Unexpecting (Unexpecting #1)

7. Chapter Seven

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)

A fter I dropped my not-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.

″As long as there’s no smelly hockey clothes, that’s a fair deal. Is it just you home, or have you got some anorexic chickie stashed upstairs?” I poured myself a glass of wine and watched him julienne a pile of vegetables, his hands and the shiny, sharp knife moving intricately together. I tried to avoid watching J.B. caress my cat with his bare feet, because J.B.’s feet are fairly funny-looking. At least some part of his body is. No one should be that perfect all over. “Or is she coming over later?”

″I’ll have you know…” J.B. began before he noticed the teasing expression on my face. “What gives with all the interest in my sex life, anyway?”

″What’s with the interest in mine?” I countered.

″Only when I’m part of it, which isn’t very often to begin with and apparently not going to happen again, especially if you’re looking for a specimen cup to get you knocked up. You pregnant yet?” J.B. asked over the music as he chopped.

″Yep. It’s called Immaculate Conception, and in all recorded history, it’s only happened once, thousands of years ago. I should make the history books, don’t you think?”

″Smart-ass. Speaking of which, I’d really like to give you a kick for dropping that little bombshell about wanting to have this baby right after we…you know. That’s not a nice thing to do to a guy, you know? Makes a guy really think twice about a repeat performance, you know?”

″I’ll give you some warning next time, okay?” I smiled at him.

″Ah, but I thought you said there wasn’t going to be a next time.”

″I did,” I agreed, trying to keep the regret out of my voice. “Sorry.”

″You’d be sorry if I wasn’t tightly bagged the other night.” J.B. gave a bark of laughter.

J.B. and I have been friends for years—good friends, I think—and have slept together three times, so I guess that makes us lovers. Occasional lovers. But never had we ever talked about the fact we’ve been intimate like we were now, casually and comfortably, sort of like an old married couple discussing a romp in the bed they both enjoyed. I kind of liked it, but then I started feeling guilty for liking it so I tried to stop thinking about it.

″So what gives? Did I somehow make you feel all maternal or something?” he continued in a curious voice. He turned toward me, leaning against the counter. “Can’t say I meant to.”

″It wasn’t anything about you,” I assured him. “It was—it just happened. Something that won’t happen again.”

″What—the sex or the wanting-to-have-a-baby part?”

″I always think about the baby part. I’ve wanted to be a mother since I was a kid, which is surprising considering my less-than-stellar role model. The sex—it happened, it’s over, and it’s not going to happen again. ”

″So you’ve said.” J.B. gave me his slow smile, which had the effect of making the tiny twinge of regret blow up into a big balloon. He continued to scratch Sebastian with his ugly toe, and I concentrated on his unattractive body part. I also started singing the Kelly Clarkson song “I Do Not Hook Up” in my head. It would be so easy to fall into something with J.B. But the problem with that is that I’m not looking for something and I know he wasn’t. So what would be the point? It’s easier just to keep my distance—emotionally and physically.

″Whatever. I just woke up Sunday morning feeling all sorry for myself—”

″Feeling sorry for yourself? After sex with me? Can’t say I’ve heard that one before. Thanks.”

I had to laugh at his annoyed expression. “I said it wasn’t anything about you. You were—fine.”

″Fine? I’m telling you, Casey, you do wonders for a guy’s ego.”

I laughed again. “I don’t think you need any help from me with your ego department. I’m sure there’s a huge lineup if you’re looking for gushing compliments.” I sat down at the table. “I was feeling sorry for myself because of Mike and came to the conclusion that I’ve been wasting all this time trying to meet the right man so I can start a family. I’m not getting any younger—”

″No, you’re not,” J.B. said, which I’m sure was in response to my fine comment.

″Hey, I’m only thirty-five. You’re what—almost forty, and—”

″Eh, eh, eh,” J.B. interrupted, pointing his knife at me. “We don’t say the F-word around here.”

″Thirty-eight,” I relented. “I was thinking that if someone doesn’t come along soon, I’m going to have to settle for someone like Mike to have a baby.” J.B. turned his head, but not before I caught sight of him wincing. “So why not do it alone? I think I’ll be better off in the long run: I’ll have my baby and not have to deal with some slimy, cheating bastard trying to break my heart.”

″Not all guys are slimy or cheating, you know.”

″I know. You’re not. But then, you don’t want a baby or any sort of commitment, so that leaves you off the list.” J.B. grimaced again, and I laughed nervously. “Don’t tell me you want to be on my list.”

″You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I was.”

Oh, yes, I would, I found myself thinking to myself .

″You know it won’t be easy,” J.B. was saying, turning back to his pile of vegetables. “You have your teacher’s salary, you live here—”

″I have two salaries, and you live here, too,” I retorted.

″I have no desire to have a baby,” he reminded me.

″Is that ever, or just for now?” I couldn’t help but wonder.

J.B. shrugged his shoulders without turning back to me. “I don’t know. Things are pretty okay the way they are. I like keeping things casual, especially with the restaurant opening next year. And I don’t have anyone knocking down the door trying to get me to be a father, which makes it easier.”

″Maybe because you never keep them around long enough so they can find out what a good guy you are. A little big in the ego department, but still okay,” I teased. “Don’t you have a biological clock or anything? Ticktock, ticktock?”

″That’s a female thing. Guys aren’t that stupid.”

″Charming.” I shook my head and began to go through the pile of mail sitting on the table. Magazines, flyers, bills, more bills, an envelope that looked suspiciously like a wedding invitation. “You’ve got a card here,” I told J.B., holding it up. “Paris Flats, Saskatchewan? Isn’t that where you’re from?” J.B. snorted and ignored the card. “Don’t you want to open it? Isn’t it from your family?”

″What’s the date today?”

″June 7.”

″It’s from my ex-wife. She sends one every year,” J.B. told me casually.

″But—why? It’s not your birthday, that was in April, wasn’t it?”

″It’s the anniversary of the divorce.” I know about J.B.‘s divorce, even though it took him two years to tell me. He doesn’t talk about it. The only thing I know is he married young, just a few years out of school, to the proverbial high school sweetheart. Happily ever after for a while, and then bad stuff and splitsville. J.B. went to Calgary and then Toronto, met Cooper, and the rest is history. I really don’t know much about J.B.’s early years.

″It’s the—how long ago did you get divorced? And she sends you cards? Who does that? And what does it say? Yippee skippee? Thanks a lot, you big jerk?” I wondered with amazement.

″Open it if you want,” J.B. said.

″I can’t do that! ”

″Go ahead. I know what it says.” J.B. put down his knife and leaned against the counter. ”‘Dear J.B., I can’t believe it’s been twelve years since we agreed to go our separate ways. I still have fond memories of our life together and hope you will somehow be able to forgive me for my actions. I still love you,’” he recited. “Sometimes she gives me details of her life, like when she got married again or had her kids. Or sometimes just gossip about what’s going on at home. Go ahead; read it. I don’t care,” he finished carelessly.

I waited for a moment to make sure he really didn’t mind, then carefully ripped open the lavender envelope. The card had a big bouquet of flowers on the front. ”Thinking of you,″ it said. “Pretty card,” I commented.

″She’s big into cards. Sends me one every birthday, Christmas… Groundhog Day if she could,” he said, turning back to his vegetables. I heard the sizzle as he slid them into the hot frying pan.

With a last glance at J.B., I opened the card. He was right—the sentiment written was almost exactly word for word what he had said.

″What did I tell you? Anything interesting?”

I scanned the words. “She says you’re hard to forget. And—oh. There’s a bit about her—her son,” I faltered. “Do you want to read that yourself?”

″Go ahead, Case,” J.B. said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me. I’d probably just throw it out.”

″Well, she says that she can’t believe her son will be starting high school in September, and she can still remember her first day and meeting you and how she fell in love with you… Oh. Maybe I shouldn’t be reading this,” I said quickly. I tried to hand the card to J.B., but he just shook his head.

″It’s okay. It’s the same every year. She misses me, will always love me…” J. B’s words were casual, but the catch in his voice was telling me differently. “She named her kid Jeremy,” he told me.

″After you?” I asked, shocked. Quickly I did the math. “If he’s starting high school, then he’ll be thirteen or so, and if you’ve been divorced for twelve…” I looked, horrified, at J.B. “It’s not yours, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. He’s the reason that we broke up. The final reason, actually. I think she named him after me for some sort of appeasement or something. To make me feel better. It’s—complicated. Messy. And she still sends me a card every year.”

I can’t see the reasoning for a woman to send a thinking-of-you card to her ex-husband twelve years after they divorced unless she was still in love with him and trying desperately to get back into his life. Not even I would pull a stunt like that. “Do you—?” I wondered aloud .

″Dinner’s ready.” And with that, J.B. firmly shut the door to any further discussion about his past.

Of course it practically drove me crazy—both the not knowing and J.B.’s unwillingness to answer any of my questions. I tried—really I did, but the sixth time I attempted to bring the conversation back around to his marriage, J.B. bluntly told me he didn’t want to talk about it. Which, of course, made me suspect that he’s still in love with the ex-wife but can’t forgive her for her actions. What actions? Obviously, something to do with her having a thirteen-year-old son and only being divorced for twelve years. I watched J.B. eat his meal, as attractive but as inscrutable as always. To say he doesn’t like to talk about his feelings is an understatement. I’m surprised I got this much out of him.

Is this why he goes through women like he does—keeping them around for a night or two and then discarding them with a smile? It’s not like he doesn’t tell them upfront—everyone who knows J.B. knows he’s not into anything serious and long-term means a long weekend. I’ve seen women chase him relentlessly, convinced they are the one who can change him and be the one he ultimately settles down with, but up to now, no one has come close.

″Are you happy?” I blurted out as I played with the final two peppers on my plate. Instead of answering, J.B. took his empty plate to the sink. “J.B.?”

″About what? Being divorced?” he retorted with his back toward me.

″About everything.”

I watched as his shoulders rose. “I miss having someone to love,” he said so quietly I barely heard him.

″You—do?” My voice cracked at the word. “But you—you never want a relationship?”

″I haven’t met a woman I can trust,” he admitted, turning to face me. “I’m sure it’s because of the divorce, but I’m not into all that psychobabble. I don’t need to be fixed. All I want is to meet a nice girl and get to know her slowly. There’s always so much pressure, and it’s so much worse now that I’m older. They always want to talk about marriage and babies and a future. I just want to take my time. There’s no hurry, but women always think you’re distant and noncommittal when you want to take it slow, and there’s no point in explaining to them because they start jumping to conclusions…”

″I had no idea,” was the only thing I could say .

″Why would you? Sorry, Case, but you want the same thing as everyone else. Get married, have a baby… do you even want to take the time to get to know someone? I knew her like the back of my hand, and it still didn’t work out. I’m not going through that again. If I ever find someone to settle down with—if, a really big if—I need to make sure she’s the right one this time.” He turned back to the sink before I could respond.

″What about me?” I asked through a suddenly dry mouth. I had to ask. The memory of being with J.B. was strong—sitting across from him, having dinner, our first date. The first time he kissed me after he brought me home, and we laughed because we had the same address. When he showed up unexpectedly at the store one afternoon, bringing me a tiny, perfect cherry cheesecake because I had told him it was my favourite dessert.

″What about you?” he replied with some hesitation as he turned slowly to look at me. “I knew what you wanted before we even hooked up, so there was really no point. I didn’t want marriage and a baby right away, but I thought… anyway, it’s a moot point, isn’t it? You backed away quick enough when Coop said something.”

″What if I hadn’t? What if I—I don’t know. What if I had told him to go to hell?”

J.B. smiled then, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s your best friend, same as me. You wouldn’t have told him that. Besides, Case, you wanted the same things as every other woman seems to and you weren’t willing to wait for some guy to catch up. You would have gotten sick of the pace in a few weeks. A month, tops, and then put the pressure on me to do something about it, which I wouldn’t have been ready to do. Never would have worked out.”

“Never worked out…” I trailed off, feeling dazed. Is that how J.B. sees me? Lumps me together with every other woman who’s marriage-crazy like Brit? How different am I from Brit after all? That’s all I was ever looking for—a good man to get me pregnant. I really didn’t care about any other factor, only that I got what I wanted.

″What does it matter?” J.B. asked. “It was a long time ago. Maybe it’s better this way. Meant to be.”

I couldn’t ask him if he really thought that. I was having a difficult time taking in the information I’d just received. I didn’t think I could take any more. To think I had backed off so easily because I was afraid of J.B. breaking my heart when all the time he had been thinking the exact same thing. What if… ?

I really couldn’t go there tonight.

″So that’s why I like the ladies.” His voice brought me back to the kitchen. “There’s no harm in meeting people. It’s the only way I’ll find someone who might be right for me.”

″Someone who wants to take it slow. Not rush into anything.”

“Where there’s no pressure. Someone who doesn’t care how old she is, or that all her friends are married or having kids, and who can’t hear that damn biological clock all the time.” He took a step to where I was still sitting at the table and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “And that’s not you, Case, as much as I wanted it to be.”

″Is that my problem?” I asked him after a long silence where I found my eyes filling with tears. J.B. had started loading the dishwasher. “Too much pressure?”

″For some. For others, it’s just because they’re assholes. You’re a great girl and you know what you want, and when a guy doesn’t want the same thing, he’s going to get the hell out of there.”

And that was the end of that discussion.

I told him good night and thanked him for dinner. I headed downstairs to my apartment. I decided to see what I could find out about artificial insemination. If a baby were the only thing that would make me happy, then this was my only option, and I’d better find out what I was in for. Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to concentrate and ended up downloading a bunch of songs from iTunes and clearing out my inbox.

Maybe I do put too much pressure on myself and the men I meet, but I want a baby. And while I was thrown by what sounded like J.B. expressing feelings for me that I had no idea he had, I can’t dwell on that. J.B. Bergen and I would not have worked out, and there’s not going to be a second chance because both of us realize that.

I just have to take that big feeling of regret, stick it somewhere, and get on with things.