Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  “Good to meet you, mates,” says Gavin. He tightens his grip around my waist, then drunkenly nuzzles into my neck.

  Ryan gives me a perplexed look. “Good seeing you, Liz. Let’s talk soon about our upcoming lineup.”

  “Sure,” I say as Ryan walks away. Gavin swoops in for a kiss. Before I can push him away, his pillowy lips press against my face with force behind them. He bites my lower lip teasingly and pulls back with a dirty look.

  I back away slightly. “Hmm, why not go for Addison? You seemed to be having a good time with her earlier,” I say, not knowing why I’m pushing my friend on my crush.

  He looks a little confused, and then gives me a wink. “That’s why I like you, my dear. You’re funny,” he says, kissing me again on my cheek.

  I glance back, and to my dismay, I see that Ryan’s caught the whole thing.

  We continue dancing, and all of a sudden it’s 3:45 a.m. I hit the bathroom, then meander toward the coat check, broken apart from my friends by the sea of revelers.

  As I’m nearing the front of the line, I’m lost in my own head, attempting to make sense of my emotions. Am I willing to go home with Gavin tonight? Fumbling for a few dollars from my little purse, I see someone hand money to the coat-check girl, then take my tote with the bump in it and hand it to me. It’s Ryan. I look at him, confused.

  “I’ve got it,” he says.

  “Thanks, you don’t have to...”

  He cuts me off, leaning down toward my ear. “Good seeing you tonight, Buckley. Get home safe.” And then as an afterthought, he adds, “You might want to be careful with that guy.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I say.

  But he’s already steadying Kendall as she changes from heels into Grecian sandal flats.

  In the VIP room, the night begins to blur into colors only, and after one more round, everyone’s dispersing. Gavin has grabbed us a cab back to my apartment. But on the way toward the Upper West Side, while we’re nearing Jane Street, something tells me to say something to the cab driver.

  “Two stops, please.”

  “C’mon, Liz, what are you doing? Don’t you want me to come over?”

  The whole Ryan spotting has me thrown. “No, sorry, Gavin. Not tonight.”

  I scroll through my phone to the one single message I’d saved. Charlie Brown, we won! I’m noticing there are now three red hearts showing up I’ve never noticed before...emojis—they’re now finally coming through on my phone.

  Gavin, sensing that I’m serious, makes an exasperated sigh. He’s probably hoping some last-ditch effort will make me give in. We say nothing, and when the cab gets to his apartment, he throws me a five-dollar bill. “Night, Liz.”

  August

  Twenty-One

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 29: Feeling the burn? i.e. heartburn...not the good kind :) Your expanding uterus is like, “hi stomach” sending food and digestive juices uppers into your chest and throat. Ouchies :) Baby Smiles: 30!

  This week, all the cards seem to be stacked against me. “Oh, my GOD!” I scream to no one in particular while performing my familiar morning routine. Normally it’s easy to squeeze the bump into place and secure it with model tape, snap on the Spawn-x slip and slide a cute maternity dress over everything. But in the dead heat of early August, my dress gets stuck on my bump and starts twisting and bunching up around my head like, ironically, a used condom.

  A heavy wave of emotion hits me. What in the hell am I doing? Only a few months ago, everything was fine. I was going through life without all these unnecessary complications. Now, I’m completely stuck.

  At the office, I haven’t even set my coffee down when Alix comes over to my cube.

  “I never got to tell you, I simply adorrred your shower,” she purrs. “It was so homey, not like mine at the St. Regis. You only need so many Tiffany rattles, right?”

  “Right,” I deadpan, trying to keep focused.

  “Oh, and I forgot to tell you,” she says, rifling through the pile of papers back from Cynthia. “You know the feature on family-friendly travel destinations you pitched? Cynthia thinks it would be popular with advertisers, so it’s going in as a late add to the November issue. Since you’re pregnant, they’re sending you to Newport to stay at Vanderbilt Spa and Suites to try out their prenatal spa services and family-friendly amenities. They’ve just opened.”

  I’m too dumbfounded for words—the travel features are usually written by Pam. It’s the cushiest assignment on staff, since you basically get to go to a five-star resort for free and write about it. I can’t believe my luck.

  I check out the hotel online—it looks incredible. The property is divided into about forty-five newly redesigned suites, an infinity pool overlooking the sea, a “sea-to-table” restaurant and a full-service spa with coastally inspired treatments. I’ll get to sit by the pool, drink “virgin” cocktails, and explore the waterfront area, all while technically “working.” I immediately text Addison and Brie to see if they want to try to get in on it with me and take advantage of the free accommodations.

  To my surprise, they both pass. I can’t take any time off because of Fashion Week, but have a blast, Addison texts back.

  My September weekends are already booked—Doug already asked me to a wedding in Philly! says Brie. Wow. Our night out at the Mondrian materialized into something with potential. Undeterred, I start to plan the story, and feel a familiar tingle of anticipation. I want to find sites off the beaten path to add to my story. I might even pitch the story to other travel publications. Then, I see a link on TripAdvisor to surf camps in Rhode Island just a thirty-minute drive from where I’ll be staying. I click through and find a boho-looking beachside resort started by a couple from the Rhode Island School of Design. It looks inexpensive, and I make a mental note to spend a day there, too. I’ll keep it to myself—surfing doesn’t exactly jibe for a woman who’s more than thirty-weeks pregnant.

  I look down at my bump. “Lucie, are you ready for your first big trip?” I can swear I feel some strange movement coming from deep inside my stomach—maybe it’s just my digestive system, or maybe my little baby will be a world traveler just like her mommy. Oh, jeez, I’m losing it.

  I attempt to pull together thoughts for a think piece on latchkey GenX parents and the resulting spate of attachment parenting apps, when I see Jules is back from a lunchtime press event, beaming. “Check your email,” she says excitedly. I log in and see it.

  FW: Top Editor, Well-Heeled Traveler.

  Available immediately. Well-Heeled Traveler, the premier trade magazine for the luxury travel gear market seeks an experienced top editor to write and polish copy to a gleam. Must have knowledge of the fashion market. Must be able to travel for conferences. Experience at a major national magazine a bonus.

  Jules has sent me the perfect job posting.

  “I know the managing editor. I’ve already put in a good word for you. Plus, I was getting tired of being the only one who’s stressed about you not actually having a baby,” she quips at a whisper, turning back in her chair.

  It’s not freelancing, but it is a way out of this mess. I send off my résumé, hoping that in a few short weeks I will be finally relieved of the bump.

  * * *

  Later in the week, Addison invites Brie and I over to her place to show us its new “look,” which some of her design friends helped her with. Her oversize West Village one-bedroom with terrace now looks like a beautiful high-end French manor home with all different sorts of “griege” items she’s sourced from ABC Carpet and Home—not even Joss & Main.

  “It’s the color of the year!” she says triumphantly. I’m scared to sit on—or ask the price of—the faux reclaimed vintage armchairs and bed linens and accessories. She must be doing well.

  I suggest heading to Sparrow and Crow, but Addison is r
eticent. “I don’t know, Lizzie, the only guys that seem interested in me lately are fiftysomething businessmen or twenty-eight-year-old boy toys. Every guy in his thirties seems threatened when I start talking about my job.”

  “Go for the boy toys,” I tell her.

  “I know, but I’ve been feeling so bodycon lately. I mean, how can I compete with these early twentysomethings?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I scoff. “I’m the one who should be bodycon.”

  Brie reaches out to touch Addison’s arm. “Addison, I was right where you were earlier this summer, but things can change when you least expect it. Doug is great. Even though I am a little worried I’m still acting out my mild clinginess/abandonment pattern...”

  “Brie, have you ever thought it might be his mild douche pattern?”

  “Addison,” Brie intones.

  “Argh! Maybe I should just accept that I’m going to be alone if I want to be successful in my career. Fuck it. Hear that, Universe!” She takes a huge sip of her rosé.

  At that, Brie looks like she’s swallowed a bird and takes it as a cue to beg off for Doug’s. Addison reluctantly agrees to come out with me to Sparrow and Crow. When we arrive, the crowd is indeed heavy with the twentysomething men that Addison is so weary of. Still, after a few vodka sodas, a cute, compact-looking guy with a deep tan and warm brown eyes starts chatting her up. I tell her that I’m going to head out, and she responds with a hopeful glint.

  The next morning I see a text from A: His name is Jacques. 28. Works for LMVH and is here on business from Paris. Went all the way...ooh la la.

  I laugh to myself. The law of attraction, Addison-style: act like you’re ready to give up and score a hot, young French dude.

  Around eleven, I head out to do laundry and run twin Bugaboo stroller into granny cart into my friend Elyse. “Aaaah!” I feel terrible I didn’t reach out when I saw her commenting all over my Facebook, but with the new baby, I’m sure she was busy anyway. Be-bumped and Facebook official, I can no longer hide. I start to sweat.

  “Lizzie, Lizzie! I thought that was you...it’s been, what, four months, and I saw you’re pregnant?” She looks worried, careful not to offend me. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I, uh, well, it was unplanned,” I say, hanging my head down in shame. I’m sweating all over now. Elyse doesn’t quite know how to take it, either.

  “I was wondering why you didn’t return my calls. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I was trying to figure out what I was going to do for a while.” Oh God, I think, wringing my hands. I’ve just pretended I was thinking about not going through with the pregnancy. I’m a monster.

  “I wouldn’t have judged you...trust me,” she says with a look like, she knows. “Well, you look great. Not a bloated appendage in sight.” She burps one of her beautiful redheaded twin girls while pushing the stroller with the other back and forth...

  “Thanks,” I say, pushing off the compliment. “Callie and Ro are so cute!”

  “Live up the pre-baby life while you can. Once your little one comes, all of a sudden you’ll be thankful for your single days,” says Elyse, brushing at a spot of spit-up on her polo shirt with ferociousness before throwing her hand up as Callie starts to fuss.

  Maybe I don’t really want to “live it up” anymore, I think to myself. I pick up the other sleep-deprived baby, cooing into her ear, making the five s’s, the old trick we’ve lauded countless times at Paddy Cakes. When that doesn’t work, I pull out a tissue and gently swipe it over her forehead again and again and that does it. She’s out cold. My friend looks at me, shocked. “I read it on PaddyCakes.com,” I say. Oh I want this, I think, holding Callie in my arms. I really want this.

  Elyse catches me, and then her smile changes. “I caught Chris on Tinder.”

  “What!” Coffee comes out of my nose. Elyse and Chris have been together since college.

  “Yep, he said he just got ‘bored,’ and decided to download it one day.”

  “Wait—how did you catch him?”

  She immediately looks guilty. “Well, I was on it, too.”

  Wait—what!

  “Lizzie, we’ve been together since freshman year. He was the first and only guy I’ve ever slept with—things happen. You’ll see when you’re married...” She trails off like it’s a given that events like finding your spouse on a dating app will just “happen”—and worse, that it’s actually no big deal.

  “Elyse, I’m so sorry.” Then I add meekly, “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, at first I considered divorce, of course. But then I started looking at real estate—and realized pretty quickly that wasn’t going to happen. So instead I got real and said, ‘Okay, you get a profile, I get a profile. One week. And then we’re moving to Westport. I had some fun chatting with all these random guys actually! But now I realize how hard you have it. I would not want to be single. Do you know who kept Messaging me? The married guys! And Chris, actually. It was kind of cute.” She actually looks at his profile pic of himself lovingly. “Look, he’s Messaging me now about meeting up for a martini later on when his mom gets into town—it’s actually kind of hot.”

  At that, Callie starts projectile vomiting. I look at her and think, You and me both, kid.

  * * *

  Back home, I check in with Addison for details on last night. She’s still at his place, which she conveys in the form of a French-flag emoji-filled text.

  He’s 28! But soooo hot. Eek! Still here. Call later!

  Brie is free to talk. When I tell her about my motherhood realization, I expect her to be surprised, but she’s not.

  “Why is it weird that you want a baby, sweetie?”

  “I don’t know, surprised.”

  “I’m going to tell you something shocking,” says Brie, quieting her tone. “I honestly don’t worry if Doug starts off, you know, with no condom on.”

  “Really?” I ask. Of the three of us, I’d always been the freak about birth control, but Brie has been religious about condom use. Addison not so much.

  “We had the whole health, monogamy talks, and we both ultimately want a family, so I just keep thinking, if it happened it really wouldn’t be so bad.” She sighs. “Strange, right?”

  “How were things last night?”

  “Fine. I told Doug I was worried I was being too clingy and he told me point-blank that he secretly likes how affectionate I am. We made a pact to be honest with each other.”

  “How adult.”

  “I know, right? Funny how easy life can get when you just tell the truth.”

  That’s it. Brie is done; Doug is her person. I tell her I’m thrilled for her—well, not the unprotected sex part, but the rest of it. Pretty soon it will just be down to me and Addison in the Last Girl Standing category.

  Twenty-Two

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 31: Dayum, those are some sex hormones! A surge during your third trimester may have you feeling super sexual—and then at times, totally not. We suggest just going with it, because once this baby comes...well, you won’t be thinking about sex. Baby Smiles: 50!

  The mid-August heat wave is making me feel...frisky. I look it up. Yep. Right on schedule, I have the last-eight-week lusties.

  I look at the latest text from Gavin again. We’re just friends now; I think I’ve made that clear. It would be nice to talk. I ask him how his travels have been going. He responds almost immediately, suggesting dinner downtown to “catch up,” and I respond yes.

  My face feels flush as I fight back a little smile. Jules notices from the other side of the cube. She’s tapping her watch to signal it’s time for her first appointment with Dr. Lakshmi the “power-fertility” doctor she told me about. She’s asked me to join her since Henry can’t make it.

  At lunchtime, we hop in the c
ab and go across town. I can tell Jules is nervous. I clutch her hand.

  “What if she tells me I can’t have kids?” says Jules, her Mach-10 anxiety beginning to set in as she sinks down into her seat. My normally assertive friend now looks small. I pull her into a huge hug.

  “I have a good feeling that’s not the case. Trust me. They say pregnant women are psychic,” I respond, putting my arm around her in a distinctly (new) maternal way (for me.)

  We walk into the office reception area decorated all in white. The desk is lit by pink and blue neon under the cabinets. Not a baby picture in sight. But a huge pic of Dr. Lakshmi, a beautiful Indian woman, wearing the requisite white doctor’s coat and huge diamond-encrusted Chanel earrings, smiles confidently. We both give each other strange looks, and Jules shrugs. “Impressive, right?”

  “I guess,” I say as Jules checks in. After a fifteen-minute wait in an examining room, Dr. Lakshmi enters and tells Jules loudly that all her blood work has come back perfect. She says she’s had excellent success with hormone therapy and will give Jules supplemental progesterone to get her ovulation cycle back on track. Worst case, they can think about IUI or IVF, but not until they’ve exhausted rounds of her most recent “cutting-edge” drugs, which makes Jules smile triumphantly. I can tell her stress has lowered—at least for now.

  Then, Dr. Lakshmi turns her attention to me. “And how far along are you?” The question, totally out of context and in context at once, obviously flusters me. Feeling like I’m at confession, I decide to come clean. “Oh, this bump isn’t mine—it’s for a story. I’m not pregnant, actually, but would, you know, like to be one day. Maybe in three to five years, or sooner! Ha!” I add nervously. Her eyes narrow, seeming as if she’s looking at the lines in my forehead suspiciously.

  “You’re over thirty, correct?”

  “Yes,” I squeak out.

  “That’s all well and good that you think you’d like to have a baby in three to five years, but life doesn’t always work out the way we hope. Planning is key. Have you had your FSH or LH levels checked?”