Page 2 of Unexpecting

“Why?” Michelle looked bewildered.

“I would have thought going to Sunday school might have taught her a little respect for the church,” I said conversationally. I couldn’t helpbut notice that Michelle had kicked her shoes off, and her toes resembled little stumpy sausages. I fervently hoped she wasn’t able to get her shoes back on.

“What? Amelia?”

“Oh, is that her name? I’m sure Mike didn’t know either. Just so you’re up to speed, I just walked in on Mike—who was my boyfriend as of about four minutes ago—going down on her in the coatroom at the church. And unless she stuck a very tiny coat up her who-who, I really think they were in the wrong place to do such a thing. And, sorry, but I really wasn’t impressed with her attitude about being caught in the act, but what can you do? She’s still young.”

Michelle’s smiling face transformed into an “O” of shock. “You saw her what?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“Being a very dirty little girl with my boyfriend. Who isn’t my boyfriend any longer, so she’s welcome to him, but it might have been nice to have a little advance notice.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I’m pretty serious. I can give you the details if you like. I know she’s wearing pink underwear—I think it might have been a thong, but I can’t be sure since it was dangling off one of her ankles.”

Michelle looked to the other bridesmaids as if asking for help defending her stepdaughter’s honour. I found it interesting no one stepped forward.

“I’m just letting you know what went on. So when she brings him over to you as her new guy, you’ll know how she got him.” I gave her my best and biggest fake smile. “Wow, your ankles are really swollen. Or is that their normal size?” There was a muffled cough from somewhere in the car.

“Could I have the champagne, please?” I asked brightly.

Ari, one of the ushers, held up the chilled bottle. “Why don’t you let me do it, just in case the cork takes somebody’s eye out?” He expertly maneuvered the cork out with his thumbs. Then he handed the bottle over to me, and I proceeded to take a huge glug out of it. “Not much for sharing, are you, Casey?” he asked me with a wink.

I took another big drink, then another, conscious of the nervous glances of the rest of the wedding party floating around. “I’m a kindergarten teacher,” I told Ari after another mouthful, trying to avoid burping aloud. “I’m all about sharing. Except for champagne or boyfriends.” And that was about the extent of the conversation in the car until we got to the reception.

I like to think I behaved myself during the rest of the evening. I pasted another smile on my face during the endless picture-taking, laughed at the appropriate times during the speeches, and even enjoyed dancing with Ari the usher. I did manage to sneak a piece of cake onto Mike’s chair just as he was sitting down to dessert, which left a lovely buttercream icing smear on his fine ass for the rest of the night, forcing him to keep on his jacket to hide it, when I know he sweats a lot.

Boy, was I wrong about Mike. I can’t get over how wrong. And the worst part is how utterly stupid I felt. I had no idea he was such a fast-moving player. I met him at Second Cup, for goodness sake. Although I did agree to go to dinner with him the same night we met, so maybe that should have told me something. I just thought I was particularly irresistible that day, what with having a good hair day and wearing my lucky unders. I had no clue he’d turn out to be such an ass. He never once apologized either, and I was blown away that he actually stayed at the wedding. He even looked like he was having a good time, before the buttercream icing incident, of course. My night, on the other hand, was pretty much ruined.

You know how sometimes the idea of getting drunk is just the best option? That wedding was a perfect example. I like drinking to begin with—something that I do take care to watch, with the whole father being an alcoholic and such—but there’s something about a wedding that really brings the party animal out in all of us. Maybe it’s the free bar, countless bottles of wine on the table, and numerous champagne toasts. Plus, unless you’re family, there’s a good chance you won’t be seeing these people ever again. In any event, by the time Darcy and Ethan took the floor to sway to “You Look Wonderful Tonight,” I was well on my way to becoming quite shit-faced.

Chapter Two

“Conception occurs when there is the least amount of pressure on both individuals. Lovemaking should be easy and enjoyable, with the eventuality of procreating the furthest thing from the mind.”

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

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

Iknow there aremany women out there who are happily married and unable to have a baby for whatever reasons. I feel for them, I really do. If I ever find myself in that situation, I can console myself with the thought that I do have my kindergarten students and my sister’s kids to lavish my affection on. Some women don’t even have that. But some days, when I see one of my students run out to meet his parents with a huge smile on his face, and the parent swoops down to grab him in the biggest hug, I get this ache in my chest. And then when I’m with parents talking to them about their children and I see on their faces an expression of pride and awe for a child’s accomplishments, the ache gets even more painful.

The worst is when I’m not even at the school, but just walking down the street and see a mother holding a child’s hand. I want that. I really do. I know I must sound like such a selfish person to be so concerned with having a baby—like some spoiled child desperate for a new toy—especially since there are so many women who aren’t able to conceive or carry a child, but truthfully it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. I feel like I have a hollow spot in my soul, and I know that having a baby will fill that spot.It’s my dream, and in my mind, you should always follow your dreams, right?

I took a cab home from the reception and fell asleep on the way there. At least it was better than falling asleep on the subway because I’ve done that before and it’s not fun. This way the only thing I had to worry about was the cab driver sneaking peeks at me and running the meter up as I snoozed.

“Miss? Miss?” was how the driver woke me. It was a lot politer than how some of my previous boyfriends woke me.

“Yes, thank you, sorry, thank you,” I mumbled and threw a wad of bills over the seat at him as I fell out of the car. Luckily, J.B. was just getting home from work, or I probably would have flopped down on the postage-stamp-sized lawn and finished my nap right then and there.

J.B. Bergen was my roommate. Well, technically, he’s not my roommate because he shared the upstairs apartment with Cooper while I lived on the main floor, but it feels like we all live together in one big happy house.

“Looks like someone had a good time,” J.B. said as I stumbled across the lawn toward him and the front door. I tripped over a terracotta container of yellow tulips and purple pansies (Emma’s doing—she’s Cooper’s girlfriend) and stumbled into a freshly dug flower bed, falling with my hands in the dirt halfway up to my elbows. J.B. came to my rescue and hauled me to my feet. I wiped the dirt off the skirt of my dress.

“It was the shittiest wedding ever,” I told him. Then I smelled my hands. “Even my hands smell like shit.” Then I burst into tears.

“Hey,” J.B. said with concern. “Don’t do that!”

To his dismay, I continued to stand in the front yard in my dirt-covered, ugly green dress, on which I spilled wine several times, and began to wail loud enough to wake the neighbours. I probably would have stood there for a while had J.B. not hustled me inside to my apartment.

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