by Claire Adams
“I know,” I tell her. “You’re still waiting for me to give you that discount you decided you were entitled to as my sister, but we’re just barely starting to recover from the months of construction in the store, and with this new deal—if you can even call it that—I’ve got with one of my main suppliers, I really don’t think I can start offering you designer products for 75 percent off. I could maybe do 10 or something, but even that would be—”
“It’s not that,” she says, “although I do think it’s pretty sad that you can’t even give your own sister, a woman that you shared the same womb with, a silly little major discount on some clothes.”
“We’re not twins,” I tell her. “We didn’t share a womb.”
“We came out of the same vag,” she says. “Whatever. Anyway—”
My sister is something special.
My phone beeps and I shift my attention from Kristin to the screen.
“It got weird?” he writes. “What do you mean?”
I write back, “Well, it came to light that I might have a little difficulty trusting others, so we did a little trust exercise. There were injuries.”
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” she asks.
“How long does it take?” Jed asks nobody. “My stomach’s going to start eating itself if it hasn’t already. Oh, this is why I hate going out to eat. Nobody ever—”
“Honey,” Kristin says, “shut up. I’m trying to talk here.”
“Did you bring any antacids?” he asks. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten to bring some from home. This stress is going to kill me, I just know it.”
“Jed,” Kristin says, “shut the fuck up.”
His mouth is closed, but he’s still looking around in every direction, assumedly trying to spot the waiter who took our order less than five minutes ago.
“Jay-Jay—” Kristin starts.
“I hate that name,” I tell her. “I don’t know why you still call me that. I’ve been telling you for years that I hate it when you call me that.”
“I’m pregnant,” she says. “Jed and I are having a baby.”
After a minute of staring blankly, it occurs to me that she’s waiting for some kind of reaction.
“Wow,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. It’s not much.
I look over at Jed, who’s wiping his nose on one of the restaurant’s cloth napkins.
Yeah, that kid is going to get the shit beaten out of it.
“I know, right?” Kristin says. “I mean, we’re not like 100 percent sure, but I haven’t had a period in like two months, and I’ve been getting really sick in the mornings, and I’m not even drinking anymore.”
“That’s fantastic,” I tell her, and it’s all I can do to not jump with joy as my phone beeps.
I look down, reading, “Trust fall?”
“Yeah,” I write back. “I got it eventually, but it was a bit of a process.”
“What are you doing?” Kristin asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask back.
“I just told you that I’m pregnant—me, your one and only sister, the most important person in your world. Are you going to come over here and give me a hug or not?” she asks.
“Right,” I murmur, and get out of my seat.
“Excuse me,” Jed says, hailing a passing waiter. “We’re still waiting for our entrees.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” the waiter says. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”
“You know, it’s best not to end sentences in prepositions,” Jed says.
As I’m almost around the table and now close to the waiter, I lean toward him and promise him 20 bucks if nobody spits in my food.
The waiter smiles and walks away.
I bend down and give Kristin a hug.
“Have you been in to see the doctor yet?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Jed answers. “I know pretty much everything there is to know about natal care and birthing.”
That’s easily one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever heard.
“I didn’t know you went to medical school,” I tell him, standing back up, releasing the hug.
“I didn’t,” he says.
“Paramedic training?” I ask. “Midwifing—or would that be mid-husbandry? That doesn’t sound right.”
“No,” Jed says.
“Have you had kids?” I ask.
“No,” he answers, “but I do have five brothers and sisters.”
“Jed, we’ve talked about this,” Kristin says. “I’m going to the doctor.”
“I don’t see why,” he responds, playing with the tuft of hair beneath his bottom lip. “All you have to do is make sure you’re getting enough vitamins and try not to overexert yourself.”
“I think Kristin’s right,” I chime in, “I’m sure you’ll be a big help, but she needs a doctor to help her through the process.”
“She really doesn’t,” he says. “Medical practice is just a big racket anyway. My mom never went to the doctor and she lived a good, long, healthy life.”
“Jed, your mother was always sick,” Kristin says. “I don’t even know how tall she was because she was always bedridden with something or another.”
“Prepositions,” Jed corrects.
“Whatever,” Kristin says. “If it’s a boy, we’re thinking of naming him Percival.”
Neither Jed nor my sister appreciate the loud, albeit quick, burst of laughter that escapes my lungs.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to force my smile down. “Why Percival?”
“It was my grandfather’s name,” Jed says. “It’s a great name with a rich history.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “That just seems like something you name your kids if you’re living in the 1800s. I don’t know that many Percivals walking around today.”
“That’s the problem with you people,” he starts, although what he means by “you people,” I can only guess at, “you’re always thinking that if something’s not already popular, there’s no value to it. I think a name should be picked because it’s a good name, not because everyone else’s kid has that name—and where in the hell is our meal? I must have asked that waiter to check on it about half an hour ago.”
“Three minutes,” I correct. “What are you going to name the kid if it’s a girl?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you,” Kristin says. “I know that you and I have had our ups and downs or whatever, but I really think that we’re getting past all that. I wanted to name her Jay-Jay, after you.”
And now it’s awkward.
I’ve already told her, earlier in this conversation, that I hate the moniker Jay-Jay, but this is a rather sweet act.
“Why Jay-Jay?” I ask. “I mean, I’m very flattered, but if you wanted to name her after me, why not just go with Jessica?”
“Well,” Kristin groans, motioning her head toward Jed.
“It just seems too old world to me,” he says. “I mean, I hear the name Jessica and I think of some woman in the Renaissance posing nude for Da Vinci.”
“Did Da Vinci paint a lot of nudes?” I ask.
“It just doesn’t have that modern feel to it,” Jed says.
“Whereas Percival is hot off the presses,” I snicker.
Jed glares at me, but fortunately, my phone just beeped, so I don’t have to look at him.
The message reads, “Some friends and I are having a party this weekend, and I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”
Hot blood, cold sweat.
“Are you all right?” Jed asks. “You look rather peaked. I hope it’s not that flu that’s going around town.”
“What flu?” I ask, trying to get my mind off the bombshell on my phone.
“There’s always a flu,” Kristin answers, rolling her eyes.
“You should get yourself checked out,” Jed says.
“Prepositions,” Kristin mumbles. She said it quietl
y, but the look on her face is one of absolute victory.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I ask.
“Sure,” Kristin answers. “Want me to go with you?”
“No,” I tell her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
As I’m walking away, I can hear Jed somewhere behind, telling me to wash my hands.
A party? I don’t even know this man and already he’s asking me if I want to go to a party with him?
I guess it’s not all that outlandish. We have been talking for a while, and we do seem to get along really well.
Opening the door to the bathroom, I walk over to the sink and splash some water over my face.
I’ve been out of the game too long.
The guy didn’t ask me to marry him or bear his children. He just asked if I wanted to go to a party and I’m on the verge of a panic attack about it.
My phone beeps again.
I dry my hands and look at the message.
It says, “I hope that’s not too forward, but my friend, the one that gave me your number, he’s the one that’s throwing the party. I thought it might be a nice, low-pressu”
I wait a minute for the rest of the thought.
The phone beeps and the message continues, “re way for you and I to get to know one another a little better.”
“I don’t know,” I write back, and look up into the mirror to see my mascara running from washing my face. I add, “I’m not sure that I’m really ready to start something serious with anyone right now.”
“Keep it together, Jessica,” I whisper to myself.
“I’m almost done!” some woman, apparently in one of the stalls, calls out.
I just grab a paper towel and clean myself up as best I can before going back out to the restaurant.
My phone beeps.
The message says, “I’m not saying we should move in together or anything. I just thought it’d be nice to have a conversation with you face-to-face.”
This might not feel like such a momentous decision if it weren’t for the fact that I felt a bit of a spark with Eric in the store the other day.
We didn’t talk about it or anything, but I know he felt something, too. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, though.
“Can I bring my sister?” I write.
The only problem with taking Kristin is that I’m going to have to think of some plausible reason why Jed can’t possibly join us.
I would just go with the truth and tell Kristin that her boyfriend or whatever the hell he is to her is a whiny know-it-all and that he annoys the crap out of me, but that didn’t go over so well the last time I said something similar to her.
The phone beeps.
The message reads, “That seems only fair.”
I give myself one more look in the mirror and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the train wreck that is dining with my sister and Jed.
Chapter Twelve
Placing Bets
Eric
“It’s the fucking boss lady?” Alec asks.
“Will you keep your fucking voice down, she might be here already,” I tell him. “She doesn’t know it’s me, but yeah, I’m sure it’s her.”
“What are the odds on that one?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “What do you know about the sister?”
“Sister?” he asks. “Whose sister?”
“Jessica’s,” I tell him. “She’s bringing her sister. You know, the one who gave her my number?”
“Oh right,” Alec says, “the sister. I really don’t know, man. I know she’s a little high-strung, but get a drink or two in her, and yeah, I don’t really pay that much attention to Irene’s friends.”
“What do you think I should do?” I ask. “Do I tell her that it’s me on the phone or do I try to pull some Cyrano de Bergerac shit and go all covert about it?”
“I think I understood about half the words there,” Alec says. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I start. “Things are starting to thaw between her and I in the real world, and I’m not sure that I want to try to mix the two relationships this quickly by telling her that I’m the guy she’s been texting all her dreams and aspirations for the last however long.”
“You don’t have the nose for it,” Alec says.
“What?” I ask.
“I was just fucking with you on the Cyrano thing. I’ve seen Evita.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask. “What does Evita have to do with—look, I don’t know what to do here, and I’d really appreciate some advice.”
“Eric?” a familiar voice calls.
I grit my teeth, grin, and turn around.
“Jessica,” I say. “What are the chances of us ending up at the same party?”
“I’d say they’re pretty high,” Alec mumbles, and I elbow him in the ribs.
“I know,” she says. “You’re Alec, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” my friend, the one who knows enough about the story of Cyrano to remember the nose, but still somehow thinks he was a character in Evita, answers. “This is actually my party,” he says.
“You two know each other?” the woman standing next to Jessica, I can only assume her sister, asks.
“Yeah,” Jessica says. “These two did some work in the store for me.”
“So, where’s your friend?” the sister asks.
“Friend?” Alec responds, not straining any muscles by acting stupid. “Oh,” he answers, “the one with the phone number.”
“…yeah,” the sister says. “He invited us. I think he really wants to meet Jessica. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Alec answers. “He just called and said he might not be able to make it. Something about bad clams, I don’t know.”
While Jessica and her sister are looking at each other, I sneak another elbow into Alec’s ribs.
“He might show up later, though,” Alec adds, not helping in the slightest.
“All right,” the sister says. “We’ll hang around for a bit.”
The two walk off, and Alec and I smile and wave.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” I ask him. “Bad clams?”
“I thought it would give you the option of ‘showing up’ later if you decide you want to come clean with her,” he says.
“Could you do a favor for me and think about that for just a moment?” I ask.
“What?” he asks. Then it hits him. “Right,” he says. “You can’t ‘show up’ because she’s already seen you.”
“That’s right,” I tell him. “Now, I’m either the guy who just stood there and didn’t bother telling her I’m the one she’s trying to meet, or I’m the guy on her phone with food poisoning from eating fucking bad clams!”
That last part comes out a bit louder than I meant, but the music and general cacophony cover it well enough.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“Before or after I bury you in the desert with only your head above the sand so the vultures can pluck your eyes out while the rest of you turns into a raisin?” I ask.
“After,” he answers, not missing a beat.
I sigh.
“What can I do?” I ask. “I can’t just go over there and tell her that I’m the one on the phone. Although I’m pretty sure she’d buy the fact that you’re an idiot, I have no way to account for the fact that I didn’t say something at the time.”
“You’re right, man,” he says. “You really should have said something.”
“Do you have anything to drink?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, “keg’s in the back, just like when we were kids.”
“When I come back, I’m going to explain to you everything that’s wrong with what you just said,” I tell him, and walk toward the back.
Beer.
I’ve never really understood beer.
It seems to me that if you’re going to drink something with alcohol in it, you’d e
ither want something that tastes good or something that gets you fucked up, maybe both. Beer always seemed to me to be neither.
Still, I’ve watched enough television to know that when people are stressed and don’t know what to do, they drink.
I can’t say that it’s ever really worked for me, but maybe I’m just not getting drunk enough.
“Hey there, cutie,” Irene, Alec’s wife, coos drunkenly as she stands in line for the keg. She leans against me with what I can only assume is supposed to be a hug and says, “I’m going to do a keg stand in a second. Would you like to hold my legs? You’re the only one I trust.”
“How did you know I was coming over here?” I ask.
“What?”
“Well,” I tell her, “if you were already planning on doing a keg stand and I’m the only one you trust to hold your legs—you know what? Never mind,” I tell her as she attempts to stand up straight, but only managing what I can only describe as stumbling without moving her feet.
“You’re so good to me,” Irene says, taking a long drink from her plastic cup.
“Hey, I’m actually glad you’re here,” I start, but she thinks that’s the whole thought.
“Oh,” she says, putting her arm around me again, “I’m really glad that you’re here, too. I’ve always liked you, you know. I don’t know what Alec tells you that makes it so seldom that we see each other places,” she slurs, “but I like it when you’re around with us here.”
“Thanks,” I smile, “but I was wondering if I could get your advice on something.”
“Anything you need, Errc,” she answers, spitting as she talks.
“You know your friend, the one whose sister you gave my number to?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Irene says. “Her name is Jessica. She’s a very prerrty girl.” Irene leans toward me and, putting her hand to one side of her mouth, she says, “I think the two of you would make beautiffful babies together, mmm hmm.”
She nods agreement with her own statement.
“…thanks,” I tell her. “Well, I actually know her from somewhere else, only she doesn’t know that I’m the one that’s been texting her and that husband of yours—”
“Alec!” Irene shouts, and while my little outburst earlier went largely unnoticed, Irene and her famous set of pipes bring everyone’s attention to our attention.