Chapter 9
Lydia
AFTER THE WEDDING party’s grand entrance into the reception, I have to suffer through speeches and toasts before I get a chance to sneak off to the bathroom. My brain is reeling, annoyed with the side of Cole that stood up for me to my mom. He’s Enemy Number 1. He’s not supposed to have redeemable qualities.
I purposefully walk to the bathroom at the other end of the building, not wanting to accidentally run into one of Josh and Delia’s wedding guests. I’m about to push open the bathroom door when I hear footsteps rushing up behind me and turn to see Cole has followed me.
“What is it with you and women’s bathrooms?” I quip. He ignores me.
“Did you really think I was going to miss this?” he asks, and something inside me pings with longing, imagining some sort of alternate universe where he’s said this line because he’s a guy who loves me and wants so badly to be the father of my children and insists on witnessing every step of the journey. I mean, I’m not imagining Cole specifically, obviously. I just meant a guy. Any guy really. I’d take Joe the limo driver. Okay maybe not Joe, he was like 60-years-old.
“Whatever,” I say, “but I think you should wait out here.”
“No way.” Cole shakes his head stubbornly, then reaches his hand out to bypass me, pushing the door open. “Anyone in there?” he calls. There’s no answer. “Perfect.” He glances back and forth down the empty hallway before taking me by the elbow and guiding me inside, where he promptly leans back against the door. “Alright, now we’ve got some privacy. Let’s do this.”
I’m too nervous–and weirdly grateful–to argue, so I just nod and slide into one of the stalls. “Can you talk to me?” I ask as I take the test out of the box.
“Talk to you?”
“Yeah.” I slide my dress up over my thighs. “Like distract me.”
“You just don’t want me to hear you pee,” he guesses. Well, he’s got me there.
“Is it so wrong that I don’t want you listening?” I say.
“Let’s do it together then.”
“What?” I rip open the wrapper around the test, trying to make sense of his words.
I hear the stall door next to me open, then the sound of a zipper. “You know,” his voice comes from the stall next to mine. “Pee. On the count of three. ”
I feel a strange urge to laugh at this absurd bit of poetry.
“No one’s watching the door,” I protest, even as I get in position.
“We’ll risk it,” he replies. “Now stop dilly-dallying. Ready?” I nod even though he can’t see me, and he starts counting. “One...two...three.” And together we pee.
A minute later we stand at the sink. Our hands clasped as we stare at the stick. It’s like we’ve called a temporary truce for just these few minutes. My heart is racing as I watch that tiny ovular screen. One second it’s just a blank gray, then there it is. Our answer. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and collapse into Cole’s arms, crying into the father of my baby’s shoulder.
Cole
I’m not sure how long we stand there, my arms wrapped around Lydia as we both process the reality of this news. She’s pregnant. She’s going to have a baby. I’m going to have a baby. Even though we both suspected this would be the outcome of the test, having it confirmed like this makes it that much more real.
It’s only when the bathroom door starts to open that we spring apart, and Lydia swipes the test off the counter and into her waiting purse. An older woman with large glasses steps in and surveys us suspiciously .
“What’re you doing in here, young man?” She chides me, then her eyes land on Lydia, registering her red face and bloodshot eyes. “Oh, come now. Tell me he isn’t trying to dump you in a women’s restroom?” She clucks her tongue. “Oh honey, don’t cry over a man like that. You’re very pretty you know, even with mascara all over your cheeks. I’m sure you’ll find someone else soon enough.”
“I wasn’t–” I begin, but Lydia interrupts.
“Oh thanks,” she says to the woman, “but actually he’s being really sweet to me on account of I just found out–”
“Woah there, Samantha,” I cut in with a forced chuckle as I realize she’s about to blab our secret to this stranger, “we should get you back to the wedding. They’ll be wondering where you got off to.” I take her arm and practically drag her out of the bathroom, leaving the inquisitive woman behind.
“What was that?” Lydia asks with a huff once we’re back in the hallway. She yanks her arm back. “Why’d you call me Samantha?”
“You’re wondering what I was doing?” I’m incredulous. “You were just about to blab about your,” my eyes dart around checking the surroundings, and I lower my voice, “ pregnancy to a complete stranger in a bathroom.”
“Yeah, so.” She shrugs. “Easier to tell her than anyone we actually know.” I gape at her.
“You do realize that she could go tell anyone she wants to about this.”
“What?” She waves a hand, dismissing my concern, “Who is she going to tell? And even if she does tell someone, who cares? It’s not as if we walk in the same circles or like she even knows who we are.”
“She might know who we are.” I know I’m being a little crazy, but the potential for scandal here is so great that I can’t take any chances. Yeah, we’re all the way down in Florida, but if we’re down here from Michigan for a wedding, who’s to say there aren’t others from Michigan as well.
“Um, I doubt that.” Lydia rolls her eyes. “Thanks to you she thinks I’m called Samantha.” She pauses, and something seems to click into place. “Ohhh,” she says, “this is about what you said earlier isn’t it? Your–how did you phrase it again? Oh right, your ‘political career.’” She puts the last two words in air quotes as if my lifelong dream is a joke. “What are you running for– president of your local jerks’r’us chapter?”
“No, I’m running for mayor of Holland,” I tell her plainly, and her eyes bug out a little. “And I’m hoping to win, then use a successful tenure as mayor to buoy myself into the running for state senator one day. So yeah, I’m a little wary of having a pregnancy scandal leak out right at the beginning of my career.”
Lydia studies me for a second, then raises her eyebrows. “Funny, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you had sex with me.”
Without another word she whirls around and practically sprints away from me. I’m struck dumb for a second; and then, since I can’t very well shout “ but we used a condom” down the hall, I just stand there watching her go. It would’ve been a mistake to point that out, since—and not that I would ever tell her this—she’s absolutely right. I’m totally to blame here. Speaking of which, I never did manage to apologize to her. I run a frustrated hand through my hair, annoyed with how badly I’m bungling this up. Once again, I’m the self-centered jerk who can’t handle the consequences of my actions. If jerks’r’us were a real thing, I’m pretty sure I’d have the presidency in the bag.