Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  “Sure. Whatever,” I say, unconvinced that I will actually be talking to her later. But Tara is right about one thing. The internet never forgets.

  And unfortunately for her, neither do I.

  Me: When do you think you’ll be home?

  I stare at my phone, willing it to light up with life. I’m not sure exactly how to break it to Jeff that his man boobs are plastered all over the internet to see, but I know I need to tell him before he finds out on his own. With my luck, he’ll probably blame me—payback for him not telling me about the job situation. I know I can be cruel at times, but come on, I’m not that mean.

  Jeff: I’m finishing up with the recruiter right now. Why? Is everything okay? Is the baby coming?

  And before I can even respond, my phone lights up with a photo of Jeff and me taken last winter.

  “Oh my God, Henley, is it time? I can leave right now and come home. Or wait, should I meet you at the hospital? How far apart are the contractions? Shit! We never packed the hospital bag! You head to the hospital, and I’ll come home and grab everything we need.” He speaks faster than an auctioneer on speed.

  I laugh at this silly, ridiculous man. “No, no, I’m not in labor. Not yet at least. I just wanted to find out what time you’ll be home.”

  He exhales dramatically, and it makes me smile. “Oh, why? What’s up?”

  “I … uh…” I fumble over my words. I hadn’t quite thought this far ahead when I was playing it through in my mind. Okay. So I panicked and texted him too quickly. I hadn’t thought this through at all. “I was, um … I was thinking we should have a talk. Tonight. Whenever you get home.”

  “Oh, God.” His voice goes grave, and I can literally hear him swallowing on the line. “The last time you wanted to have a talk, you told me you were pregnant.” I hear the distinct rustling of papers shuffling, and he says something to the recruiter he’s working with, but I can’t quite make out the words.

  “Babe, it’s okay. It’s nothing, really,” I lie, more so for me than for him. “You don’t need to come home right now. We can talk about it later tonight.”

  “I’m halfway to the car already. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Exactly three minutes and forty-five seconds later, he’s running through the door, gasping for air. He drops his bag, places his hands on his knees, and takes a few deep breaths while bent over.

  “Hey, babe,” gasp, “what’s up?” Gasp. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

  “Jesus, Jeff, did you sprint home?”

  “Well …” He sucks in a gulp of air and straightens back up to look at me. “When my baby needs me, she needs me, and I come running.”

  I take a seat on the couch and gently pat the cushion next to me. Jeff slowly moves to take his seat and turns to me, eyes laced with concern. “There’s something you should see,” I tell him as I open up the laptop in front of us. “And I want you to know that while it wasn’t me directly who did this, I accept full responsibility … and I’m sorry.”

  I take a deep breath and type the URL for YouTube into the browser. Just as I’m about to enter “man milks himself with breast pump” into the search bar, Jeff grabs my wrist.

  “Holy shit!”

  I swallow and look to him and then back to the screen. Sure enough, in the first position under the “Trending” headline, there’s a thumbnail of a bare-chested Jeff holding two funnels to his body and mouth wide open in what looks to be an agonizing “O” face.

  “That’s me!” he shouts proudly. The edges of his lips crinkle in a subtle smile and his eyes narrow as he tries to process exactly what he’s witnessing on the screen. Jeff fingers the touch pad and clicks the video open. “Oh my god. Almost two million views since yesterday?” His hand flies to his mouth, covering it as he scrolls through pages and pages of comments.

  “And um … that’s not all.”

  He turns back to me. “It’s not?”

  I shake my head. “It’s made its way through Reddit. BuzzFeed. Facebook. All of the usual social suspects.”

  He stifles laughter, and his cheeks puff out like the cat that ate the goddamned canary. There’s a moment of recognition on his face. “So that’s why the girl at the bakery looked at me funny and then moo’ed.”

  All I can do is shake my head in disbelief at how well he’s taking this entire scenario.

  “I’m going to kill my brothers.” His tone is playful, but his face is strangely cold. I’m pretty sure he’s only half kidding right now.

  “About that …” My voice squeaks. “It wasn’t them.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t them, and you didn’t do it, then how’d it end up on YouTube’s greatest hits?”

  I look at my hands that are knotted clumsily in my lap and flash my eyes up to him sweetly. I gently push my swollen boobs together with my upper arms and lean over slightly, giving him a good view of the ladies busting out of my shirt. A little skin never hurt an apology.

  “I’m sorry!” I whine, batting my lashes and trying to appear all cute and innocent when we both know I am anything but. “I showed Tara the other day when we were out shopping, and the next thing I know my mom is calling to ask how you ended up inside of her computer. Tara texted the video to herself and took it upon herself to unleash it to the masses. Had I known she was going to do that, I never would have shown her. This isn’t some revenge video, I swear.”

  I feel the tears starting to build inside, and my lip quivers as I try to keep my shit together. This whole spontaneous pregnant melt down thing is really starting to piss me off.

  Jeff’s eyes go from mine, straight down to my chest where they linger for just a beat too long and then back up to my face. Silent tears begin to fall, and I know there’s not enough gratuitous boobage in the world to make up for launching this video into the wilds of the internet.

  “It’s okay,” he says softly, and he cups his palm to my cheek.

  I sniffle and blink away a few tears. “Wha … What’d you say?”

  Jeff shifts in his seat so he’s facing me head on. “Henley, it’s okay. Seriously. I’m not mad.”

  What? Is this some kind of joke? “You’re not angry?”

  “No.” He reassures me and leans over to kiss me sweetly, but I can’t kiss him back. Because frankly, part of me wishes he were mad. He deserves to be mad at me. I don’t want him harboring these emotions only to grow to resent me later.

  “You should be,” I mumble when he breaks my half-assed kiss.

  “Why? You didn’t do this deliberately. It was all out of your hands, right?”

  I nod then swallow hard, speaking to the obvious issue in the room. “But don’t you think this could bite you in the ass with your job search? It’s not like that video is the most professional thing you’ve ever done.”

  I can see the cogs moving in his head for a fleeting moment, but he shakes it off. “You know what? It’s really no big deal. If any prospective company sees that and wants to hold it against me, then that’s not the right company for me.”

  I’m not convinced that’s the right mentality, but who am I to argue? Tara was right. He really is taking this in stride. I’m kind of impressed.

  Jeff’s phone chirps and I instantly recognize the ringtone for his older brother, Kyle. He rolls his eyes as the incoming message, then flashes it toward me.

  Kyle: Nice work, jackass.

  Attached to Kyle’s message is a screen shot of Jeff with the breast pump funnels against his body and the caption “GOT MILK?” in bold white letters across the bottom.

  I choke back a laugh and place my hand on his knee. “You sure you’re okay with all of this?” I ask softly as I close my eyes.

  He turns his phone off and tosses it onto the coffee table, then leans back into the couch and stretches his arm around me, pulling me close under his arm. “Yeah, I always thought it’d be cool to become one of those meme things.”

  I curl up into his body as much as my pregnant body will let me and close my eyes
, thankful for his level-headedness.

  IS THIS REAL LIFE?

  “Good God, I am so freaking uncomfortable right now!” I exclaim as I walk out of the bathroom for the umpteenth time today. I am convinced that the larger my belly grows, my bladder shrinks in direct proportion.

  “Would you rather have to sit on an egg for nine months?” Jeff asks as I sit back down on the couch next to him.

  Some days I don't think that'd be so bad. Though an elephant would easily be the worst. They’re pregnant for close to two years and birth a baby weighing upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds. I may be in my third trimester, but it feels like I've been knocked up for the better part of a century.

  “You know, sitting on an egg sure as hell beats the stretch mark alternative.”

  “Nonsense. Your stretch marks are beautiful. And they make you even more beautiful to me. They're evidence that you're carrying life in there, and that's a fucking miracle, so I wouldn't trade them for the world.”

  My heart swells, and he nuzzles his nose against mine. It’s so sweet it gives me a toothache. Jeff’s phone vibrates against the coffee table in obnoxious fanfare, and we jump apart, startled by the sound. He takes a look and shrugs at the number.

  “I have no idea who that is. It's probably a telemarketer or something.” He hits the reject button and cozies back into the couch with me.

  Almost instantly, it lights up again.

  Same number.

  “Someone’s persistent.” He rejects the call once again.

  “Is that your secret wife calling to tell you she’s pregnant and she knows about the affair, but it doesn’t matter because she’s going to leave your ass and take your inheritance, your car, and your razor because every woman knows a men’s razor is superior?”

  “What? No! Why would you even say a ridiculous thing like that?”

  I shrug. “I blame my overactive imagination ever since you knocked me up.”

  “That so?”

  “Nah. I actually read about that in a book last year. It fucked me up pretty good. Made me doubt everything about relationships in general.”

  “Maybe you should stop reading?” He nudges my shoulder playfully, knowing that wouldn’t happen.

  “Yeah well, reading leads to knowledge. Knowledge leads to power. Minute after minute. Hour after hour.”

  He pulls back abruptly and looks at me bewildered. “Did you just quote Coolio? Gangster’s Paradise?”

  All I can do is smile. For years it was my go to karaoke jam.

  “I love you more now than I did fifteen seconds ago.” Jeff softly tugs my chin upward toward him and ever so gently presses his lips against mine. His touch feels so damn good. My mind drifts off to all of the deliciously inappropriate things I want to be doing right now, and just as I make the conscious decision to walk my fingertips up his inner thigh, the damn phone rings again.

  We both groan in frustration and glare at his phone. His stupid, interrupting phone. And then I look more closely at the number. “323? Isn’t that a west coast phone area code?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe?”

  A moment of recognition strikes. My freshman year college roommate had this area code. “No, it is. That’s Los Angeles.”

  “But I don’t know anyone in L.A.”

  I wrack my brain trying to think of any potential link between California and us. “Didn’t you say the firm that bought out your company was from L.A.?”

  “Hmmm, do you think it’s them calling? What if they want me to come back? What if they want to extend an offer?”

  “I don’t know…” I go wide eyed. I know he’s been struggling to find work again. “But there's only one way to fix out. Answer it.” I crack my knuckles anxiously. This could be the answer we’ve been looking for. I know the job search hasn’t been easy for him, but if it’s his former company, I know he’d go back in a heartbeat.

  Jeff answers the phone with a solemn look plastered on his face. He’s gone into business mode. “Hello? … Yes, this is Jeff.” He shoots me a peculiar look and excuses himself to the next room over. I lean toward the hallway to try and hear part of the one-sided conversation. “Yes, that’s me. … Um, I suppose it was a few weeks ago. … Wow, really? … Yeah, sure. I’d have to talk with Henley, but I don’t see why not … Yes, that’s her name … in October … Yes, I do have one.”

  And then he must have walked toward the back of the house because all I can make out are a series of “Mhmms” and “Yeses.” A few minutes later, he re-emerges with a coy smile playing at his lips but says nothing.

  “Well? You got a job offer?” I cringe at the fact that my voice is a little too hopeful.

  “No, not exactly.” He knits his brows together. “That was actually The Late Night Buzz. You know, the TV show hosted by that up and coming comedian, Bryan Albertson? He's the guy who plays pranks on unsuspecting shoppers on Rodeo Drive. And that little video you took made its way to one of the producers and …” His voice trails off, and he laughs, seemingly in disbelief. “They want to do an interview with us on the show.”

  Oh fuck. “For real?”

  He smiles, more amused by the entire situation than I am. I'd much prefer to pack up, change our names, and move to a foreign country. Or maybe dye my hair (after the baby arrives, of course) and find a way to get in on the witness protection program. I've always felt I looked more like a Maggie than a Henley. But this video has already taken a few trips around the sun, and there's no escaping it now.

  “For real. They want to talk with us over Skype.”

  Us?

  My stomach twists in anticipation. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. The show is live, but our segment would be pre-recorded. She said it’ll take less than a half hour. They’ll record the conversation and edit before it goes on the air. Oh, and she also asked if we could send the original video file from your phone to them by the morning.”

  Jeff hands me a slip of paper with an email address on it and sits back down next to me on the couch as I process everything. I’m not sure if this is a blessing or a curse. I’m not one for attention, especially when it's coming from strangers, let alone on the national scale. We will, no doubt, be the epicenter of countless jokes and internet memes.

  “You know they’re going to show the clip, right? Thousands—no millions—of people will see you trying to milk yourself on national television! Do you really think this is a smart idea considering you’re looking for a job right now?”

  He turns toward me and takes my hands in his. “Babe, millions of people have already seen it. Any damage has likely already been done. And who knows, maybe this will give me the stage to go on and clear the air? Give the video some context?”

  “And what context is that exactly?” I cock my brow, challenging him.

  “I’m not sure. But I’ve got about twenty-four hours to figure that out.”

  Jeff leans over and gives me a quick peck on the lips before heading out of the room. I’m glad that he’s able to take this whole debacle in stride, but I wish I could be just as nonchalant about it. Because if I appear on-air alongside him, I will forever be known as the woman whose husband tried to milk himself.

  “You look tired today, babe. Did my little linebacker keep you up all night?” He smiles at me adoringly as he places his palm against my stomach.

  Normally when someone says you look tired, it’s code for why the hell do you look like such shit? But I suppose pregnancy and all of the glamorous side effects that come with it actually do make you legitimately tired all of the damn time. The comment should annoy me, but with the sweet way he asks, all is forgiven.

  Jeff stretches over my growing belly and gives me a deep, toe-curling kiss before I can respond. His tongue slips past my lips, and I softly moan into his mouth. His touch is so damn inviting and he tastes so damn good. I’m about two point five seconds away from stripping down and making a man out of him.

  Ever since I hit the third trimester, it feels like I h
ave two settings: one — hornier than a three-peckered prairie dog all doped up on Viagra; and two — so repulsed I’d rather dig my own eyeballs out with a spork than touch him. There is no middle ground. But fortunately for him and his libido, I’ve recently been wavering more on the former.

  I force myself to break the kiss before I get into trouble. There’s only so much time before this Skype call, and if I look as tired as he says, I need to spend a few extra minutes (okay, hours) getting ready.

  “Well, I am a little exhausted today. I got up in the middle of the night to pee and get a glass of water. And then I accidentally ate the leftover pizza that was in the fridge. And then I made some brownies because I was stressed about the fact that the one piece of baby furniture we own is the rocker from Tara. This kid will be here before we know it and we don’t even have a crib yet.”

  “So that’s what happened to the pizza.”

  I nudge his arm and retreat to the bathroom to get ready. Two hours and one empty hot water heater later, I emerge from our bathroom looking and feeling like a brand new woman. It's amazing what a curling iron, a little concealer, and some mascara can do.

  Much to our surprise, the whole process actually did take less than twenty minutes.

  First, we tested the internet connection with a tiny blonde producer, the same gal Jeff spoke with yesterday. Then she ran us through a list of potential questions we’d be asked during the segment: What possessed you to do something so udderly ridiculous (and yes, she really did say udderly)? Were you under the influence when you discovered the breast pump? What other baby products have you taken for a test drive? If Henley asked, would you willingly hook yourself up to a machine that made you experience the pain of contractions? And, of course, what did I make of my fiance’s new found internet fame?

  I was secretly thankful that there was only one planned question for me. I was nervous enough as it was, I didn't need more questions circling my head. But even if we managed to goof up when we were recording, she assured us they would handle it all in editing.