Oh FFS. Can you ask Chloe?
Chloe has Lyme disease.
Right now?
That’s what she said. She’s not here. I’ll go.
What would I do without you!!!!
In the Uber, I rolled down my window. The freezing air was like a caffeine injection, a buzz that gave me the illusion I could do this. “I think I should tell her that I’m pregnant now. Today. With you there,” I told Adam. I had to deflect attention from what had happened at the conference and how much I knew about the behind-the-scenes plotting. If Maren was going to yell at me, I preferred she do it over my pregnancy rather than my negligence. Had she seen what was happening to our user numbers? I didn’t want to know.
Adam smiled nervously. He was staring out the other window, tapping a rhythm on his thigh to a song I didn’t recognize, possibly by Phish.
“You’re freaking out,” I said. “I need you to keep it together.”
“I’m just worried about whether this level of stress is healthy for you and the baby.”
“What are my options here?”
“What if you got a different job?”
I posed in my seat, one hand on my belly and the other behind my head like a mermaid. “Maternity model?”
I waited for Adam to say he would get a different job, but that wasn’t the plan. Next month, we were getting an apartment together. After the baby came, he would be the primary caregiver, the Brooklyn dad in the BabyBjörn, and I would go back to work. I couldn’t leave Richual. I had to stick it out for at least another three years, until my shares fully vested.
When Maren opened the door, she was barefoot, backlit by the sun flooding Devin’s palatial open-plan apartment, which was more like a photography studio than a place where anyone actually lived. At her side, she held an open bottle of wine.
“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to ground zero. Please come in.”
“This is my boyfriend, Adam.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” he said, reaching out a hand and then retracting it when he saw her beige wrist braces. “I came down last night to go to Khadijah’s doctor appointment.”
“Came down from where?”
“Dutchess County.”
“How lovely that you have a home up there,” Maren said, in a weird British accent. “It must be so nice to be able to escape the city, get away.”
“It’s not really my home. I’m actually helping a friend who—”
“Do you have the bag?” Maren whispered. “Devin’s napping, but I’m going to hold her thumb up to the phone and unlock it. Do you think that will work?”
“Actually, there’s something we wanted to tell you,” Adam said, gripping my hand. Thank you, I thought, and squeezed back.
Maren looked at Adam’s face, as if registering his features for the first time, and then at mine, putting them together.
“You’re getting married! I’m so happy.” She didn’t look happy at all. “I have my license from the Universal Life Church if you need an officiant. It would be my honor. Let’s put a pin in this and pick it up later. Cheers.” She held the bottle out to us and then brought it to her lips, but it was empty.
“No,” I said. She never listened. What made me think she would listen now? After all the mornings I came in early, all the nights I worked late, all the texts and emails I responded to on weekends because Adam was away so what else did I have to fill my time with but work, all the editorial content I put together for Cervical Health Awareness Month and National Endometriosis Awareness Month and Sexual Assault Awareness Month, all the staff photo shoots, where I sat front and center, smiling, the token black girl (everyone called each other babe: Thanks, babe; no problem, babe; really sorry, babe, but I was only ever Khadijah)—Maren used me when she needed me and I was supposed to be grateful for the opportunity. I wasn’t negligent. I was overworked.
I held Devin’s purse hostage.
“Maren, I’m pregnant,” I said. I stood up as tall as I could. “This is good news for you. It gives the company the chance to institute a progressive paid parental leave policy. It’s good PR. It’s also the perfect time to create a self-care content vertical specifically for prenatal and postpartum millennials, which has so far been an untapped audience segment for us.”
She held one hand to her forehead, massaging her temples. I couldn’t tell if she was looking down at the floor or if she was looking for the bump underneath my coat, so I took it off. “My due date is in July. I’m asking for six weeks of maternity leave and another six weeks part-time after that.”
“You’re pregnant,” she repeated.
“She’s pregnant,” Adam said.
“Khadijah, I’m surprised you think it’s okay to just leave me like this.”
I was seized by a cold chill.
“I’m not leaving,” I said. “Not until July. And then I’ll be back. Adam is going to be the primary caregiver. I believe in Richual. I believe in the work we’re doing.” Stop talking, I thought. You’re making it worse.
“You’re telling me this now? The day I learn that Devin is one of Evan’s victims?” Her voice dropped to a hiss.
“To be fair,” Adam said, looking at me, “she wanted to tell you sooner, but it never seemed like the right time.”
“I would appreciate if you didn’t mansplain to me in this situation.”
“Wait,” I said. “Devin is one of Evan’s victims?”
“Yes and I think it’s time for her to break her silence.”
Before I could respond, Adam set Devin’s bag down gently on the kitchen counter. “Great meeting you,” he said, steering me out the door before Maren could suck me back into her vortex.
Devin
Arianna’s lip is bleeding. I can see the blood on her front teeth. I should tell her. I should tell her that there is blood on her teeth. I don’t want her to be embarrassed. I would want someone to tell me. Why didn’t she moisturize her lips? I take one finger and put it in my own mouth, rub it along my top teeth, the way my mom used to, but Arianna isn’t looking at me—she’s giving a tinkly finger wave and scrunching her nose at someone she recognizes in the audience.