22. Not That Kind of Friend
22
Not That Kind of Friend
My legacy is that I fostered a culture of innovation and inclusivity, where students could thrive regardless of background. The breakthroughs sparked in our labs, the voices that found confidence on our stage, and the engaged citizens who walked out our doors are a testament to the potential unlocked by a vibrant university community. That’s the lasting impact I strive for: an institution that ignites potential and shapes a more equitable future.
Dr. LaToya Watts, president, NorCal University
LUCIE
C arly had found the perfect dress style for me at six months pregnant. It had something she called an empire waist, and it hugged my oh-my-god-when-are-they-going-to-stop-expanding boobs at the top but swung out over my belly in a flare that made it almost look like I still had a waist.
What had made me late was choosing shoes to go with it. I’d stood in front of the mirror in my favorite combat boots for a full five minutes, trying to convince myself I could get away with it. But in the end, I couldn’t. I’d dug through the bottom of my closet for a pair of black flats that wouldn’t make my mother cluck her tongue.
Smoothing down the soft black fabric of my skirt, I grabbed the door handle to the fancy restaurant my parents had chosen when I asked them to meet me for brunch.
Taking a deep breath, I strode inside. La Colombe Bleue wasn’t the kind of place where they let you wander around looking for your party, so I allowed the host to guide me to my parents’ table near the window. They looked the same as they had in February. My mother’s hair was strawberry blond down to its roots, and my father’s suit was impeccably pressed as always.
Mom spotted me first. Smiling, she stood and held out her arms. I fell into her embrace. She gave the best hugs, and I needed one after hanging out with way-too-young Danny, his brother, and his not-girlfriend who made me feel like the kind of woman who started sentences with, “Back in my day…”
Hanging with Danny’s family at the anniversary party and then with his brother on his birthday two weekends ago had made me realize that I probably owed it to my family to tell them the news that seemed to spread faster than wildfire. Even if they wouldn’t be nearly as pleased about it as Danny’s family.
After a few seconds, she released me and looked down my body. Could she feel my firm belly?
“That’s a pretty dress,” she said. “Does it come in a brighter color?”
My lip curled. “I wouldn’t know. I only care if it comes in black. Hi, Dad.”
His hug was much briefer. “Good morning. I’m glad you called. We haven’t seen you in months, and your mother misses you.”
Aaaaand he’d delivered me a plate of guilt before I’d even looked at the menu. At the square table, I chose the chair next to my father, across from my mother.
The waiter bustled over with a pitcher. “Mimosa?”
God, this was going to be difficult without the pleasant buzz of alcohol. “No, thank you. Could I have sparkling water, please?”
That earned me another searching gaze from my mother.
My father lifted his champagne flute and sipped. “We missed you at our cocktail party. Your mother put on an impressive event, as usual.”
“It’s so easy these days,” she said. “All I have to do is put out half a dozen charcuterie boards, and everyone’s happy. I don’t even bother with hot hors d’oeuvres anymore.”
“It was a friend’s birthday,” I said. “I couldn’t miss it.” Though I’d been glad of the excuse not to be apologized for in front of Dad’s colleagues.
The waiter brought my sparkling water, and since my parents were ready to order, I chose hurriedly and handed him the menu folio.
“What are you working on?” Dad asked.
“You know, whatever the news is that day. And my book.”
“You shouldn’t still be a staff reporter,” he said. “You should be a managing editor by now.”
“Managing editors don’t have any fun.” Suddenly, I was a surly fifteen-year-old again. “They stay in the office all day. They don’t get to go outside and cover authentic stories.”
“But managing editors can share their opinions,” he said. “Those opinions have weight in the community. People listen to them. Instead of writing about what happened at a gun rights rally, you could have written a piece about how dangerous assault weapons are and how they’ve been used in so many tragic shootings. Or how the right policies could prevent needless suffering.”
“I-I’d rather report the facts and let people draw their own conclusions,” I lied. He knew me too well to believe that.
He speared me with a flinty stare before lifting his glass. “Then I suppose you’re in the right place.”
I felt like one of his grad students who’d submitted an essay riddled with typos. But I lifted my chin. “I am.”
“How is your book going, honey?” Mom asked.
“Well,” I lied. Again. “I have several interviews lined up.”
“Interviews?” Dad asked. “Shouldn’t you have completed your research? You sold the book eight months ago.”
“I…I’m still looking for the star interview. The one that’s going to turn the book from good to great,” I admitted.
“Did you talk to Dr. Watts?” he asked. “She’s one of the most notable Black female presidents of a major university.”
“Yes, we talked last week. Thank you for connecting us.” Thankfully, the server arrived with our meals, and I didn’t have to defend myself for a while as we started to eat.
But after we’d been eating for a few minutes, my mother set down her fork. “Lucie, how are you? Aside from work?” She’d taken only a few bites of her meal, and she eyed my almost-empty plate.
Reluctantly, I set down my fork. The blueberry pancakes I’d ordered were delicious, and my little tapeworm of a fetus wanted more. It was time to tell them about the pregnancy.
“I’m doing well, but—” I cleared my throat. “And I’m pregnant.”
Three seconds of silence ticked by. Then my father burst out laughing. “Good one, Lucie.”
My mother didn’t crack a smile. “Marvin, I don’t think she’s joking.”
“What?” He wiped his eyes.
“It’s true,” I said. My cheeks burned. “I’m due in November.”
“Who’s the father?” he demanded as my mother asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling fine,” I said. “The father is a…a friend of mine. It was unplanned.”
“And this is what you want?” My mother pressed her lips together. “Motherhood is a massive responsibility, especially with a demanding career and…alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” I said. “My friend, Danny, wants to co-parent. He works nights, so we plan to divide childcare.” That sounded so responsible, even to me.
“Tell me more about this friend,” my father said, his white eyebrows already arched in judgment.
“He’s just a friend,” I said. I’d been so good, sending him away the night of his birthday instead of inviting him in like I’d wanted to do. “He’s kind and caring and generous. He’ll be a good co-parent.”
“And what about his prospects?” Dad clenched his fork. “Can he support you financially? Where did he go to college?”
“He…he didn’t.” I stared at my plate. What was left of my pancakes was broken down into a slurry of bread and syrup.
“He didn’t go to college?” he demanded in the same tone of voice he’d ask about a crime.
I glared at him. “He still has time. He’s young.” Fuck, why had I said that?
“How young, Lucie?” Mom asked. Dad’s face had gone purple as the smashed blueberries on my plate.
“Thirty.”
My father closed his eyes and shook his head. I was twelve years old, and he’d caught me toilet-papering the house of a girl who’d made fun of me after class. “I can’t believe you were so careless.”
“Marvin.” My mother sent him a stern look. “Lucie, you should bring him to dinner this week.”
I grimaced. “He’s not that kind of friend.” The kind who’d put up with an interrogation about his age and the balance in his savings account and his career aspirations. Who’d smile while my father put him down. No. Even sweet, kindhearted Danny would run away screaming.
“But he’s the kind of friend you had unprotected sex with?” my father said, loud enough that heads turned at the next table.
“Marvin.” Mom put her hand over his.
“You’ve made a lot of ridiculous decisions, Lucie,” he said, a little more quietly, “but this is the goddamn cherry on top of a steaming pile of cow manure. What about your book? I hope you have a clause that lets you out of it by only paying back the advance.”
I lifted my chin. “I don’t need out of it. I’m going to finish it.”
“Better ask for an extension,” he said.
“I don’t need a goddamn extension,” I growled, standing.
“Lucie, be reasonable,” my mother said. “Of course you’ll need more time. You’re growing a baby. You’ll be exhausted by the time November rolls around.”
My lungs felt like the baby had punched through the wall of my uterus and grabbed them. I’d expected Dad’s criticism, but I’d hoped my mother would be sympathetic since she’d been through something similar once upon a time. Fuck it. I didn’t need their approval or their support.
“I’ll be fine,” I said and tossed my napkin over what remained of those delicious blueberry pancakes. Later, I’d be sad about not finishing them, but asking for a doggy bag would have ruined my dramatic exit. “Mom, Dad, thanks for breakfast. I’m leaving.”
I turned on the toe of my ballet slipper, which, as it turned out, was much better for the maneuver than my combat boots would have been, and stalked out of the restaurant.
I’d done what I intended to do. I’d told them. I didn’t need their approval. Which was fortunate because no matter what I did, I’d never earn it.