Unexpecting (Unexpecting #1)

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Swollen breasts are often one of the earliest signs of pregnancy.”

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

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

I could probably have wallowed in my fear and self-pity for a while, but that option was taken away from me by Brit. Brit’s response to learning that I was about to become a mother to not one, not two, but three babies was to raise one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Wow. So look, about the wedding…”

But I forgave her because Brit’s name was on the card that came with the three dozen roses Morgan sent to me the day after I found out about the triplets. For the sake of our longtime friendship, I had to believe she was a willing contributor, and Morgan didn’t just sign her name.

After the stagette, Brit had suddenly switched the wedding planning into high gear, and it got worse the closer the wedding got. The week before the wedding, she was barely off the phone with me. Listening to her go on and on about how everything needed to be perfect was quite effective in getting one’s mind off how many babies were currently expanding one’s uterus.

On Thursday, two days before the wedding, she discovered a massive flower crisis—apparently the florist had ordered pale lilac roses for the boutonnières, not the pale lavender Brit demanded. I had no idea there was such a discernible difference between lilac and lavender, but I guess Brit has a much better eye for colour than I do and she was furious that such a mistake could be made. So furious, she managed to guilt me into hunting down a florist who had lavender roses for her. I had to do it because, according to Brit, it was my duty as the maid of honour, and because Brit was indisposed at the time getting her legs waxed. Plus, since I was out of school for the summer, she assumed I must have the time.

After doing my duty for the flowers, I then had to spend all Thursday night with her sorting out the seating arrangement because Brit forgot Anil was bringing the new girlfriend and she had to find a suitable seat for her. Once that was done, I made a last-minute run to the printers’ Friday morning to get another seating chart made. This made me late for work at the store, but it didn’t really matter—not to Brit anyway, since she called me every hour on the hour with some mini-crisis through which I needed to hold her hand. You’d think after planning this wedding for twenty years, things would have been straightened out by now. I was exhausted by the end of the day, but there was still the rehearsal and dinner to get through that night, which thankfully went as planned and were free of any pre-wedding drama.

Luckily for everyone involved, the day of Brit’s wedding dawned as bright and blue as if she had ordered it especially from her Pottery Barn catalogue. I was so glad it had finally arrived because I’d been forced to listen to her plan the stupid thing for years and it was about time the big day had finally arrived. It was the eighteenth wedding I’d been to in the past five years, and the tenth in which I’d been a member of the wedding party. But it was also the wedding of my oldest and sometimes dearest friend, and despite everything, I had to remember that it was a privilege to stand up for her as maid of honour. At least, I hoped it would be a privilege. I may love Brit like a sister, but she was being a royal pain in the ass, and right now I felt like stuffing my lavender roses down her throat.

″There’s no more material to let out, Casey,” an exasperated Brit told me as I struggled to zip up my bridesmaid’s dress with Morgan’s and Lacey’s help. “You’ve got to fit in it, or you’re not walking down the aisle with me.”

The gorgeous amethyst dress I helped pick out because the colour went so well with my hair and the fit and style flattered every body type did not fit me. Two weeks earlier when I last tried it on, it still fit perfectly, but today—well, let’s just say my breasts must have become a wee bit fuller in the last fourteen days. In the last couple of weeks, despite the still constant vomiting, I knew I’d put on a couple of pounds—or so the bathroom scale said—and apparently the extra weight had gone right to my boobs. I’d read breasts do get swollen during pregnancy, but I could never imagine this much. I was blaming it on the fact that I’m having three babies.

″Don’t tempt me,” I muttered, but Brit didn’t hear me, which was a good thing, since the term Bridezilla now fit Brit to a T. I was contemplating pulling out my camera and videoing her for YouTube. Last week I was amused by her precise attention to detail. Today, I was truly scared of her.

At approximately one hour and fifteen minutes before the limo was to pick us up and take us to Glenview Presbyterian Church—according to Brit’s preparation plan—Lacey, Morgan, and I were supposed to unzip the garment bags containing our dresses. Brit had allocated us fifteen minutes to put on our dresses and touch up any hair and makeup mishaps. The hair and makeup was done at the salon earlier this morning (appointments commencing at 10:30 for Lacey and Brit and 11:15 for Morgan and me).

Then we were to spend the next hour in her childhood bedroom in her parents’ house—only six streets away from where I grew up—getting Brit into the mass of silk, satin, ruffles, and lace she called a dress. After this, it was time for quiet reflection and meditation on our duties, as well as the supreme importance of this day for Brit. I swear, that’s really what is said on the copy of the “Wedding Day Schedule” Brit handed me this morning. Not to be confused with the “What Needs to Be Done the Week Before the Wedding Schedule” I received last week or the “Wedding Rehearsal and Dinner Seating Plan and Schedule” I got last night. The girl had gone completely overboard with this.

″Okay, just suck it in a liiitle more,” Morgan urged as she gently tugged up my zipper.

″I can’t suck in my boobs,” I protested, already holding my breath for everything it was worth. I was trying to flatten my boobs or push them down onto my stomach—anything to let the dress up.

″Pull them up,” Lacey suggested. “So they’re sort of overhanging.” She grabbed my breasts in the dress and tried to demonstrate what she meant, and I’m sure I looked properly horrified, not only having Brit’s little sister practically feel me up, but by showing off so much of my breasts. Even when I’m not pregnant, my breasts are on the large side, but this—they were huge! Two days ago, I woke up to find that none of my bras fit, and I’ve had to wear my exercise bras until I have a chance to buy some new ones. I guess I should have thought about the dress maybe not fitting then, but I pretended to Brit that this was an overnight thing .

″You have to admit, you’ve got absolutely gorgeous tits now,” Lacey told me. She rubbed her hands across the aforementioned gorgeous tits and actually gave them each a cheeky squeeze. There was no “practically” now—I’d just been officially felt up by Lacey. “Fan-fucking-tastic! I’m so jealous. And kind of turned on.” She gave me a wink and reluctantly dropped her hands when Morgan cleared her throat.

″Maybe now’s not the time for that, Lacey.”

″You’ve got to admit, Morgan—just look at them! Touch them.” Lacey reached forward, but I gave her hand a quick slap.

″I’m trying to cover them up so the whole congregation isn’t tempted to touch.”

″Why did you have to go and get fucking pregnant before my wedding?” Brit suddenly shrieked, stamping her foot. ”Aaahh! Everything is supposed to be perfect, but you can’t even fit into your dress! You are the fucking maid of honour, for fuck’s sake! You’re supposed to make sure everything is perfect for this fucking wedding so I can sit around on my ass and enjoy getting fucking married. Because that’s what I’ve always fucking wanted! And that’s what you signed up for, fucking best friend! You weren’t supposed to get fucking pregnant! And you,” she turned furiously to Lacey, “leave her fucking tits alone! The only one who is allowed to have gorgeous fucking tits today is me. Me! Fuck!”

The three of us could only stare at her. The sight of Brit, red-faced and clad only in ivory lace bustier, panties, and garters, stamping her foot with frustration, was something to see. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so horrified. Brit’s hands flew up to her head to clutch at her hair, but were stopped by the gallon of hair spray that was keeping her elaborate hairstyle in place.

″Don’t touch!” Lacey gasped.

″Aaahh!″ Brit screamed again. Not shouting or yelling, but an actual scream. She paced around the room like a cat on a leash.

″Everything okay, Britney?” I heard her mother call from down the hall. Brit banned Mrs. Spears from the room earlier, when she started crying after seeing Brit return from the salon with her hair and makeup done.

″Just pull it up, Morgan,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. I held my arms out straight, Lacey pushed up my breasts (which I was not thrilled about, but now was not the time to get prudish), and Morgan finally got the zipper pulled up .

″Done,” Morgan gasped, stepping around to survey. “I don’t think you’ll be able to take a deep breath, but at least it’s done up.” I glanced at the seams under my arms and saw them straining. I prayed they didn’t burst. I prayed I didn’t burst out the top. I’d never seen myself look so voluptuous. I looked like I was wearing a corset to make my breasts overflow out the top of the dress. I could keep my lipstick and a pack of Kleenex down there, and no one would notice. I tried to stick a little more breast down the dress and prayed my nipples stayed covered.

″You look lovely,” Brit said sweetly, as if her tantrum had never occurred. She preened in front of the mirror, tucking a stray piece of hair back in place. “You all do. Now it’s time for my dress. You can come back in now, Mother,” she called. “But no crying. You’ll have a minute to do that before I get in the car. After I go, bawl all you want.”

It was not the first Jekyll and Hyde episode of the day, and I feared it wouldn’t be the last.

But we made it to the church. In the limo Lacey had suggested champagne to relax Brit, who agreed and drank half a glass, but then freaked out because her breath smelled like alcohol. I passed around the cinnamon Altoids I was instructed to have with me all day, and the crisis was quickly averted. Morgan and Lacey finished the bottle of champagne.

I spent the ride to the church teaching myself how to breathe in my dress. Shallow and slow, I told myself, hoping the fabric of the skirt didn’t wrinkle too much. I had to scramble into the limo after a last-minute run to the bathroom to puke—a false alarm, but I’ve learned that if something wants to come up, I’ve got to let it. I’m thirteen weeks pregnant, which means I’ve entered the second trimester, the magical part of the pregnancy when everyone says I’ll feel better.

I managed to pull Morgan aside just as we headed up the church steps. “Are you okay with the whole Anil thing?” I whispered as Lacey tried to assist Brit and her gargantuan dress into the church without getting screamed at for her efforts. It’s a beautiful dress but very high-maintenance (quite like the woman wearing it), and Brit looked a bit like one of those Barbie birthday cakes, with the doll sticking up from her skirt-cake.

Lacey could deal with Brit for a minute. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Morgan about this all day. In a few moments she was going to walk down the aisle of a church where her ex-boyfriend was standing at the front. They wouldn’t be in the positions she originally planned for them, and I was sure it had to be upsetting since for six years all Morgan ever wanted was to marry Anil .

″It was a little awkward last night at the rehearsal dinner,” Morgan admitted to me in a low voice. “I’m just glad he didn’t think to bring his new little bitch of a girlfriend.”

Last night at the wedding rehearsal was the first time Morgan had laid eyes on Anil since she found out about the new girlfriend. And it was the first time Morgan had spoken to him (without a police presence) since the little episode with the bonfire on the front lawn of the house. But they were surprisingly civil toward each other, which to me, was sort of the calm before the storm.

″And Derek? You didn’t want him to come?”

″I did, but he said he’d feel too awkward and it might take some of the spotlight off Brit if Anil and I both brought new significant others.”

″And he’s your new significant other?”

″I think so,” Morgan told me with a shy smile. “I’m sure by the end of today, any residual feelings I still might have for Anil will definitely be gone. I just have to get through the church part, and then I can get drunk and everything will be fine.”

″Ah, but look what happened to me the last time I got drunk at a wedding.” I pointed to my overflowing breasts, and Morgan broke out in laughter.

″So what was that with Lacey earlier?” she asked, with an expression of delight on her face. “I totally thought she was about to plant one on you, but was too afraid of Brit having a hissy fit about both of you ruining your lipstick!”

″I know!” I exclaimed.

″You know if you can’t find a guy, with those tits you can always switch and go for the other side!” Laughing, she poked at my overflowing chest area.

″You’re such a bitch!” I told her, poking her in the boob in return.

″Casey! Morgan! Stop touching each other!” Brit screeched as she was about to enter the church vestibule. Even with the heavy doors closed, I’m sure everyone inside heard her. Morgan and I, both with our eyes downcast, hurried to her side once again.

At the front of the church, I took slow, shallow breaths and tried not to fidget as Brit took her time walking down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.” I was conscious of the packed congregation and happy no one was looking at me. I was also happy that for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to try to suck in my stomach standing in front of this many people. I thought I looked pretty good, until I caught sight of Morgan and Lacey, both of whom are maybe a size two. So then I started thinking about how soon—in about six months—my size eight would seem positively anorexic, so I felt better. But I had to say, even feeling self-conscious, my breasts looked so much better than either one of theirs. Even Brit in her overpriced Manolo Blahnik shoes couldn’t compare to my chest today.

The ceremony itself went off without a hitch, just as perfect as Brit expected it to be. Tom looked like the picture of a perfect groom in his grey morning coat and had tears in his eyes as Brit walked down the aisle. It was a long service and I felt an onset of nausea hit about the halfway mark, but I managed to keep the pasted smile on my face. Not one cough, sneeze, or baby cry marred the ceremony, and I knew Brit would literally kill me in the church if I did something that wasn’t according to her carved-in-stone plan—like rush to the washroom to vomit. So I did my best and managed not to throw up as Tom and Brit were named husband and wife. Not that seeing Brit get married made me want to vomit—not that I’d blame myself if I was nauseated, since that was all I’d been hearing about for the last twenty years! I wondered what Brit would find to obsess about now that her wedding day was finally here.

After the wedding party filed out of the church, there was a cool breeze, which made me feel better as I stepped outside on Tom’s brother Richard’s arm. “Whew! Glad that’s over.”

″I thought it went very well,” Richard replied with a frown. Tom is a sweet and unassuming type of guy and often so quiet you forget he’s in the room. Last night at the rehearsal dinner was the first time I’d met his family, and I have to say Tom got the lion’s share of the personality in his family. Richard and the other brother, Henry, are, well, bland. They run an accounting firm together, never have been married, and still live at home. Not sure how Brit fits in with that family. Christmas might be interesting for her.

Richard dropped my arm and made a beeline for Tom, leaving me teetering on the stairs in my high heels. I argued with Brit about wearing them—along with the constant threat of throwing up, I didn’t want to have to worry about falling over in the four-inch heels. I was surprised I’d made it through the day so far, using halting little steps to try to keep my balance. Richard’s quick release threw that precarious balance out of whack, and I started to sway on the stairs.

And then I flashed back to the last wedding I was at—wearing yet another bridesmaid’s gown (albeit not as nice as this one—sorry, Darcy) and standing outside the church, looking around for Mike, boyfriend at the time. Who, if you recall with perfect clarity as I was doing right then, was in the coatroom, getting nasty with someone other than me. This, of course, led to me getting drunk and J.B. comforting me in the only way he knew how.

″And that’s how I got you,” I said aloud, one hand resting on my stomach.

″Are you okay?” J.B. asked. I hadn’t even noticed him in front of me. But there he was, standing in front of me with Cooper and Emma, all three with concerned expressions on their faces.

″Fine.” I could feel myself blush a little, embarrassed to be caught talking aloud.

″You’re holding your stomach,” J.B. pointed to the area in question.

″I’m fine.” I went to take a step down, but my heel caught in a tiny gap in the stone and I literally fell into J.B.’s arms. “Sorry.”

″Can’t say I mind,” he said, and when I looked up, he was staring at my chest.

″Stop that.” I knew I should push him away, but I found myself enjoying the feeling of being in his arms.

″Do you blame me? They were great before, but now—wow!”

″Stop that!” Cooper ordered with a wince. “It’s bad enough I’m getting this constant reminder of the two of you together. It’s actually worse than walking in on you.”

″Did you really do that?” Emma wondered as J.B. stood me upright. But he kept his hand on the small of my back.

Cooper passed a hand across his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”

″Oh, come on,” I told him defensively. “It wasn’t that bad. Nothing was happening—we were fully clothed. Well, we were under the covers. You didn’t really see anything.”

″I saw a partial breast, and the image of it still haunts me to this day,” Cooper said painfully. J.B. gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder.

″Enough about her image, dude,” he told Coop. “Speaking of which,” he turned to me, “you look great.” Leaning over, he brushed my cheek with a kiss. His lips were soft.

″Thank you.”

″You do look terrific,” Emma told me. “Really sexy, with the…” she gestured at my chest.

″Thanks.” The breeze was threatening to pull out some of my curls. The other three—all blondes—went with sleek updos, but I asked the hairstylist just to pin up my curls in a less formal style, definitely more me.

″Are you feeling okay?” Emma asked me.

″I almost lost my breakfast a couple of times, but I managed to hold it in.”

″I thought you were taking some drug for that?” J.B. asked.

″It makes me tired and bitchy, so I’d rather keep throwing up. I don’t do bitchy well.”

″No, you don’t,” J.B. agreed with a grin.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Be nice, or I won’t tell you how nice you look,” I said. I noticed Cooper and Emma glance at each other. I was sure they would be happy if things got back to the way they were. The way they used to be, with three big differences—babies—but you know what I mean.

″Are you sure that dress isn’t too tight? You look ready to burst. In a good way, of course,” J.B. added, giving my ever-expanding breasts another once-over.

″It was a little tense getting it on,” I admitted, with my hand trying to cover the overflow.

″It looks nice, though,” J.B. said sincerely. His eyes held mine for a long moment.

″Thanks,” I whispered with a shy smile.

″There you are,” Morgan swooped, interrupting what could have been a very nice moment. “Hey, you all look great. Casey, Brit wants us for pictures. I think we’d better get over there before she starts screaming again.”

″Casey, Morgan!” Brit screeched from the sidewalk in front of the church.

″Oops, too late,” Morgan grinned at me. “Gotta go.”

″Have fun,” J.B. told us.

″Are you serious?” Morgan asked. “This is going to be torture. I feel bad for the photographer to have to put up with Brit. Apparently she has a list of poses she wants done. I’m never going to be able to do this without a drink.”

″I’ll have one waiting for you at the reception,” J.B. promised her. “For both of you. Nonalcoholic, for you, of course,” he teased me. He winked, and I stuck my tongue out at him again.

With a death grip on Morgan’s arm, I toddled over to Brit, still unsteady on my heels, but feeling much better.