Page 21 of Unexpecting

You’ve probably noticed that I’ve conveniently forgotten that I’m giving up on dating and men. I’ve decided to justify my excitement by vowing to give up on new men. David, being part of my past, obviously doesn’t fitinto that category, and therefore it’s all right for me to go on a date with him, if a date is what he has planned. Besides, the guy just walked back into my life—or at least my wine store—after twelve years; it’s not fair to take that away from me!

I had just gotten home and settled into the couch upstairs to watch Letterman when Cooper and Emma came home.

″Hey,” I called out. Emma followed Coop into the living room. “You’re home early.”

″It was pretty slow tonight. Nice weekend, everyone heads to the cottage.” Coop sank into the chair opposite me. Before he could say anything else, the sound of my cell phone sitting on the table started ringing and interrupted. Sebastian had been curled up on a magazine on the table and jumped off like a shot. Cooper handed me the phone with a glance at the call display.

″One of your hen friends,” he said.

″No one appreciates being referred to as poultry, thankyouverymuch.” It was Morgan, and I could barely understand her through hysterical crying.

″Morgan, what is it? Did something happen? Are you okay?”

″It’s Anil,” Morgan finally managed to choke out.

″Oh my God, is he okay?” I sat up straight on the couch with my hand on my chest. “Was he in an accident?”

″He should have been. I wish he were dead! He broke up with me!″ Morgan wailed so loudly I was sure Cooper, sitting across the room from me, could hear her. “He told me he didn’t see a future with me! Now, I’ll never get married! I was with Anil for six years, and now all I have is six wasted years. That bastard, that fucking bastard! You know, he knows, everyone knows I’m expecting a ring from him! I put so much time and effort into this relationship, and then the asshole goes and says he doesn’t see a future with me. What kind of bullshit is that? I can see a future—you can see a future. Everyone can see a motherfucking future! How does that fucking bastard not come to that same conclusion? Six years—I’m thirty-five years old, for Chrissakes! The asshole is supposed to marry me! He needs to marry me!”

“Everything okay?” asked a concerned Emma from across the room. I was sure she could hear every word. I rolled my eyes at her and nodded. Then I gave them both a wave and walked down the stairs to my apartment without turning on the light. This was going to take a while.

″What am I supposed to tell people? It’s so humiliating!” Morgan screeched so loudly into my ear, I stumbled down the last stair, which is about an inch higher than the others and always trips me when I go down in the dark. I practically fell into the door of my apartment.

″Oh shit,” I mumbled.

″I know!″ Morgan wailed. “It’s such a shitty thing to do!”

″What exactly did he say?” I asked patiently, having regained my footing. I switched on the kitchen light so I didn’t impale myself on something. My question started her off, and Morgan proceeded to go into gory detail about what Anil told her, what room this all took place in, what they had for dinner earlier, and even that he was wearing the Ralph Lauren sweater she gave him last year for their anniversary. I only had to say a few “uh huhs,” murmur “wow” once or twice, and wish I had thought to bring my glass of wine downstairs with me.

Note to self: stop drinking whenever I get pregnant. I wonder if I drink too much. Probably. It’s hard to be interested in wine and not drink it. I distracted myself with that thought for a few minutes.

″Maybe he’ll change his mind?” I thought to suggest when Morgan took a breath.

″Huh! You think I’ll be taking that bastard back after this? I told him, you walk out that door, you asshole, you won’t ever be walking back in. And the son of a bitch left! He actually left!” I never realized Morgan was capable of so much profanity. “The prick never loved me. And after all the sex I gave him. He just couldn’t get enough of me, and I never said no, not tonight. I was always into it. But no, the asshole’s lost that for good. No more of this body curled around him to keep him happy at night!” I could almost see her snap the C, like in some Beyonce video.

Just as I was about to say something congratulatory for Morgan being so strong, her voice took a drastic switch. “What am I supposed to do now?” she all but whispered. “Look at how old I am. Thirty-five is old, no matter how much they say forty is the new thirty. I’m going to be forty in less than five years, and I won’t even have a husband! I’ll never be able to get married! I’ll never have children.” She broke down into noisy sobs.

I might have mentioned how firmly ensconced Morgan is to Brit’s “Let’s Get Married School of Worship.” I wonder if I’m an anomaly—a woman in her mid-thirties not getting an ulcer because she’s not married. Maybe if I wasn’t so concerned with the baby thing, I might be. Then again, I might not.

“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted when the sobs abated. And I really didn’t. Normally I’m the one doing the breaking up, and I’m usually not too upset about it. There’s no need for words of comfort from the girls at the end of my relationships. Usually, it’s high-fives and a drink to celebrate.

″You have to help me find someone new,” Morgan instructed, really doing a Sybil with all of her mood swings. I guess grief does that. She’d gone through the whole denial, anger, and acceptance of life without Anil pretty darn quick. “You have to help me find someone so much better than Anil. I have to make the prick see what he’s missing.”

″Um, okay?”

″I have to find someone before Brit’s wedding. There’s no way I’m going by myself to that.”

I probably will be, I felt like telling her.

″I’ll call tomorrow, and we can begin to strategize. You know where to meet all the men. I don’t care if I find an asshole either, as long as he looks good. I’m going for purely superficial here. He’s just going to be a rebound guy, so it doesn’t matter. And if he gives good head, more the better. Anil always…”

I heard another sobfest coming, and I braced for it. With the choice of crying or intimate details of their sex life, I think I’ll take the crying. I love Morgan to bits, but there is a limit to friendship. I still remember the time I had an adjoining hotel room to Morgan’s when we were in Florida on vacation and received firsthand knowledge—through a very thin wall—of exactly what she likes in bed. What she likes, how much she likes, and where she likes it.

″Anyway,” Morgan said after a ragged breath, “I have the worst headache. Damn Anil-the-fucking-bastard for making me cry. I’m going to go put some Preparation H on my eyes and take enough Vicodin to pass out. Talk to you tomorrow.” Click.

I went back upstairs to retrieve my glass of wine, and I was not surprised to see Cooper cuddled on the couch with Emma, with Sebastian snuggled in between them, both of them petting him. I think my cat loves everyone more than me. He never lets me cuddle him. I’m just there to provide nourishment and a clean litter box.

I’m also not surprised that one of them—Coop, probably—has drunk my wine while I was listening to Morgan rant in all of her potty-mouthed glory.

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