Page 30 of The Surrogate Mother
“Just dinner with some old friends.” She shrugs. “And now, you know, trying to snag a taxi on a Friday night. I’ve heard it helps to show a little leg, but it’s not working.”
“Oh.” I glance down the street, where Sam’s Highlander is parked. “We could give you a ride home, if you’d like.”
Sam’s eyes fly open, but thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut. This woman is pregnant with our child—I’m not letting her wander the city late at night.
Monica’s cheeks color. “Oh, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“No, we insist,” I say. “You don’t live that far from us. It’s no trouble.”
I look at Sam for confirmation and he reluctantly nods.
So instead of making out with my husband on the streets of Manhattan on the night of our anniversary, we all trudge back to the Toyota to head back home. Which is fine. I guess.
But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me. I’m Sam’s wife—Ishould be the one sitting next to him. Technically this is his car because it’s in his name, but he bought it with money from our joint bank account. And since I earn way more money than he does,that means, in a way, this car is more mine than his. In any case, it’s more mine thanMonica’s.
How could she sit in the front seat?
I fume about it for a minute, but there’s nothing I can do. Sam is the one driving, so I have no choice but to get into the back seat. I know it’s a small thing, but it makes me uncomfortable. When I look at Sam and Monica sitting up in front, they seem very much like they could be a couple. On top of that, she’s pregnant with his child. On so many levels, Monica and Sam make more sense than Sam and I do. Yes, she’s over ten years younger than he is, but so what? Men marry much younger women all the time.
I’m beginning to feel like a third wheel back here. I hope Sam drives fast.
We drive in awkward silence for about five minutes. I’m good at small talk, but what sort of conversation do you make with the woman who’s carrying your baby in her uterus?Have you thought of any names for the child you’re giving us?Nothing brilliant is coming to me. It isn’t until we’re stopped at a red light in front of a movie theater that Monica exclaims: “Oh my gosh! The new Quentin Tarantino movie is out!”
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. Quentin Tarantino is one of his favorite directors and we’ve already made plans to see the movie this weekend. “You like Quentin Tarantino?”
“Uh huh.” She nods eagerly. “My favorite isPulp Fiction.”
Pulp Fictionis Sam’s absolute favorite Tarantino movie. Without exaggerating, I would say he’s probably seen it ten-thousand times, and those are just the times we’ve watched it together.
He snorts. “You probably weren’t even born yet when that movie came out.”
It bothers me that she doesn’t contradict him on that point. “It’s still a great movie. Samuel L. Jackson? Classic.” ”
And then they spend the rest of the drive quoting lines fromPulp Fiction. I’ve seen it almost as much as Sam, so I could get in on the fun, but because I’m in the back, it’s difficult. By the end, Sam’s smile has become genuine. When he pulls over at the curb next to her building, he seems disappointed that the fun has come to an end.
“So are you seeing the new Tarantino movie this weekend?” Monica asks.
“Yep,” Sam says, looking at me as if for confirmation. I nod.
There’s a long silence, and for a scary second, I think Sam might invite her to come along. Not that it would be awful, but… well, I don’t want her to come along. In any case, he doesn’t offer, and Monica gets out of the car without further fanfare.
Once Monica is out of the car, I unbuckle myself and get into the front seat next to Sam. He gives me a funny look. “You didn’t have to move,” he says.
“I didn’t want to sit in the back like you’re my driver.”
“Why not? It could be one of those roleplaying games where I’m a taxi driver and you’re the mysterious, beautiful woman I picked up at the airport.”
I laugh. “Is that what you want?”
“Actually, I mostly just want to get home so we can… you know,celebrate.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Sam starts up the car and turns onto Third Avenue, heading back to our condo. I look at his profile in the light of the moon. He’s clean-shaven now, which means he shaved just before we went out. For me.
“Hey,” I say, “didn’t you think it was weird Monica sat up in front?”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. A little.”
