“Mm,” she said. “Well, I’m sold.” And he laughed.
“I have a feeling women might not be the only market they’re going for,” he said. “And we’re not even at the worst part. So I walk out there, and Annabelle starts laughing. Did I mention that Bug’s there?”
“No. You left that out.”
“Yeah, well. She is, back with the production assistants and things, but I can see her laughing. And I’m thinking, that’s good she’s laughing, with all the death and jail and life upheaval and all. And then the photographer, who I’m sure is some kind of Hollywood legend, about the campiest guy I’ve ever met in my life, with platinum hair in a brush cut and eyeliner and more piercings than Dyma, takes a good long look at me and says, ‘Darling, that’s gorgeous, but I think we’d better tone it down, don’t you? There’s such a thing as too exciting.’ And I think, ‘What the hell?’ and look down. Thinking I’ve got some … slippage happening.”
“Oh, no,” Jennifer said, and she was giggling. Just like the night with the painkiller, but drug-free.
“But I don’t have a hard-on,” he went on, “and I’m not slipping out like I’ve got an anaconda in there, so I’m thinking, ‘What?’ And the photographer snaps his fingers and says, “Try putting a second pair on him. We need some compression here.” And all the production assistants, who are about Bug’s age, I swear, are smirking, thinking I’m semi-hard or something, and Bug’s back there laughing. And that was before I was lying on that chaise with my arm behind my head, so I could show off my bicep—which I had to do about fifty pushups on that pool deck in order to get pumped up enough for the photographer, so now I’m really sweaty—and I’m trying to smolder.”
She said, “Oh, dear. Size matters, I guess. So that’s why they wanted you.”
“Yeah, you go on and laugh. It was embarrassing. He had to put the camera down and give me smoldering lessons. Turns out I don’t have a clue how to smolder. He said I just looked constipated. And Bug’s back there the whole time, laughing like a hyena. I kept thinking, ‘Thank God Owen’s not here,’ except that I’m betting he’ll hear about it. They’re going to be making me smolder in the cow pasture next time I go to the ranch, and everybody’s going to be laughing. Exactly like you. See? That’s what I’m talking about. Totally humiliating. From now on, I’m only endorsing manly things. Power saws. Pickup trucks.”
“Wrenches,” Jennifer suggested. “Cattle feed.” They were both laughing now.
“It’s so much easier to maintain your image,” he said, “if nobody sees that much of you. All Annabelle’s illusions are shattered now.”
Jennifer turned, wound her arms around his neck, kissed his mouth with her own curvy, complicated one, and said, “I think the real man could be even better than that guy, though.”
When he took over the kiss, her mouth was just as delicious as it had been every other time. And he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to do this. To take that pretty dress off her and show her what he felt in the only way he actually knew how. Unfortunately, there were all these other people around, and anyway, there were words that needed to be said. Some kind of words. Words that he hoped would come to him as he blundered along. He said, “The real man’s got some work to do. Some questions to ask, because I’m not the one growing a baby. How are you doing?” He sat back a little and looked her over, put his palm out, then hesitated and asked, “Can I touch?”
He could practically hear Alexis, his lawyer, jumping up and down in her Ferragamo pumps, screaming, “No! No!” Here in his real life, though, Jennifer was sitting back on a not-even-queen-sized bed in the tiniest bedroom known to man, taking his hand, smiling at him with her golden eyes, and putting his hand on her belly.
He said, “It’s bigger. Isn’t it?” He remembered it feeling harder than he’d expected, and faintly rounded. Now, the rounding was more than faint. It was right there. Not down low, where he’d expected it. Curving all the way from above her belly button.
“Fifteen weeks,” she said. “I’m past the first trimester, which means I feel so much better. I had to tell people tonight, though, because nothing fits. You advanced the program, that’s all.”
“How big is the baby?” He knew so little about this.
“Sort of orange-sized. Starting to look like a teeny little person.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s a test they do. A blood test, besides the one we did, since I’ll be thirty-five when the baby’s born, which means I’m higher risk. I got the results of that this week, too.”
He got a jolt of alarm right down his body. A visceral thing, like lightning crackling in the air. “What? Something’s wrong?”
Wait. That would be good, wouldn’t it? This was too complicated, and he didn’t do complicated. He did simple. If she couldn’t have the baby after all—that would solve all his problems. So why didn’t it feel like that? Why did he feel like his heart had stopped?
“No,” she said, and there her hand was, right over his where it rested on that round little belly. “Everything’s right. It’s a genetic test. For chromosomes and … everything.”
“Oh.” It took a second to sink in. The relief, and the realization. “Oh. You mean they can tell the sex.”
“Yeah.”
“You probably wanted one of those parties or something. Got cheated out of it again.”
She smiled again. “No. I wouldn’t even know how. I’m just … regular, you know? Not too good at that kind of thing. I don’t want to be some princess. I just want to wear tighter things again. To be able to feel pregnant. To be able to say I’m pregnant, and show it off. Not to feel ashamed of it.”
That was another hard twist of his heart. She shouldn’t have had to be ashamed, and it shouldn’t be happening now. And then he realized what she’d said. “So do you know what it is?”
He had no idea why he was holding his breath. It was stupid.
“Yes.” She still had her hand over his, curved over that bump, and it was warm. “He’s a boy.”
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Friends
A boy.
He was still for a long, long time, and then he felt the sigh from deep inside her, and she said, “Harlan.” Turning on the bed so she could get both hands on his face, looking into his eyes. “You can be a good father to a boy. You can be a great father. You’re going to know how.” She leaned forward and kissed his mouth, nothing but gentle. “I know it. I’m sure.”
“I’m …” He couldn’t think of what to say. He had no clue.
“You’re scared,” she said. “I’m scared, too.” She laughed, just a breath. “You bet I am. But that’s normal. It’s a big thing, a baby. A big responsibility. You do so many things wrong, even while you think you’re doing your very best. Being scared just says you take it seriously. That you want to do it right.”