Chapter 2 Liz #2
“Wow. This is wild. Preg-nant.” Preston paused between syllables to break the word into two parts, enunciating like English was his second language instead of first and only. Before he could utter the word wow one more time, Liz rushed to supply some facts.
“I’m eight weeks along. I’m not completely regular so I didn’t think anything of it last month, but then I started feeling nauseous and I looked at the calendar…so I got the tests.”
Preston cracked a few knuckles, a habit he had been trying to break for as long as Liz had known him.
Which was to say, since they had both swiped right on an internet stranger eleven months ago and then, unbelievably, made plans to meet up in person.
Plans that, even more unbelievably, seemed to go well. Until…now.
“You don’t have to say anything this second. It’s a lot,” Liz added, more to reassure herself than him.
Preston met her gaze. “Sorry. I know I keep saying wow and sitting here like an idiot.”
“Not at all. I mean, you are saying wow a lot, but you’re not an idiot.”
Preston smiled at her a bit sheepishly, but also gratefully.
“You’re not alone in this. Two people formed that band, and we’ll decide how to handle it as a team.
” Liz assumed he meant whether the band should break up or stay together and she felt her chest tighten at the second option. She wasn’t ready to talk about that.
“Should we think about it?” Liz suggested, suddenly feeling like her lungs weren’t getting enough air and trying not to suck in asthmatically. “Let it sink in?”
“Good idea,” Preston agreed.
Liz got up and retrieved a plate of tahini chocolate chip cookies, another blogger-sanctioned delight.
“I made dessert, if you want some.” She used her arm to make room by sweeping the pile of EPTs off the table, onto a chair.
In the second after, she regretted this move; it was gross, and Preston might not have been done eating.
Preston put his hand on his stomach. “Thanks, but I’m full from the chicken.”
Or unforeseen news that he needs to digest, Liz thought. And then she remembered.
“Was this what you wanted to talk to me about too? Were you going to tell me you’re pregnant?” Jokes. Bad jokes.
Preston laughed, but it sounded strained. “How’d you know?”
Liz chuckled but the problem was, she didn’t know. She didn’t know what Preston was going to talk to her about before she had dropped a bomb on him, and Liz didn’t have the courage to ask him.
“I don’t remember what I was going to say. It obviously wasn’t important,” Preston told her, and Liz wondered whether one or both parts of that statement was a lie.
Soon after, Preston said he had to leave because he had an early branding meeting the next day with an outfielder.
He told her the player’s name and Liz feigned recognition, but it was impressive in and of itself that she knew he was talking about baseball instead of basketball.
Preston lived for men running around in uniforms trying to put balls in nets, over walls, or in holes.
Liz knew nothing about these nets, walls, or holes, except that they were very important to these men, and therefore to Preston.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
They hugged goodbye and then Liz stared at the back of Preston’s head as he walked out as if maybe, just maybe, his wavy hair held some clues about what he was thinking.
After the door closed, Liz sank onto the couch and drew a soft, nubby blanket over her legs, too tired to clean up the dinner plates she had tossed in the sink and too nauseous to deal with the cloying scent of cleaning supplies.
She thought that while it could’ve gone better, it certainly could have gone a lot worse.
When the buzzer sounded again a short while later, Liz groaned.
She was scrolling through some true crime shows in her queue and had paused at one that another editor had told her was especially violent and murderous, though she had just come across a meme warning that people who watched true crime shows to unwind might be seriously disturbed themselves.
Liz didn’t want to unpack why she felt televised trauma relaxing, but she also didn’t want to get up to manage her pothead neighbor’s Dorito Locos Taco order.
Nevertheless, Liz mustered the energy, walked across the room to the buzzer, and called into it “You have the wrong apartment” before allowing the delivery person up.
Two minutes later, there was a knock on her door. Annoyed, Liz flung it open, ready to redirect the Postmate, only to find Preston, holding a container of breadsticks. “I wanted to make sure I’d get a tip this time.”
Liz stood there too flabbergasted to react.
“Can I come in?” Preston smiled and handed her the cardboard box.
Liz wordlessly accepted it and stepped aside to let him in.
Preston waited for her to close the door behind him but remained standing, as if he wanted a clear escape route after he had accomplished whatever pressing task had led him back there.
Liz clutched the warm box of breadsticks and wondered if they were a parting gift, Preston’s way of letting her down easy. Nothing said I don’t want you to have my child and I don’t want you to be my girlfriend anymore, but I hope we stay cool like a dozen gooey breadsticks.
“Why do you look scared?” Preston asked, inspecting her.
“I’m not!” Liz insisted, terrified.
“I didn’t want you to think I was only bringing this up because of, you know.” Preston gestured to Liz’s midsection. “But it really is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.” Preston paused and Liz held her breath.
“I think we should move in together,” Preston said.