Page 13 of Unexpecting

″Why wouldn’t he be?” Brit asked seriously. “If I asked him, then that would mean I thought it was fine, so why wouldn’t he?”

″I’m going to forget you suggested it,” I told Brit, once again taken aback at Brit’s utter conviction that the universe revolved around her. “But now, can you see why I’m considering insemination?”

″I say you hold off for as long as you can,” Morgan told me. “It’s not that we don’t think you’d be a great mother, but I don’t know why you’d want to do it yourself. It just seems like an awful lot of work. I think you should wait a bit more. There’s still time. You could meet someone tomorrow, you know?”

″The thought just makes me so tired.”

Morgan patted my hand. “It seems a shame that we’re both so happy,” she indicated her and Brit, “and you haven’t been able to find someone. I always think it was a shame things didn’t work out with you and David.”

″Who?” Brit demanded.

″I was just thinking about him the other day,” I admitted slowly, remembering my conversation Sunday morning with Cooper and Emma.

″Who are you talking about?” Brit repeated, her voice increasing in volume like it always does when she thinks she’s being ignored.

″David Mason. Don’t you remember?” Morgan asked her. “When Casey and I were in university, she went out with David. He was so cute,” she swooned nostalgically. “And nice and…”

″He was perfect,” I admitted ruefully.

″Didn’t you break up with him when we went to Europe?” Brit asked, interrupting my inner reminiscing about the very best boyfriend I ever had. So what if I was only nineteen when we met? We had four wonderful years together until graduation.

I nodded. “Stupid move on my part.”

″Not at all,” Brit argued. “We had a great time in Europe without him. And if he was so important, he should have waited around for you.”

I really don’t think Brit understands the concept of breaking up with someone. Or else she has a slew of ex-boyfriends waiting in the wings in the hope that she might change her mind. Considering how truly gorgeous she’s turned out, it might actually be possible, if they forget about certain aspects of her personality, which is actually possible to do when she’s having a nice day. It also explains how I’m still best friends with her.

″See? There is someone out there for you,” Morgan assured me enthusiastically. “And he would be perfect to have a baby with. Now you just have to wait until David pops back into your life. Maybe he’ll show up at your school tomorrow, picking up his kid… well, maybe not his kid, because that would mean he has kids and possibly a wife, which wouldn’t really help, but maybe someone else’s kids! Maybe…”

I couldn’t help laughing at Morgan’s animation. “I don’t think I’ll hold my breath. If I wait for that, I’m sure my eggs will all dry out, and I’ll never have a baby. But it’s a nice fantasy.”

Chapter Seven

“When a woman is in her childbearing years, her ovulation cycle must undoubtedly be taken into consideration when engaging in sexual intercourse.”

A Young Woman’s Guide to the Joy of Impending Motherhood

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

After I dropped mynot-so-dramatic bombshell on Brit and Morgan, the conversation inevitably returned to Brit’s upcoming wedding until she left to meet Tom. Morgan and I stayed for another drink, and our conversation returned to the university years we spent together and David.

While Morgan might not have the amount of fond memories I have, there was a distinct note of affection in her tone when she talked about my former boyfriend, which isn’t surprising, since she had once been interested in him herself. But it was surprising that Morgan would bring up David’s name when I myself had been thinking about him. Strange. I guess that shows why we’re such good friends.

When I got home some time later, J.B.‘s motorcycle was parked right by the side door as I pulled into the driveway. There’s room in the driveway for three vehicles if one is J.B.’s bike and we snuggle in together. Snuggling a car often results in me giving whoever parks in front of me a tiny tap, and as a result, my license plate now has a slight bend to the bottom. Today, it was only the bike I had to worry about, so I was okay.

I bypassed my apartment and headed right up to Cooper and J. B.’s place with the hope that there might be some food around.

The smell of garlic, ginger, and sesame oil filled the kitchen, mingling well with the sounds of Green Day from J.B.’s iPod. Cooper has created an amazing kitchen. It was the first room he renovated when he inherited the house from his grandparents. Three weeks after he got the place, the rest of the house was still looking like a reject from the seventies, with green and brown shiny wallpaper and matching carpet, but Coop’s kitchen was already immaculate. It’s all stainless steel appliances and frosted glass cabinets and granite counters. I know he paid a fortune for it, but even I—the only non-cook in the house—think it’s worth it. The only thing marring the perfection is the kitchen table. It’s one of those old turquoise Formica tables speckled with silver—truly ugly. But he wanted to keep something of his grandparents around, and the table was it. So now the table stays put in the kitchen, making the room look like a page from a what-doesn’t-belong-in-this-picture book.

J.B. was in the kitchen with the counter full of vegetables, a cutting board, and a couple of Cooper’s super-sharp knives, which I am afraid to use. J.B.‘s not nearly as good a cook as Coop is, but he’s pretty good. But then, anyone is better than I am. Usually, I can arrange a fair trade of me doing J.B.’s laundry for him feeding me. Cooper, on the other hand, feeds me out of the goodness of his heart.

″You’re home early,” J.B. said. “Thought you had your little hen parties on Mondays,” He looked like he just got home from a soccer game or the gym, wearing baggy shorts and a faded grey T-shirt with his longish brown hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail. He’s got lovely calves. An image of J.B. standing by my bed in just his boxers flashed through my mind again, and I closed my eyes, hoping it would go away.

″Brit had to meet Tom, so we just had a couple of drinks.” I pulled open the refrigerator looking for a bottle of wine. “What’re you making?”

″Spicy pork stir-fry. I’ve got a big pile of dirty clothes upstairs waiting for your spray and wash,” he tempted me.

I could hear faint scratching at the door leading down to my floor and opened it to find Sebastian. He, of course, ignored me and immediately began to swarm J.B.‘s ankles. J.B.’s hands were full, but he gave the cat a good scratching with his big toe. Such a multitasker.

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