“Thanks,” I mumble. Why did I come here? It’s simple to hide the baby belly I don’t have or the morning sickness I don’t have. It’s harder to hide my special pregnancy diet.
“Yum …” Shep whispers in my ear while also succumbing to the unnecessary pinching of my side just before following my dad out to the patio and grill. Men have it so easy. Give them a drink and a grill, and life is good.
If a man says he’s not drinking, a collective “awe …” fills the air. He’s clearly a recovering alcoholic. Everyone decides to go dry for the night in a heroic act of solidarity. But when a woman says she’s not drinking, it means she’s pregnant or on a cleanse. Why did no one assume I’m an alcoholic? Or pregnant for that matter? I could get knocked up as easily as the next chick.
It’s the glasses. Boring optometrist. Cute glasses. Basic to the bone.
I’m going to slaughter Shep’s ass on the golf course tomorrow.
Under a string of lights with Alexa playing my dad’s favorite Sinatra hits, we eat the catch of the day, empty bottle after bottle of Collymore wine, and listen to a play-by-play of my dad’s brush with stardom as an almost-PGA player.
And by we … I mean them.
I have to get up every ten minutes to pee. I don’t laugh at everything that’s said like it’s a joke when it’s not. Being the only sober one is like being the only one on the bench that never gets put into the game.
This is the first time I’ve seen Shep kinda tipsy. It’s in his eyes. Drunk eyes can’t lie. He’s thinking really inappropriate things about me and wetting his lips like Cersei after a spoonful of peanut butter. The wine must have blurred his memories of our subpar sex.
During my fifty-seventh trip to the toilet, I text Chloe. It’s not her fault I’m here on a freaking juice cleanse. And I don’t ever want her to feel like this pregnancy is inconveniencing me—except tonight. I want her to know my level of dedication to this baby.
Me: Taryn is forcing me to drink gallons of green juice and eat vats of detox soup because I’m not drinking wine, which means I’m on a cleanse.
I take a selfie on the toilet and send it to her.
Chloe: Don’t tell them!
I roll my eyes. Did she miss my point? I’m not telling them. I’m drowning in piss and my tummy is churning in the worst possible way.
Me: If I were telling them, I wouldn’t be camping on the toilet!
Chloe: Don’t detox too much. You shouldn’t detox while pregnant. Eat a potato with butter. Apple with peanut butter.
“Jesus …” I bend forward as my stomach cramps up. I need to fart or shit or something. It was the soup. What did Taryn put in that soup?
Me: Gotta go.
Chloe: Love you. Xo
“Yeah, you’d better love me,” I mumble as my stomach muscles cease up rock hard.
Just as my anal sphincter starts to relax to let out … god knows what, there’s a knock at the bathroom door.
“You okay? I need to take a piss.”
Just the sound of Shep’s voice makes my hole squeeze into a tight fist. I have never been this miserable in my life.
“Um …” I wipe, flush, and wash my hands. I can’t even stand straight because my stomach hurts so much. I’m sweating, and my glasses are fogged up. “All yours,” I manage to say without my voice straining too much as I squeeze past him, avoiding all eye contact.
“You okay?” He grabs my arm.
I’m a water balloon at capacity, the slightest squeeze to any part of my body might cause a catastrophic explosion. If that happens, I will never ever be able to look Shep in the eye again. I will have to change my name and move to someplace like Tanzania, where I’ll hire a stork to return Chloe’s and Mason’s baby to them after I give birth standing up, dancing with a birthing pole, and moaning like a cow until it just drops onto the ground. I’m pretty sure I saw a video where that happened—maybe not the dropping onto the ground part.
“Fine,” I squeak, doing something between a waddle and walk to the kitchen in search of the most absorbent food I can find.
No apples.
No potatoes.
They have rice, but I don’t think my bowels will hold out for twenty minutes while it cooks. In the fridge, there’s a loaf of gluten free bread. I steal a slice and squat in the corner by the lazy Susan, eating the dry, cold, piece of cardboard.
And then I pray.
Please don’t let me shit my pants.
Please don’t let me explode.
Please don’t let anyone hear me if I do.
Please don’t let it stink up the whole house.