We couldn’t hold it in any longer. At least I couldn’t. It tore from the depths of my stomach. Beside me, Patrick was doubled over and tears streamed from Susan’s face. Everything Sean said only made it worse.
I can’t remember the last time I’d laughed so much. Patrick admitted his middle name was Basil, like the herb. Susan told us she had an uncle named Esther. But nothing beat Tiffany. As obnoxious as Sean was, there was something so … likable about him. Particularly after he told us about Laura, the Texan cashier at his neighborhood grocery store. He told us he always gave her large notes because he loved hearing her count back the change in her smooth American-pie drawl. Fave, Tayn, Twenny dahllars. Thare you gow, kand sir. You have yerself a good day, now. He planned to wear her down until she finally agreed to become his wife. Patrick said he didn’t have a hope. At least, not after she found out his middle name.
We made a pretty good team, the four of us. There was the odd debate over the right answer, a given with Sean on our team. But Patrick, I noticed, always sided with me. Even the time I was wrong. He pulled my ponytail playfully throughout the evening, and though I always shook him off, I found myself hoping he’d do it again.
When the MC announced that we had won, Patrick lifted me off the ground and spun me in a circle. My legs bumped the table, knocked over a chair. A glass smashed. Patrick either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Then, abruptly, the spinning stopped.
“There you are, Patrick!”
Patrick’s arms loosened around my waist, and my feet found the ground. His body, so fluid just a moment earlier, became stiff. “Karolina.”
The pretty blonde crept to Patrick’s side and he took a small but distinct step back from me. “Karolina, this is Neva,” he said. He laughed, though not the same guffaw that I’d heard all evening. It was more stilted. Nervous. “Neva’s a midwife at the birthing center.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
A hand clasped my upper arm. It was Sean. “Want to come accept our prize?”
I nodded woodenly. As I followed Sean to the stage, he ducked his head casually to my ear. “Don’t waste your pretty pink cheeks on Patrick,” he said. To his credit, he spoke softly. Kindly. “He flirts in his sleep. He can’t help himself.”
“Who was that girl?” I heard myself ask.
I recognized the expression on Sean’s face immediately: pity.
“His fiancée.”
It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. As my memories of the night faded, I was able to be in the same room with Patrick without having to feign an excuse and leave. And after a while, I realized it was for the best. Patrick would be a terrible boyfriend. By the sound of it, he was a worse husband. But as a friend, well, he wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Now, I relaxed into his arms.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Patrick and I sprang apart. Eloise stood sleepily in the doorway in her nightie. “Sorry,” she said again, “I was just getting some wat—Oh my God!”
She stared at my stomach.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
Her eyes rushed up to mine, then dropped again to my belly. “But … you’re really pregnant.”
I nodded. Under her gaze—and Patrick’s—my stomach felt twice as large, my secret twice as ridiculous.
“Do you want to talk?” she asked, flicking a glance at Patrick. “I can make coffee.”
I shook my head. I knew this was the time to explain but I didn’t trust myself. “Actually, I’m really tired. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow?”
Without waiting for a response, I squeezed past them both into the hallway and then into the bathroom. It was steamy and it smelled of Eloise’s strawberry bubble bath. I sank onto the tiles. Deep vibrations rumbled through the wall—Patrick talking to Eloise about my revelation. I cocooned my belly with my arms. There’d be a lot more people discussing it soon.
But I’d survived this far. Every time I had to steal a new, larger shirt from the birthing center. All the times I’d made up obvious lies to get out of after-work drinks. Even the time I told Anne at reception I had a urinary tract infection to explain my frequent trips to the bathroom. I’d survive this too. And it would be worth it.
I hugged myself a little tighter, and a fist or foot jabbed against my ribs. I think it was my baby, trying to hug me back.