Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  Alix, for all her Hamptons and socialite references, has never ceded power. I respect that about her. So I’m afraid.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence in my abilities,” I say to Cynthia.

  “Right, keep up the good work.” Cynthia’s lips curl one millimeter, so I hop up and out of her office.

  Just as I’m settling into my cubicle seat, Alix appears out of nowhere, carrying her purse, along with another tote bag filled to the brim with products. She sets the bag down.

  “Heard about your promotion. Congrats,” she says stiffly. “You know, I was the one who suggested you get the job.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Those features are the toughest to report, and I knew your section was way too easy for anyone to spend more than a few days per month on, so I thought I’d hand it off to you.”

  “Thanks,” I offer.

  “You can thank me by not screwing it up,” Alix says.

  She picks up the enormous bag of products and storms off.

  I’m not quite sure what to make of all this.

  Que pasa? Write Jules over Gmail.

  Well, let’s just say I can now afford Lucie Rose’s day care, I say, recounting my conversation with Cynthia.

  I’m expecting a “let’s go to happy hour to celebrate,” but instead, Jules just emails back a halfhearted ha. I take it as a sign to get back to work. Now that I’m becoming Cynthia’s right hand, I need to get serious.

  I hammer into the writing of innovations. While knee-deep in my story, my phone buzzes on my desk. It’s a text from Gavin. Can’t wait to see you tonight—I’ve got big news.

  * * *

  When I arrive, he’s already sitting at the bar of The Waverly Inn (damn, I love his restaurant hookups) looking dashing. Even if that word is slightly outdated, it fits him, with his deep navy suit and white collared shirt unbuttoned. I bound down the stairs toward the front bar. The crowd is hopping in the dimly lit space. The dark painted walls are lined with various pieces of artwork, as are the rounded banquettes, filled with New York City’s cultural elite.

  “Hey, there,” he says, as I make my way around a twentysomething girl squad by the front. He flashes me a sexy look for a split second, but then stiffens. “What’s that?”

  My eyes widen in horror. I was so shaken by the turn of events with Cynthia that I’d completely forgotten to take out the bump.

  I panic, trying to muster any kind of excuse I can. “Oh, ha, yeah, we were doing an experiential piece today, and they wanted to shoot expectant mothers in the park. At the last minute they had me fill in, and test out the new line of belly bands—yep, they’re comfy all right. But, yep, looking at my watch, it’s been twelve hours, so I’m allowed to take it off now. Phew. Ha.” I laugh nervously.

  “Fine by me, Mummy.” He gives a sudden eyebrow raise.

  “Maybe it’s this bump, but I’m starving.” I finger the zipper on the side of my dress.

  “Well, we’ve got the five-course prix fixe menu ready upstairs—I had them put the order in already because you were late.”

  “Sorry about that—I was caught up talking to my ed—”

  “No worries.” His expression’s flat. “Just try not to do it again. What do you want to drink? Champers?”

  I decide to keep my wits about me tonight... I’m just not feeling the booze as much these days. “Oh, just water for me, if that’s okay.” He turns up his nose at first, but then accepts my answer and I excuse myself to run to the bathroom to remove “the evidence.” When I return, he’s typing something into his phone. He stands to greet me. “After you, m’lady,” he says, guiding me toward the back room.

  At the table, Gavin keeps typing away. “Sorry, business.”

  “No worries,” I say. “So what’s the big news? Actually, I have some pretty big career news, too...”

  “One second, love. Okay?” He continues typing, which is starting to irritate me, but before I can launch in, the waiter’s come to take our drink orders and we move on to discussing the nutritional value and weather of the soil in Tuscany, which actually I find pretty interesting. It seems Gavin’s glad to have found someone who actually does, too.

  We get sidetracked into two hours of wonderfully flirty conversation, and I feel myself wondering—could he be serious about a future with me? Is it just that he had an anticommitment hair trigger and I’ve somehow inadvertently deactivated it?

  As I’m going in for the last bite of sticky toffee pudding off of Gavin’s plate, he gives me a soft smile. I decide to ask him about his plans for the fall.

  The response isn’t what I’m expecting.

  “Ah, love, this is the big news I’ve been meaning to tell you about. I’ve been promoted to the lead distributor for our Europe territories. It means I’ll be away again a few times on business in the fall, longish trips, actually—harvest season. I’ll be back in town a few times, but not for very long. Isn’t that wild? Have you made any travel plans besides Newport for the fall yet?” he says, genuinely interested but not seeming to realize that news of our impending hiatus is affecting me way more than him.

  My throat feels like it’s closing. All of a sudden my water glass is very heavy in my hand, so I rest it on the table. This wasn’t lockdown. This was another romantic-comedy side plot I totally forgot about: “girl in every port.”

  “I should be back for Columbus Day,” he continues. “Maybe we can take a trip to the North Fork for a long weekend. Would you like that? Think you can get vacation?” Hmm, that’s Lucie Rose’s supposed due date, I think to myself.

  “Sure. I haven’t taken a real vacation besides Newport for more than a year now, so they should let me.” I start stuffing a spoonful of the cloying pudding into my mouth. “But what about pumpkin picking with Dani?”

  Gavin looks away from me. “Not sure now. I’m sorry, love. I’m sure we’ll figure out something.”

  I just sit there, not saying a word. Gavin senses the pause and starts again.

  “Good, then we’re settled. Until then, I’ll set up Skype and we can have regular dates—topless of course,” he says with a smirk.

  “Mmm, very funny,” I say, on the defensive for any more disappointing news.

  “Maybe this will cheer you up,” says Gavin, reaching under the table for something. “On my way through duty free in Paris, I picked up something that I thought you might like.” I squinch my nose. Gavin pulls out a blood-orange-colored shopping bag.

  He holds it out, logo not turned up. “Can you guess what it is?”

  I know exactly what it is...a bag from Hermès. They fill up Alix’s office regularly. That could mean hundreds of dollars. I don’t dare guess.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  Inside is a square box, gleaming in gunmetal, covered with the characteristic equestrian print. I carefully open it. Out slides a white scarf, covered in a beautiful purple print of some sort. It’s a slightly bohemian illustration, and on it is the classic Hermès logo, along with Trésors Recouverts. Rediscovered treasure.

  “I thought you should own one if you should ever get to Paris,” says Gavin, grinning.

  The gesture is incredibly sweet. These cost hundreds of dollars. I’ve seen Alix sporting them under cardigans. Still, though, the scarf is beautiful, but it feels mature for my taste.

  “I love it, Gavin. Thank you,” I say simply.

  “I also must admit I thought of you wearing it during our Skype sessions—with nothing else,” he says with a dirty grin.

  We continue our conversation, and a piece of me settles into the realization... Gavin isn’t going to be The One. Not nearly. I get up to use the restroom, and while waiting for the loo, check my texts, of which there seem to be dozens.

  There’s one timed 9 p.m. It’s from Brie: Doug told me he th
inks I’m The One!

  I text back: What!? in disbelief. I knew she’d been going out with Doug for a little more than a month now, but I didn’t realize it’d become that serious. I start dialing immediately, and when she picks up, Brie launches straight in without even saying hello.

  “So remember when we were going out that last time, and I told you he’d said he wanted to take me to his brother’s engagement party?”

  “Uh-huh!” I say enthusiastically, though it’s only a vague memory.

  “Well, that was last night and everything was going so great. He introduced me to everyone—his parents included—as his girlfriend! And then we went back to his place, and he looked at me and said, ‘I love you, Brie. I see a future with you!’ And I said it right back! I didn’t even hesitate! It’s amazing!”

  “Oh, Brie. I’m so happy for you,” I gush. And I am. I feel like a freak who will never find love and I’m so happy for her I could burst.

  “I’ve got to go—we’re about to go into the movie theater.” She hangs up.

  I text Addison next, unsure what to do, and she boils it down in one simple question, as per usual.

  Addison: Does he make you feel thin or fat?

  Liz: French moms don’t get fat.

  Addison: [Angry face emoji.] C’mon. Out with it. [Cookies, candies, pizza emojis.]

  Liz: [Cookies, candies, pizza emojis.]

  Addison: Then you know what to do.

  When I return, he’s already paid the check. “Wanna come back to my place for a bit? We can, you know, try on your scarf? See how it fits?” He casually leans over and starts kissing my neck slowly. The hairs begin to stand on end, tempting me. Maybe I’m being silly. Inventing drama in light of Brie’s revelation.

  “Yes, maybe. Okay,” I respond. “You look a little tired. Did you get in this morning on the red-eye?”

  “Uh, no, late last night, actually. I caught up with a mate in town from Dubai who was also jet-lagged. That’s why I couldn’t get back to you until this afternoon, Lizzie. Just a bit hungova,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. I decide to leave it. “So tell me about how your week was,” he says, as we start walking on Waverly. It’s as if he’s not really listening but knows that it’s the right thing to say.

  “Actually, I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh, let’s not get into anything too serious. Not sure I can take it tonight, Liz, just heard bad news about weather in southern Tuscany rotting half of our vineyards.”

  “No, it’s not about work. I, er, just wanted to tell you about something that’s been weighing on me lately, and see what you thought about it.”

  “Sure.”

  He seems fidgety, though, and keeps pulling out his phone every few minutes. I know he’s got to answer emails on Australian time, but still, this distracted quality is really starting to irritate me.

  “If you’ve got something you’ve got to do, I don’t have to come back,” I say, hoping he’ll realize he’s acting like a gnat and calm down. But just the opposite happens.

  “Actually, my mate’s just texting, and was hoping we’d meet up again tonight so I told him I’d try to catch him later for a drink,” he says. “Everything okay, love?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say coolly. His ADD quality is starting to irritate me. He pulls out his phone again, looks at it, and says, “My mate’s calling me now. Do you mind if I take this?”

  “Fine,” I say, dumbfounded. Why in the world would he need to speak privately?

  As he’s walking around the corner with the phone up to his ear. I see him laugh and smile in a way that you usually don’t when talking to your “mate.”

  I feel something in the pit of my stomach and I can’t blame it on “Lucie Rose.” I’m not the girl who will make him quit his vagabond lifestyle.

  After about ten minutes of me standing on the street corner, he’s back and all smiles until he sees my withered expression.

  “I, uh, sorry,” he says, looking guilty. “I have to cut the night short, love. What’s your next weekend looking like? I want to see you again before I leave on my big trip,” he throws in, but from his tone I can tell it’s an empty invitation.

  My tongue feels prickly all of a sudden. “You know, Gavin. I really like you. And I think what we’ve had has been fun. But in my experience, when a guy is ready for something real, he goes all in, and when he’s not, well, that’s what you’re doing with me now.” I can’t stop. “I think we should be honest and let this thing go.”

  He looks surprised. “Whoa, Liz,” he says defensively, “My business takes me away all the time. I’ve told you that it’s hard for me to see someone frequently. I thought you were one of those girls who got it? At least for now.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I guess at this point I know what I want. And it’s not this.”

  “So that’s it, then?” he says quickly, glancing down at his phone that’s begun to vibrate.

  “Yeah, I guess. Glad to see you care.”

  “You know I care,” he says. “I’m just not on the same speed as you.”

  “I’m not on any ‘speed,’” I say.

  “Well, I know how baby obsessed you are, especially with your job. That day with my niece, I could tell you had baby fever. I guess I’m not ready to be pressured into something serious right now because of your age.”

  “My age? You’re thirty-nine!” My mouth hangs open. In the next second, I back away, looking around for any cabs, and then punching frantically in my phone for an Uber.

  “Hold on now, love, why all the anger?”

  “It’s just that, well, I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but then you brought me out with Dani, and then we hooked up, and you asked me to be exclusive, and I thought, well, you were serious.”

  He looks genuinely taken aback, then cagey. “Look, Lizzie, we’re unconventional. We’re travelers. Not people who want to be tied down. Boring, old bogans living in the suburbs...”

  “I, uh...” In a way he’s right—or used to be—but now, the feelings are all shifting inside of me, like loosening faults gearing up for an earthquake.

  He reaches for my hand. “Are you sure you even want that for yourself right now? I mean...you do like your wine...that’s not exactly motherhood material...”

  I push it away, feeling like someone’s just punched me in the gut. Then, a fierceness begins to form. The two sides coming together in the middle. It feels like...a sense of resolve I haven’t experienced in a great while.

  “Yes, I might like wine, and yes, I want a family, but I want to have a career and travel, too. My maternal longings don’t have to put me into any kind of box just because your mind isn’t big enough to wrap itself around a more expansive idea. And I refuse to be put in one.” And with that my knight in shining Uber arrives. Paid for by me.

  * * *

  Back at home, I turn on the TV and surf through the channels, lingering on an old World War II documentary, the kind my dad always used to watch on Sundays on the “boob tube” in our den. As the bombers flying through the sky thunder in the background, I fall into my couch and find my now-bestie bump, slipping it on for comfort. My laptop sits next to me, open.

  I’ve been purposely avoiding Facebook, having deactivated it after the whole Alix debacle, but I can no longer take it anymore. I quickly make sure that any pregnancy pics are still untagged, and that Ryan is still blocked from seeing my feed, then immediately check his status. As I’m scrolling through his profile, everything seems to be normal: a bunch of posts about work, the soccer league he’s in, some photos of him biking upstate. Phew.

  Then I spot it—a new photo album. I can’t help myself as I look through what seems to be a twenty-seventh birthday in Nantucket—Kendall’s—and in almost every single pic, Ryan’s there, right next to her, arm w
rapped around her tanned, Lilly Pulitzer halter–wearing shoulders.

  I immediately slap the laptop closed. A little red alert on my phone signals an incoming text.

  Addison: Guess what?! You’re going to be an auntie!

  Twenty-Five

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 33: Woo-hoo! Almost there! Your uterus is like, hello Braxton Hicks contractions. As you get closer to term, they’ll get stronger and stronger—like you at PowerCycle! Baby Smiles: 75!

  The sky twinkles a sunny light blue as I make my way down to the office Monday morning, still reeling. “You’ve really popped, Liz,” declares Alix the following Monday at work before I even have a chance to put down my “decaf” cold brew. This time, I barely acknowledge her.

  In the span of twenty-four hours, virtually everything in my world has changed. Brie has found her soul mate and now Addison is going to be a mom. After seeing her text, I immediately called her back, to which she shocks me with one hundred percent total elation. “Lizzie, I can’t believe it, but I’m so happy. I know it’s only been a month, but it feels right,” she says. “You have to meet Jacques—he’s a really good guy—a man. He understands my commitment to my job and plans to move to New York so we can be together. I know he’s young, but he’s nothing like the men here—he seems evolved.”

  “That’s amazing,” I tell her, withholding my anxiousness. If anyone can handle life as an evolved coparenting, coworking location-independent-living couple, it’s Addison.

  I start to focus on an edit when I see an email from Caitlyn: Everyone to the conference room immediately.

  I head over with Jules, not saying a word. Could this mean layoffs? Everyone is looking around the room wondering. There are Diet Cokes and Honey Cups—but are they conciliatory?

  Once everyone’s taken their seats, Cynthia comes in and stands at the head of the conference room table. Everyone on staff is quiet. “I have some excellent news,” she says, breaking into a cool smile. “We’ve just been told by the president of the company himself that we’ve won a Magazine Editors Association Award for general excellence in reporting!”