethan rubbed his hands together. Then he slid my nightgown up, exposing my bare back and apple-green thong. I felt my heart race with the realization that Ethan was seeing me essentially naked for the first time. I held my breath as he pressed his warm palms against the middle of my back and slowly worked upward between my shoulder blades. Then he firmly massaged my shoulders. “Is this too hard?” he asked softly.

  “Nooo. It’s awesome,” I moaned, feeling all the tightness and tension drain from my body. As he kept massaging, I couldn’t stop imagining sex with Ethan. I tried to dismiss the thought, remind myself that it would ruin our friendship, to say nothing of what it would do to our respective relationships—relationships that were actually working. No matter what, I didn’t want to be a cheater ever again. I wondered if any such thoughts were crossing Ethan’s mind as his hands drifted down my back, his thumbs kneading my muscles along the way. He spent a lot of time in the small of my back and then went even lower to the top edge of my thong, just over my tailbone. His touch became gentler as his hands swept out over my hips. He lingered there and then stilled, signaling the end of the massage.

  “There,” he said, patting my hips twice.

  I turned around to face him, feeling oddly breathless. “Thanks. That was awesome.”

  He didn’t respond, just looked at me with those clear, blue eyes. He was feeling something too. I was almost sure of it. I think I even saw his chest rising and falling under his T-shirt, as if he, too, were short of breath.

  Then, after a long, strange moment, just as I thought he was poised to utter something meaningful, maybe even kiss me, he took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and said, “Well, what do you say we hit the kitchen?”

  Ethan and I spent most of the day in our pajamas, preparing our Christmas dinner. I played the role of sous-chef, diligently taking his instructions. I chopped and peeled vegetables while Ethan focused on the turkey and fancier trimmings. Other than burning my finger in the goose fat when I removed the parsnips from the oven, everything went remarkably smoothly. Almost like a cooking show, Ethan bragged at one point.

  Then, just as it was getting dark outside, I took a shower. Under the hot water, I allowed myself to revisit his massage that morning, marveling that Ethan could make me feel the way he had. I found myself speculating about what he had been thinking. When I got out of the shower, I even craned to check out my back in the mirror, feeling relieved to see that my ass was still rather small and—knock on wood—stretch-mark and cellulite-free. I felt a wave of guilt and confusion. Was I grateful to have a nice ass for Geoffrey’s sake, Ethan’s, or my own? As I changed into a fresh pair of sweats, I told myself that I was being crazy, likely even imagining the erotic component of the whole massage.

  When I returned to the living room, I discovered that Ethan had moved the kitchen table in front of the tree, and set it with his best dishes and an ivory damask tablecloth.

  “How pretty,” I said, kissing his cheek and feeling relief that I felt nothing more than affection for a good friend.

  He smiled, adjusted the volume on his classical music, and pulled out my chair for me. “Let’s feast.”

  And what a feast it was. Restaurant-worthy, for sure. We had a smoked-salmon salad with mustard and dill dressing as a starter, followed by our main course: a roast turkey seasoned with pink peppercorns, sage, and lemon. Our side dishes were roasted potatoes, pan-fried brussels sprouts with chestnuts, orange-glazed carrots, spiced red cabbage with apples, and parsnips seasoned with sea salt. And for dessert we had a delightful strawberry macaroon tart that Ethan had picked up from Maison Blanc, a bakery on Kensington Church Street.

  We ate and ate until we literally couldn’t take another bite, applauding our efforts along the way. Afterward, we rolled our way over to the couch, where we cozied up under a blanket in our standard head-to-feet position and watched the candles burn down to their nubs. Just as we were nodding off to sleep, the phone rang and jarred us awake. I silently hoped that it wasn’t Sondrine—or Geoffrey for that matter. They had both already called earlier in the day, and I saw no reason why further conversation was necessary.

  “You wanna get that?” I asked Ethan.

  “Not really,” he mumbled, but he picked up the phone and said hello.

  He shot me a furtive glance and then said, with a strained expression, “Hi, there, Rachel.”

  I sat numbly next to him as I listened to him wish her a merry Christmas. He gave me another concerned look. I smiled to indicate that I was just fine. Then I went back to his bedroom and curled up under the covers. I tried to put Rachel out of my mind, but clearly that was impossible. I wondered if she was calling from Indiana. Whether Dex had come home with her. Seconds later Ethan appeared in the doorway. His face was solemn.

  “Is it Rachel?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you off?”

  “No, not yet…I just wanted to check on you…”

  “I’m fine,” I said, reburying my face in the covers.

  “Okay…I also wanted to ask you…can I tell her about your twins? She’s asking about you…”

  “It’s none of her business,” I snapped. “I don’t want her to know anything about my new life.”

  Ethan nodded. “I respect that. I won’t tell her anything.”

  I thought for a beat and then peered up at him. “Oh, go ahead. It makes no difference to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Ethan nodded, closed the door, and then returned to the living room. I suddenly felt overcome with grief and had to fight back tears. Why was I so upset? Hadn’t I moved beyond Rachel’s betrayal? I had a new boyfriend, new girlfriends, a new best friend in Ethan, and two babies on the way. And I was sure that I would find a job in the new year. I was doing fine. So why was I sad? I thought for a few minutes, dug down to a very deep place, and came up with an answer that I didn’t like. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I knew that it had something to do with missing Rachel.

  Against my better judgment, I got out of bed, opened the door, and strained to hear Ethan’s end of the conversation. He was talking in a low voice, but I heard some snippets. “Twins…Boys. Identical boys. Amazing…Believe it or not, yes…Really great…She’s really changed…Like a different person…Yeah. Her doctor [laughter]. Yeah, she switched doctors, of course…Uh-huh, good for her, you know?…So what about you and Dex?…Sure, yeah. That makes sense…” Then came a long silence. And finally, a bone-chilling word: Congratulations.

  I could only think of one thing he c
ould be congratulating her on.

  Holy shit! Dex and Rachel got engaged! How could they have gotten engaged so quickly? I wanted to hear more, but I forced myself to close the door and crawl back under the covers. Then I repeated over and over: I don’t care about Rachel and Dex. I’ve moved on. By the time Ethan returned to his bedroom, I half-believed my pep talk and, miraculously, was able to resist asking any questions about his conversation. I could tell Ethan was amazed by my restraint. He rewarded me with a kiss on my forehead and a gentle gaze. Then he told me to stay in bed. “I’ll clean up. You stay here and rest.”

  I nodded, feeling drained and weary. “Thanks, Ethan.”

  “Thank you, Darcy.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  He thought for a second and then said, “For a very memorable Christmas.”

  I gave him a brave smile and waited for him to leave before weeping silently into my pillow.

  Twenty-Seven

  Ethan, Sondrine, Geoffrey, and I did the whole double-dating thing for the first time on New Year’s Eve. Geoffrey made reservations for us at Gordon Ramsey, the posh, Michelin-starred restaurant at Sloane Square, which was the perfect venue for a special occasion. Throughout the meal, we all praised the New French cuisine. Geoffrey called it “sublime” and Sondrine referred to it as a “symphony of flavors.” I thought they both sounded a bit pretentious, although it was a fair description of my pot-roasted belly of West Country pork with aubergine caviar, and of Ethan’s roast Scottish gray-legged partridge with braised red cabbage—which I tasted more than once.

  Unfortunately, the interpersonal dynamic did not live up to the food. I think the measure of success of any double date is how well the women get along, and Sondrine and I just did not jell. On the surface, everything was pleasant enough. She was extremely nice to me and very easy to talk to, but she came across as condescending. It was almost as if she thought I needed reassurance on every front. She must have said four times, “You hardly look pregnant at all,” which was no longer the case. I actually looked quite pregnant, and was comfortable with my new shape. And every time her career as a curator came up, she’d turn to me and purr, “I’m sure something will turn up for you very, very soon!”