Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  “Marty still being an ass?” He and his boss had always struggled with seeing eye to eye. If anything, the mere mention of Marty is enough to send him off on a twenty-minute tangent.

  “You could say that.” Jeff squeezes the back of his neck and enters the room, taking a seat next to me on the floor. “Did you have a good day?” he asks, shifting the attention to me.

  “Mmmm,” I hum noncommittally. I know he’s trying to avoid the subject. “I talked with Tara earlier.”

  “Oh? How’s she doing?”

  I hate how we’re making simple pleasantries. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like we’re strangers. “She’s fine. She, um … She told me something interesting.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye, but I’d rather not watch his reaction.

  “Like what? Is he the weight of a Chipotle burrito now?”

  I sigh, no sense beating around the bush. “No. She told me that you lost your job a few weeks ago.” I slowly turn to look him in the eye, and he quickly diverts his gaze. “Which I told her was ridiculous because you were still getting up at six thirty every morning and heading to the office by eight. And that you were back home every night by five thirty. And that there was no way you had lost your job.”

  Jeff closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing. No admittance. No denial.

  So I continue.

  “But I learned that you unloaded to Cameron about losing your job the same night you came home wasted. You had asked him for the name of the headhunter when he drove your drunk ass home.”

  “Fucking Cam,” he mutters under his breath.

  When he finally looks back at me, I nail him with a venomous look. I can tolerate many things in my life, but lies are not one of them. “I’ve spent the last few weeks internally playing every worst case scenario in my head. I thought you slept with someone else, Jeff!”

  “What? No!” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “I never …” He shakes his head, trying to find the right words to say. The words to make all of this better.

  “I know that now,” I whisper. “I don’t care that you lost your job. I mean … I do care, but it’s not the end of the world. I care about the fact you never once even tried to tell me. You lied to me. And that’s not okay. Jobs come and go. And if you’re not careful, my trust will too.”

  He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.

  “Say something …” I whisper, doing everything I can to keep calm and not letting the overreactive pregnant beast come out to play.

  “The company was bought out by a medical software group on the west coast. With the merger, they have nearly triple the number of software engineers they need. More than half the department was let go. Just the directors were kept on board along with two or three other engineers.”

  I hate the resignation in his voice. It cracks at my already wounded heart. It’s hard not to be angry. I get that things happen, things that are completely out of your control come out of the blue and knock you on your ass. But own up to those things, especially when it directly impacts another person.

  “Babe, you should’ve been the one to tell me. Not Tara. We’re going to have a baby together. We’re getting married. We’re family. If you can’t tell me something that big, it scares me that you're not talking to me about the little things that are going on. The healthiest relationships are built on transparency and trust.”

  “I know!” he snaps back with a voice that’s unfamiliar. “I just … I couldn’t. Not right now.” He pinches the bridge of his nose tightly before he finally opens his eyes to look at me.

  I offer him a small, rueful smile. But I know it does little to console him. “Why?”

  “A lot of reasons, I guess. I didn’t want to give you another reason to stress out. I didn’t want to give you or your family a reason to panic. We’re a few short months away from him being born. I mean, what kind of deadbeat dad would I be not having a job to be able to support my new family? I just couldn’t live with you being disappointed in me.”

  It’s hard to be angry with him and his honesty. “Sweetie, I could never be disappointed in you. The only thing I’m disappointed in is the fact you didn’t give me more credit. You’ve always stressed that we’re in this together. That we’re a team. Where you walk, I walk, remember?”

  His face softens as I repeat his words back to him. “Where you walk, I walk.” He laces his fingers between mine and gives my knuckles a soft kiss. “Just so you know, every day when you thought I was at work, I've been busy meeting with recruiters and networking. Some have even led to interviews.”

  I hum softly to myself, finding reassurance in his hustle.

  “But I am sorry, Henley. I'm so, so sorry. I absolutely should have told you right when it happened.”

  “I know you are. And I understand why you didn't.”

  It's true. And I'm not one to harbor anger and allow it to fester under the surface. I couldn’t stay angry with Jeff for very long, even if I tried. Unless, of course, he truly did reach SHITCON level one. Then all bets are off. Sure, I’m annoyed that he withheld this info from me for so long, but if I have to admit, I’m a little relieved that it wasn’t something far worse.

  “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  We sit hand-in-hand, wordlessly looking at the empty nursery before us.

  “So now what?” Jeff asks.

  I push myself to my feet and look down at him with a smile. “Well, the way I see it is we have two choices.”

  Jeff looks up at me with a curious glint in his eye.

  “We can keep on keeping on. I know you're doing everything you can right now to get your feet back on the ground. Me being angry isn't going to rectify the situation any faster.”

  “And what's the other option?” he asks.

  “We can go buy you some blue, sparkly tassels and get you working the street corner. That one is my personal favorite,” I tease.

  He genuinely smiles for what feels like the first time in weeks, and it warms me all over. “Ah! An entrepreneurial approach. I like your spirit.” He stands and walks over to my side, wrapping his arm around my shoulder protectively. “Although I'd much prefer to see you in those tassels.”

  “Mm-hmm, I’m sure you would.”

  I kiss his cheek and casually let my hand graze across the front of his pants, letting it linger just a beat too long against his dick before I walk out of the room.

  “Woman,” he groans.

  I stifle a laugh, loving that even in the toughest of times, I can still elicit this kind of reaction out of him.

  NIPPLEGATE

  “Henley? Honey?”

  “Hey, Mom, what’s—”

  “Henley Louise? Can you hear me?” she interrupts.

  Shit. I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure I didn’t accidentally mute the line.

  “Yes, Mom. I can hear you.” I sigh into the speaker.

  “Henley. Was that Jeff I saw on the computer?”

  Okay. She’s off her technological rocker again. It’s not unusual for her to call and ask how to turn on her computer any given day. I suppose it’s all part of her charm. But most days it gets old pretty fast.

  “Um … no? I don’t think so? Did you try to FaceTime him or something?”

  “No, honey. The video. The one on the computer. Mrs. Kensington — you remember Mrs. Kensington, right?”

  How could I forget Mrs. Kensington? She’s lived across the street from us since I was eleven and she organized the neighborhood ladies euchre league so she could get all the latest gossip. She kept secrets about as well as I keep my legs shut at wedding receptions. So once something was confessed during a rousing Thursday night euchre game, it was only a matter of hours before the whole damn town knew.

  “Yeah. I remember Mrs. Kensington. But what does she have to do with Jeff or your computer?”

  “Well, dear, if you’d stop interrupting, I could tell you.”

  I sigh heavily into the phone
again. No use in hiding my annoyance. My mom pauses, making sure that I don’t have anything else that could possibly interrupt her story.

  “Okay … well, Mrs. Kensington came over this morning with a basket of muffins and some tea.” She pauses again, but this time for reasons unknown. If she thinks I’m going to comment on the gesture, she’s got another thing coming to her. “So I invited her in, and we got to chatting, and it turns out that she saw a movie on her computer with Jeff. But I told her that Jeff hadn’t been in any movies and that she must have him confused with someone else. But you know Mrs. Kensington. She always has to be right. And so she brought me to my computer and went to some tube website where the logo is a red tv … I think it’s called Red Tube or something? I can’t remember … and she—”

  And that’s the precise moment where I don’t hear anything else she says. Two seemingly innocent words “red” and “tube” are echoing in the depths of my mind as I have a visual of my mother having a heart attack and falling over in her chair at the sight of her baby girl saving a horse and riding her boyfriend reverse cowgirl style. Once upon a time I jokingly suggested to Jeff that we should record ourselves having sex to see just what our moves looked like. I was drunk. He was drunk. There may have been a good old fashioned blow job while he was playing Mario Kart to set the mood. And then things happened. The kind of things no mother should ever witness their child doing. We were convinced it would be amazingly sexy to watch back at a later time, so we recorded it. Instead, the outcome was more of a comedy of horrors … or whores. Take your pick because both are entirely applicable in this particular situation.

  But the short of it is that video has now ended up on Red Tube, the most infamous amateur porn website, and my mother’s nosy neighbor took the liberty of playing it for her.

  “Mom! Mom! Stop talking!”

  “What, dear?” This time she’s the one sighing in annoyance.

  I squeeze my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose. How do I even broach this subject? This isn’t something they teach you how to handle in sex ed class.

  Okay … just rip the bandage off fast.

  “Did you say Red Tube?”

  She pauses momentarily. “Yes, I think that’s what it was.”

  Shit.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself for my next question. I’m not sure I want to know, and I would much rather crawl into a hole and die right now. “Mom, why did Mrs. Kensington take you to a porn site?”

  My mother gasps audibly and for a moment I think she’s fainted or dropped the phone.

  “Mom?”

  “Henley Louise Carson! I never! What on earth are you talking about? I’m not watching pornography! Are you watching porn? Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I need to pray for your soul.”

  She starts whispering a Hail Mary underneath her breath, and I quickly realize that I have everything wrong. If our little video experiment ended up on Red Tube, my mother would have shown up on my doorstep and whisked me away to a convent.

  “Mom? Mom! Stop that!” And by some miracle she does. I wish she weren’t so aloof. I wish she could actually articulate herself and be direct so I know what’s actually going on here. “Exactly what video are you talking about?”

  “If you’d actually listen to your mother, you’d know. The video of Jeff, sweetie. The one on the computer. The one where he’s using your breast pump. What on earth was he thinking? That boy is so silly. He can’t produce milk. He should have learned all about that in sixth grade. Though I have to admit, it was hilarious watching him try. And oh my heavens, when he started to moo like a cow, I nearly wet my knickers.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Ohmygod. Ohmygod. OHMYGOD!

  I’m not sure if I should be relieved that it wasn’t our sex tape she saw or mortified that my soon-to-be-husband is on the internet proving he’s incapable of lactating.

  “You saw that video? How did you see that video? That video only exists on my phone.” The phone that I’m clenching tighter in my hands.

  And then I remember …

  I made him keep good on his promise, and we emailed it to his brothers last week.

  Those punks must have uploaded it to YouTube.

  “I told you. Mrs. Kensington played it for me. Her son thought she’d find it funny, so he sent her an email about it. He’s thoughtful like that. You never send me emails about things you think are funny.”

  “That’s because nobody sends funny email forwards anymore. It’s not 1998, Mom.” I shut my eyes so tightly, little bursts of color form behind my eyelids. I’m not sure if I should scream or cry or laugh, but I am one heartbeat away from driving over to my mom’s house and ripping her hair out. She is oblivious to the implications of what has been posted online.

  “All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t kill you to think of your poor mom once in a while. Especially if you’ve got a funny video to share. Jeff is hilarious. Why weren’t you the one to send this to me?”

  Because it was never intended for your eyes. It wasn't intended for anyone’s eyes. I cannot believe Chris and Kyle posted this online. We all got a good laugh when we sent it their way, but this is low ... even for them.

  My mind is running a million miles an hour, and I bolt to the laptop, booting it up as quickly as I can. In the search field I type man milks himself with breast pump, and sure enough, Jeff is the first video that pops up. He’s clear as day, smiling in all of his shirtless glory with two funnels pressed against his chest. My eyes quickly go to the total number of views.

  One million, six hundred forty-three thousand, five hundred ninety-two.

  And this was only posted yesterday.

  Yesterday!

  “Holy fuck nuggets … My fiancé has gone viral,” I whisper underneath my breath. We shared that stupid video with his stupid brothers, and one of them stupidly put it online.

  My mom says something about me not speaking profanity, but I don’t catch it because I am so focused on the screen in front of me.

  After what feels like hours but is probably a few overdramatic seconds, I’m finally capable of forming words. “Um, Mom? I’m gonna have to call you back.” I hang up, not even bothering to say good-bye. I will no doubt get an etiquette lesson for that.

  Back on the computer, I quickly start scrolling through the countless comments as Jeff’s infectious laughter comes through the speakers.

  Undeniable proof that nipples on men are pointless!

  Dude! You’re supposed to put it on your penis!

  Looks like someone lost a bet.

  Oh man! My husband did this when we had our first child. But he never would have let me watch, let alone record it. Brave man, but I bet he regrets it now.

  The comments go on and on and on. And then something peculiar catches my eye, and I pick my phone back up, dial the number, and wait.

  “Tara!” I scold.

  “Hey, Hen! What’s up?” Her voice is casual … content … clueless.

  “Oh my God, T. Jeff’s breast pump video. It’s online.”

  “I know! He’s an internet sensation!” Her voice is almost proud.

  “How the hell did it get online? Why am I seeing this posted by 98DegreesSupahFan?” Tara has had the same absurd online handle since junior high, refusing to opt for something more mature as she’s aged. Anytime you call her out on it, you’re met with a resounding proclamation of “98 Degrees for Life!” with a triumphant fist pump in the air.

  “Um, because I put it there, obviously.”

  I take a calming breath and adjust in my seat. “You weren’t supposed to show anyone. You weren’t supposed to take it. I wasn’t supposed to even show you!” My voice is shrill and panicked and fast, and I’m desperate to rewind time and make this all go away.

  “I know, but that shit is pure gold. I sent it to myself from your phone so I could show Cameron. How many views is it up to now?”

  “Over one point six million.” As embarrassing as
this whole thing is, that part is pretty impressive.

  “No shit? This morning it was just under a million.” She’s almost bewildered at the power of social media.

  “Listen, T. I need you to take it down.” If Jeff hasn’t seen it yet, it’s only a matter of time before he does. Or worse, someone recognizes him and blindsides him with his unknown internet fame.

  “Well, I can take it off of YouTube, but it’s not going to do you much good.”

  “What do you mean? You put it up there, you can just take it down.”

  “I can, but it’s already out in the wild. People have saved it. Reposted it. Shared it. A few hours ago I saw it trending over on BuzzFeed. And it made the main page of Reddit. Reddit! Can you believe that?”

  Holy shit. It’s only a matter of time before everyone in the whole world sees this video. He’s going to be so pissed at me.

  “So this can’t be undone? There’s nothing that we can do?”

  “Nope. The internet never forgets. You can’t undo Nipplegate. But don’t go getting all uptight over it. He’s the one who did it to himself, really. Remember? He egged you on to video it because he was ‘soooooo secure in his masculinity.’ And now everyone will know just how manly he is.” Her statement is almost proud. “Besides, it's like I always say, people in glass houses should never throw orgies.”

  What? Jesus Christ on a bike, she never makes any sense. I pull the phone away from my ear and let out a blood curling scream, fighting the growing urge to chuck my phone. I can’t believe this is happening.

  “I’m so mad at you, Tara.” I’m in utter disbelief.

  “Sweetie, of all the people in the world that this could happen to, Jeff is most likely to take everything in stride. He’ll probably find the whole thing hilarious.” She’s trying to downplay it all.

  God, I hope she’s right. “I hope so. I need to go and figure out how to break this to Jeff.”

  “Okay, Hen. But really, it’ll be okay. Let me know how it goes?”

  When she sees the evening headline of man decapitates pregnant fiancée over milking video she’ll know exactly how it went.