by R.S. Grey
He wraps his arm around my shoulder like he’s worried I might give it a go. “I think O’Doyle made them. Better not push our luck.”
I sigh like I was afraid he’d say that.
“I’ll get you something on the way home. C’mon.”
A perky soccer mom with a blonde ponytail and a pearly white smile reaches for my arm, intercepting me before I reach the door. “Hey, I was going to tell you…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Between us girls, if you’re into whipped cream, you really ought to try some chocolate sauce warmed up just a little—not too hot though.” She winces. “Learned my lesson the hard way with that one, ha! Oh, by the way, I think you teach my son—Nicholas?”
Oh JESUS.
I run-walk the hell out of there.
24
S A M
Ian has a soccer game today, and I’m in attendance as always. Things are back to normal. The throngs of young, hot female teachers have moved on to the lacrosse game taking place a few fields over. If I squint, I can see their cleavage and orange slices. Oak Hill High just hired a new lacrosse coach from LA. He’s tan, and cute, and allegedly went on three dates with one of the stars from Vanderpump Rules. Ian is old news—my old news.
The soccer stands are pretty empty, just me and a few parents. I thought about remaking my GO IAN signs, but instead, I had a shirt printed. It has a large screen-printed picture of Oak Hill’s mascot and beneath that, in big, black typeface, it reads COACH’S WIFE. It lacks subtly, but then again, so do I.
Ian laughed when I showed it to him last night.
“I don’t have to wear it,” I said. I mean, it was kind of a joke.
But he shook his head, smile plastered wide. “No. Wear it.”
I had it strategically hidden under my sweater all day. If Nicholas had seen it, he would have spiraled. He still thinks he and I are destined for one another someday.
“I guess I understand that you need someone to bide your time with until I’m old enough.”
A shadow falls over me and I glance up to see Ashley making her way down the line of bleachers in my direction. I brace for the worst. After all, she’s all but been inducted into the Freshman Four (Five?). Maybe she’s here to do their bidding. I check her hands for knives and find them empty. There’s a chance I’m being a tad bit dramatic. I don’t think murderers coat their nails in baby pink nail polish.
“Hey,” she says, gaze falling to my shirt. She smiles. “I like that. Did you make it?”
I look down. “Oh, thanks. I, uh…had it printed.”
I wish I still had my sweater on. I feel silly now.
She nods and waves to the expanse of open seating beside me. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Again, I’m confused, but she doesn’t wait for me to think of an answer, just takes a seat and props her feet up on the bleacher in front of her. “Listen, I don’t care about you and Ian.”
My face is a mask of shock. “You don’t?”
She laughs. “I just started here. Why would I care who’s dating whom? I just thought he was hot, that’s all.”
“But you sit with the Freshman Four at lunch…”
“I sit with them because it’s better than sitting by myself.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting kind of old. I’m considering eating lunch in the library by myself from now on. At least then I won’t have to listen to Gretchen ask Bianca if mayonnaise has calories.”
I laugh.
There’s a chance I might have misjudged Ashley. Imagine that.
“So, how’s married life?” she asks, continuing the conversation.
I stifle a grin. Still, bliss oozes from my pores. “It’s been good.” My tone is even and cool.
She can tell I’m restraining myself. “Just good?”
It’s like she took a pickaxe to my self-control.
“Okay, it’s been really awesome—I mean, better than I thought it could be.”
She smiles. “I’m glad. You two are really cute together. And hey, sorry I stole your pudding cup the other day.”
Her apology means more than she knows. I was prepared to carry that incident to my grave.
I hold out my hand for her to shake. “Friends?”
She smiles and accepts. “I’d like that.”
I decide to go out on a limb. “Have you ever watched West Wing, by chance?”
Her face lights up. “I love that show!”
I’m waiting for Ian to finish up at the gym. It’s our one-month anniversary. It’s a big deal, and I’m going to seduce him when we get home. The Zumba class I just took should help with that. I’m feeling limber.
Ian is doing a set on a bicep machine and I’m standing a few yards away, sweat dripping down my body as I try to keep it together. His arms are so sexy. His face is chiseled perfection. If we weren’t already married, I’d demand we march down to the courthouse right now.
Maybe we won’t even make it home. Maybe husbands and wives are allowed to find secluded sections of the gym parking lot. Maybe Ian will have his work cut out for him.
His eyes slice over to me and I smile.
“Almost done,” he mouths.
No, Ian. Not even close.
25
I A N
Sam tells me our new life still doesn’t feel real to her. She’s scared she’ll wake up one day in her old apartment, on her tiny bed, without me. I get it. For three years, we were best friends who were secretly in love with each other. Three years is a long time to subdue a crush. It became a habit to ignore my feelings for Sam, and that habit became second nature. We’re having to rewire our brains slowly.
“Remind me again,” she said the other night while we were brushing our teeth side by side. “You love me love me? Like not just as a friend?”
There’s a newness to our life that makes every mundane task exciting. Sam is quick to point them out: “We’re going grocery shopping for food for OUR house! We’re picking out a plant to put in the corner of OUR bedroom! We’re planning a vacation we’ll take as HUSBAND AND WIFE! IAN, THIS PIECE OF MAIL IS ADDRESSED TO MRS. FLETCHER!” Her enthusiasm is infectious.
Each passing day builds another layer of stability. Those first few newlywed months fly by as the school year wraps up. Her apartment lease ends. We get a joint bank account. We talk about when we want to have kids and how many we’ll have.
“Pretty simple to decide,” she declares.
“How’s that?”
“Well, if we have one baby per year until I turn 45, that makes 18—a nice, round, dozen and a half,” she proclaims with a straight face.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” I protest. “That’s crazy!”
“Why’s that?” She maintains the poker face, so I up the ante.
“Because one baby per year means you’re giving yourself three whole wasted months between pregnancies. I was thinking I could just climb up on top of you in the postpartum room, and that should give us—”
“AOUGHHGH, stop stop stop. I’m kidding. Let’s start with one, and if we don’t mess it up too bad we’ll do it again.”
Sam’s parents are hosting a dinner party tonight to blend the families. It’s going to be a shitshow. It’s been almost six months since we eloped, and this dinner is her parents’ way of making amends…sort of. Sam’s mom still calls every few days and asks her if she’d be willing to partake in a small (300 people) church ceremony. Sam says no, and her mom takes it as a personal insult every time.
“I know it seems callous, but I’ve given in to her demands my whole life. I’m not doing it anymore. I had the wedding I wanted. Nothing could top it. We ran for our lives!”
“I agree.”
“Okay, good,” she says as we stroll up the front path to her parents’ house. “So when my mom inevitably asks about it again tonight, you have to have my back.”
I nod—not that it matters, because her mom won’t ask Sam about it tonight. Her mom is all about appearances and she’d never get into a fight with Sam
in front of my parents, who, from the sound of it, are already inside. I can hear my mom’s laugh from a mile off.
Sam opens the door and there they are: two couples who couldn’t be more different. Her parents are short and thin, human birds. They dress in khaki and cream, single-handedly keeping the beige trend alive. My parents are slightly heavier set with big smiles. Like Sam and me, there’s a bit of height difference between them. Tonight, my mom’s wearing a pink dress and my dad has put on his nicest Hawaiian shirt.
The second we walk in the door, my mom runs over and envelops Sam in a life-ending hug. Sam squeezes my hand as if trying to deliver a message via Morse code: please STOP help me STOP can’t breathe STOP.
“You look so beautiful! You’re glowing!” Her voice drops. “You aren’t expecting, are you?”
“Mom,” I warn.
She steps back but keeps holds of Sam’s outstretched hands. “Sorry, sorry. Wishful thinking!”
Sam’s own mom pats her shoulder. “Hello dear.”
“Hi Mom.”
“I, ummm…” Her mom takes a moment to peruse Sam’s appearance. “I like what you’ve done with your hair tonight.”
It pains her to deliver the compliment. Sam’s hair is wild and curly. By contrast, her mom’s hair has been forced into a tight up-do that yanks her forehead skin so she wears a perpetual look of surprise. She looks like the headmistress of a boarding school where you send troubled youth.
Her dad claps my shoulder and we shake hands. “How are you, Ian?”
“Good, sir. Thanks.”
“Taking good care of my daughter?”
His question might seem formal, but his tone isn’t. Out of the two of them, her dad is much easier to handle. He just wants Sam to be happy.
The strangest thing happens over that four-course dinner: our parents become friends. Our moms get along exceedingly well. I think it’s because my mom could talk to a shoe and call it her friend. She peels back Mrs. Abrams’ layers like a highly-skilled psychiatrist.
“So, tell me more about your childhood!”
After dessert, they all want to move into the living room and play board games, but Sam and I have had our fill of family bonding.
We bolt the first opportunity we can get.
“Thanks for dinner, Mom, Dad! Talk soon! Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, we’ll see you in the morning for breakfast before you get on the road!” Sam shouts, quickly dashing around the room to dole out hugs.
After we step outside, she reaches for my hand and tugs me toward my car as fast as her short legs will take us.
“Hurry, hurry! My mom is probably thinking of some way to drag us back inside as we speak.”
We hop in and buckle up quick. We’re out of their neighborhood in no time.
“Phew. That went well. I think our moms are in love.”
I nod. “Yeah, it went better than I thought it would.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your mom invites my parents to breakfast tomorrow.”
“Yeah, we should probably prepare ourselves now.”
“Hey, can you stop at that pharmacy up there?” she asks. “I need to run in and pick up a few things.”
I get into the right lane so I can turn into the parking lot.
She jostles her legs in the passenger seat like she’s hopped up on something. “Don’t you want to know what I need?”
“Um, not real—”
“A pregnancy test.”
I nearly careen off the road.
I end up taking up 2 ½ parking spots near the back of the lot. Justin Timberlake is singing on the radio and Sam and I sit in the car while my brain catches up.
She jostles my arm. “Ian, you there?”
She waves her hand in front of my face, and reality snaps back into place like a rubber band. I turn to her, dopey smile and all.
“What the hell are we waiting for?!”
She beams and we simultaneously turn to yank on our door handles.
Inside the pharmacy, Sam drags her arm across the shelf in a dramatic flourish. Our small basket is filled to the brim. We buy one of each brand, which is overkill, but there’s no point in trying to talk her out of it.
“Because the people in the movies do it! Maybe they’re onto something!”
When we check out, the clerk doesn’t say a word, though she must sense the nervous energy pluming off of Sam because she gives her a small smile as she loads the pregnancy tests into two bags.
This is what we want. We’ve talked about it. I’ll be 32 in a month. Sam turned 28 a few weeks back. We have a lot of savings built up. I’ve already looked at the best options for college funds. We’re prepared, but it still feels like we’re two teenagers up to no good.
“Hurry, hurry,” Sam says as we finish the drive home. “I’ve been holding it since before dinner because I want to have enough urine for all these tests.”
“In my professional chemist opinion, you’ll need at least a gallon of urine.”
“You’re joking, but I actually have it!”
The bags are hefty and loaded down. When I pull into the driveway, Sam hops out of the car and makes a dash for the door. She runs straight for the master bathroom and I follow.
“Should we read the instructions?” I ask, frowning as Sam starts tearing open boxes like a hungry bear who’s just stumbled upon a picnic in the woods. “Make sure you’re peeing on the right parts?”
“I know the right parts, Ian. Movie people, remember?”
Still, I insist. Each test demands slightly different preparations. Some demand you pee directly on the applicator. Some want you to dip the end of the test stick in a small cup of urine. Some provide a line. Some spell out POS or NEG. Sam hops back and forth on her feet, clutching her crotch as if she’s trying to physically hold the pee inside herself.
“Hurry!”
“Okay, here. This one first.”
She pees on it and I pass her another. Then another. We have twelve lined up before she’s completely emptied her bladder.
“Damn,” I say, hands on hips, assessing our lineup.
She washes her hands with a smug smile. “What do you think, science man? Is that enough data for you?”
I smile and nod before stepping back and sliding down to the ground. The excitement of the last half-hour is starting to take its toll.
Sam stays standing, hands on her hips as she studies the tests. “How long do we have to wait?”
“The first one will be ready in five minutes.”
Saying it aloud makes my stomach drop. She turns back to me and I see she’s shaking now, her eyes filling up with tears. “What if it’s positive?”
I tilt my head and assess her. “We’ll be excited.”
“And if it’s negative?”
“We’ll probably be relieved, but we’ll also keep trying.”
“Maybe your mom is a psychic. You haven’t told her we’ve been trying, have you?”
“No. That was all her.”
“She said I was glowing.”
I smile. “You are.”
“How long has it been?”
I glance down at the timer on my phone. “Thirty seconds.”
“Oh god. I feel sick.”
“Good sick or bad sick?”
“I don’t know. I want this, but all of sudden I feel like we’re in over our heads. It’s the same feeling I had when you asked me to marry you.”
I understand what she means. We’d be naïve to think this isn’t a huge step. Our lives are about to change forever.
“Come sit by me.”
I bend my knees so she can fit in the space between my legs. She turns, sits, and leans her back against my chest. My heart thumps against her shoulder blade. My hand wraps around her wrist and I feel her pulse, counting the beats in my head—faster than a hummingbird. I wrap my other hand around her stomach and press there, waiting, expecting. I know it’d be too early to feel anything, but I want to feel something.
“Ian? Do you rememb
er when I dressed up as Hermione for Halloween and you told me I looked like a dweeb?”
I smile and lean my head back against the wall. “Yeah, I tried to kiss you that night.”
“What?!”
“Over by the punch bowl, but it was too late. You’d had like four shots and you threw up on me.”
“Oh my god. I remember feeling sick, but I don’t remember you trying to kiss me.”
I glance down and see there are two minutes left on the timer.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t all that smooth. You used to make me nervous.”
She laughs like that’s completely preposterous.
“I wonder how different everything would have been if you’d actually kissed me.”
Completely, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
“This is crazy,” she murmurs to herself.
Another minute passes and now there are only seconds before that first test is ready. Sam looks down at the time and her pulse punches through her skin.
“Do you want to look together?” she asks.
“You do it.”
I’m not sure I can stand at the moment.
Time slows to a crawl as she pushes up and walks over to read the test. Things flash through my mind: nursery paint colors, daycare, diapers, pudgy fingers and toes.
It’s a simple, old-school test with two lines for positive and one for negative.
It should take her one second to read it.
The timer starts to beep.
Sam looks down, grabs the test, whirls around, and screams.
Epilogue
S A M
TWO YEARS LATER
“Mr. President,” I say, nodding in deference as Ian hands me the popcorn.
“Madam Secretary,” he responds, equally sincere.
“Ahem, the Speaker of the House needs a refill.”
“Wah-wah-wah-wah.”
We both look down at Violet, who’s pulling up to stand on the edge of the couch. Her chubby-cheeked grin tears straight through my heart.
“Ian, can you believe we’re raising such a genius?”