Page 23 of This Means War

Jamie’s face has turned a violent shade of red; she sets toward me waving her hands wildly. “You think you’re so funny and so charming and so,” she whips her hand up and down indicating my frame, “good looking, but do you even know how to use an EpiPen? Do you?” She doesn’t wait for my answer, just grabs her phone out of her pocket, punches a few buttons and shoves the screen in my face.

I watch as a man on the screen pours coffee into a cup then accidentally knocks it down, the screen going into slow motion as a voiceover espouses the merits of multi-quilted paper towel.

“This is an ad for paper towel,” I tell her, fighting to keep my face straight. She scowls, yanks her phone back to hit the skip ad button, then holds the screen back in front of me. This time a man in a lab coat comes on holding an EpiPen. “Really, Jamie? You want me to watch a YouTube video on administering an EpiPen? When was the last time Lydia even had to use hers? I know she’s super careful.”

“Cole, you married a woman with a nut allergy,” Jamie lectures, “so you darn well better know how to–” before she can finish a scream makes us both pause. Lydia. I take off running towards the sound, worry filling me. Did she miss the step down fromthe living room to the hallway and fall? Is the baby okay?

The scream stops, replaced by a loud slew of angry words interspersed with my name. I think I hear the words “enemy number 1,” but I can’t be sure. My worry fades, but my footsteps don’t slow. She’s seen the frogs! I’m disappointed that I missed the initial sighting, but at least I got to hear it. I allow myself a small smile before I round the corner to her bedroom and replace it with a practiced look of concern. A look I have to fight hard to keep on my face when I see Lydia standing in front of my frog wall with eyes so wide they rival those of the tree frog she’s staring at.

“Is something wrong with your room?” I ask her, and she whirls to face me. Behind me Jamie enters, and I hear her gasp.

“You!” Lydia advances on me. “You did this!” She gestures to the new pride of my existence, the frog wall, her eyes flashing.

“Lydia,” I say, holding my hands up in front of me, “calm down. What’s the matter? You don’t like the decor? I remember you loving frogs growing up.”

“Liar!” she screeches. “You know I hate frogs with their slimy skin and, and their crazy bugged out eyes!” Her gaze flits to the tree frog, who I’ve decided to name Geronimo, and she shudders.

“Lydia, really,” I cross my hand over my heart, “it was an honest mistake.”

“This was no mistake,” she declares. “You did this on purpose, and then you tried toSuper Troopermewith your whole ‘hoppy moving day’ spiel.”

“Oh, come on meow,” I can’t keep in a laugh, and I hear a snort that gets quickly stifled from Jamie.

“This is not funny, Jamie!” Lydia transfers some of her wrath to her friend.

“You’re right, not funny at all,” Jamie agrees quickly. “That was a cough.” She looks back and forth between us. “So are you two not sharing a room then?”

We both freeze. We’ve been caught. On day one.

“Jamie,” the anger is gone from Lydia’s voice, “don’t freak out at me. You know the situation.”

“I’m not freaking out at you,” Jamie insists, though her voice has gone up an octave. “Why would I freak out that my best friend decided to marry her one-night stand turned baby daddy, but they’re sleeping in separate bedrooms which means she’s going to be trapped in a loveless, sexless marriage for the rest of her life all because some hot guy got the best of her hormones one time!” Her voice breaks off at a level sure to crack glass. I break off too, realizing I’ve been nodding along as she voices concerns that I share. Although I don’t care for her phrasing at the end.

I’m about to announce that I think she’s made some good points when Jamie starts pacing the room. “Lord, help this situation,” she begins, and I realize she’s praying. “Seriously, God, these two are in way over their heads.” It’s like we’re not even in the room as she continues, “But I know you have a plan. I know you care about the sanctity of marriage,so Lord I ask that you would be a part of this marriage.”

What the actual heck? I look over at Lydia to see if she’s as weirded out by this as I am, but to my surprise she’s got her head bowed and hands folded too. Good God, I’ve married a religious fanatic. I tune back in to Jamie’s words just as she wraps up her prayer with an, “In Your name we pray, Amen.” Lydia echoes her then they both look at me.

“Uh, amen,” I say, trying to hide my discomfort. I don’t think I’ve ever said amen outside of a church.

Beep, beep, beep. My phone alarm interrupts the religious revival taking place, and I yank it out of my pocket.

“Time for lunch,” I say without thinking.

“You set an alarm on your phone to eat?” Lydia’s bemusement is evident.

“No,” I shoot back, even though, yes; the answer is yes. I’m not very well going to admit that to these two women. Somehow, I think it would just make their day to find out that twice in the last three months I got so caught up with work that I forgot to eat and fainted. It’s not exactly macho. Hypoglycemia is something old people deal with or that women who don’t think they should be hungry yet blame their hunger on.

“I just knew that today we’d be on a time crunch with moving you in then racing off to our appointment. I wanted to make sure we got you fed. You’re growing our child, after all.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows like she doesn’t quitebelieve me, but she doesn’t push the subject.

“I suppose I am hungry,” she admits. She pulls her suitcase across the room. “But first I’m taking this to my new bedroom.” She smirks at me. “You had one flaw in your battle plan Frogman; you forgot I could just go sleep in another bedroom. I don’t need an adjoining bathroom this badly.” She huffs off, wheeling her giant suitcase behind her. I suppress a smile as I hear her open the door across the hall, my home office. She closes it, and her suitcase wheels down to the final unoccupied bedroom. As I hear the doorknob turn, her words settle in my brain, “battle plan.” Is that what she thinks this is? That we’re engaged in some sort of wa–

“Argh!”

This time Lydia’s scream isn’t one of fear, but rage. A few seconds later she’s in front of me, having dragged the five-foot frog stuffed animal I placed in the entryway of the room across the hall. “Cole Jacobson, this,” she rips off the “Hoppy Moving Day” sign I taped to the frog’s chest and tears it in half, “means war!”

Well, that answers that question.

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