Prologue #2
He gulped, braced himself as if about to be hit with hurricane winds.
“I kind of…quit my job.”
“Oh,” he said, instantly feeling ridiculous but not fully processing the words at all, only feeling relief that his imagination had been lying to him.
“Oh?”
“Oh. Oh?…OH!” Now he was beginning to understand. “Wait, you what?!”
“Can I just explain?”
“Please, yes.” Arthur was having another vision now, of raising the baby together, but in a cardboard box.
He wondered if soup kitchens had baby formula, then immediately felt bad about being so flippant.
His parents couldn’t get through a single conversation without begging Arthur and Wren to come stay in their finished basement for a weekend, in their large home tucked away in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest. They were never there anyway, always off on adventures in their camper, so if he and Wren ever wanted the place to themselves, it was all theirs.
Somehow, by the grace of God, he and Wren would be OK.
But that didn’t keep him from beginning to spiral again.
“My boss, you know my boss, right?” Wren said, as nonchalantly as if she were discussing the traffic on her morning commute. She grabbed various bags of chips from the cupboard and ripped them open, dumped them into cheap plastic bowls.
“Yeah, the asshole.” Arthur rubbed his temples and took another swig.
“Yeah, you know him. Anyway, he’s always had a weird habit of hiring pretty young girls right out of college. Like, only pretty young girls.”
“OK?”
“Which I always thought was gross, but I’d never seen him be inappropriate, you know? I’ve seen him be a shithead, but he’s always been an equal opportunity shithead.”
Arthur looked at Wren, looked at the microwave clock. He had no idea where this story was going and gave her the universal “wrap it up” hand signal.
“Long story short, I found one of the résumés he marked up after an interview. Apparently, he and one of the other managers have actually been scoring girls on their looks; it was right there on the paper. I couldn’t believe it.”
Arthur softened a bit. “Well, that’s icky.”
“Right?”
“So what did you do?”
Wren hesitated, then popped a chip in her mouth and casually walked away, speaking over her shoulder through a mouthful of crumbs. “Nothing much, really, just sent a photo of it to everyone at the company. And my resignation letter.”
“Wait, why the resignation letter?!” Arthur chased after her, around the tight corner of the other kitchen entrance, which led right back to the living room. Wren sat the bowls on the ottoman slash coffee table.
“Because I obviously can’t work there anymore.”
“Couldn’t you just report him? He should get fired, not you.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s getting fired.
But you know how it is. If it’s rotten, there’s no fixing it.
Time to move on. Head for greener pastures.
” She painted the invisible horizon with a brush of her hand, as if she could see said pastures.
All Arthur saw was their kitchen window, which was actually below ground and covered with several inches of dirt and grime. Quite the view.
There was no use arguing it with her. She had already quit. The damage was done. Now they—he—was going to have to find a way to deal with the fallout. He flopped on the couch, took another sip of his beer, while Wren scuttled into the kitchen and returned with a handful of prepackaged dips.
“This city has to be running out of CEOs you haven’t verbally or physically flipped off,” he said, almost thinking out loud, estimating how much a crib might cost, one of those special baby trash cans, a few pallets’ worth of diapers—and how he would pay for it all on his public school teacher’s salary.
Would Target accept “making a difference in a young person’s life” as payment for a stroller?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you have to admit you’ve been through a lot of jobs. I know you’ll say you can get another one, but at some point…I’m just saying that you’re really flirting with the limits of the acceptable résumé length-to-age ratio.”
Arthur had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. They had had this conversation many times over the past couple of years.
Wren would find good work, be happy for a while, and then either quit over some minor grievance or find a way to get herself fired, often resigning in disgrace with some big, showy gesture before she could be called into a surprise meeting with HR.
It was always something. And this time, the timing was far from ideal.
“And who is all this food for?” he added.
She grabbed his face and peered into his soul like she was delivering a message of grave importance: “If this test says what I think it’s going to say, I am going to eat. My fucking. Face. Off.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle, and as he did, he felt the stress and worry slide right off him. Wren had a way of doing that. She might put them out of house and home with her impulsiveness, but at least they’d be laughing.
“We’re a good team, aren’t we?” he asked, running a thumb along the edge of her foot as she settled onto the couch beside him.
“We are. As long as you keep doing that.”
“We’ll figure it out. Whatever it says.” Then: “Shouldn’t that timer have gone off?”
Arthur and Wren both shot off the couch and into the kitchen, where they found the microwave blinking Err, Err, Err over and over.
“Piece of shit,” Wren cried, spinning around and sprinting toward the bathroom, Arthur in tow.
She squeezed through the narrow doorframe a half second before him, her body blocking his view of the pregnancy test she’d left sitting on the bathroom sink.
She stared at it for several seconds as Arthur tried to peer around her, unable to read her reaction from only the back of her neck.
“Come on, don’t torture me. What does it say?”
When she turned around, he knew the answer.
Her face said it all. Her eyes were wet and afraid, her mouth turned up in a beaming smile; the goose bumps and flushed skin were all there.
She was experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion all at once, and now it was washing over him.
He felt warm and light-headed, like he might float away or pass out.
He wrapped his arms around Wren and squeezed her tight, as if she were the only thing that might keep him on the ground.
“This is really happening,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was making a statement or asking a question.
“Oh my God. It really is. How are you feeling?” He still hadn’t let go.
Finally, she pulled away, looked back down at the test as if to confirm she hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing.
Then she took a deep breath, opened her mouth as if preparing to spill all of her hopes, dreams, and fears in this sacred moment.
“Pregnant out of wedlock,” she said. “What a hussy.”
“Wren…” But he couldn’t help laughing.
“What?”
“Do you mind? This is supposed to be a moment.”
If only there had been more time to plan. There could have been candles, gentle music, maybe even balloons or flowers. He’d have certainly worn something better than the droopy T-shirt and pajama pants that were just barely concealing the tremors vibrating through his body.
“OK, but I have one more,” Wren said.
“Go ahead.” He sighed. She was going to keep making jokes whether he approved or not, so he might as well give her the green light.
“What would my parents say?” she said, then before Arthur could respond: “Good thing they’re dead!”
Arthur winced. This was always Wren’s response when met with any amount of sentimentality. The gooier and more earnest the moment, the darker her jokes. She had to be really overwhelmed to bring up her parents.
“Are you done?”
“I think so, for now.” She sank back into him, resting her head on his shoulder and nuzzling deep.
“I’m so happy,” he said, meaning it. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for, planning for, and hoping for since the day he met Wren. There had never been a doubt in his mind.
“Me too,” she said.
“Really?”
“I’m excited. It wasn’t what I was expecting, I’ll admit. Or when I was expecting it. But that’s what makes it…kind of thrilling?”
They held each other for a moment before Arthur could feel her vibrating.
“You want to call Charlie, don’t you? Even though you’re not supposed to.”
Charlie was Wren’s best friend, on a level that Arthur could barely comprehend.
If Wren had an unusual bowel movement, Charlie would know about it before he did, and she would have a photo.
There’s no way Wren would be able to keep this to herself.
Plus, somehow, Arthur doubted they’d be making it to Charlie’s party later that evening.
They might never make it to a party that started after 9:00 p.m. ever again.
“See, you get me,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
She pulled away, walked into the living room to grab her phone.
Arthur watched her go, already looking at her differently.
She was carrying precious cargo, and was she even already glowing?
No, that was just the cheap lamp in the corner spilling a dim yellow light over the whole room. But still, it looked good on her.
“Hey,” he said as she excitedly dialed. “We can do this. We are ready for this.”
“I know,” she said back with a smile.