Rose
“What the hell is going on?” Jackson asks.
I look up at him and immediately understand the concern. In his defense, he’s been gone for less than ten minutes.
He got a phone call and stepped away from the table, leaving behind a group of mostly functional adults eating pizza like normal human beings.
Unfortunately, ten minutes is more than enough time for things to deteriorate without supervision, because somewhere in that very small window, Michael, James, and I talked Blaire into judging a pizza-eating contest.
I’m not entirely sure who suggested it. I’m even less sure why the rest of us agreed.
But here we are.
There are three half-empty glasses on the table, discarded crusts piled across two plates, and Blaire is sitting at the head with her phone timer in one hand, presiding over the whole thing with far more authority than the situation warrants.
Meanwhile, Michael, James, and I look like overstuffed chipmunks.
Nobody answers Jackson because none of us physically can.
His eyes move slowly around the table, taking in Michael, then James, then me, then the pizza slices still clutched in our hands before finally landing on Blaire.
“What did you do?”
Her jaw drops. “Why are you assuming I did something?”
Jackson gestures broadly at the table. “Because I know these idiots, and somehow you’re the one holding a stopwatch.”
Blaire looks down at her phone, then back at him. “I’m the official.”
“You mean accomplice.”
James makes a strangled noise beside me that might be a laugh, but considering the amount of pizza currently stuffed into his cheeks, it could also be a medical emergency.
“Don’t make him laugh,” Michael manages around his mouthful.
That, naturally, makes James laugh harder.
Blaire slaps the table. “No! No laughing. That’s not my problem. Clock’s still running.”
Jackson stares at her, then at us, then back at her. “I was gone for ten fucking minutes.”
I finally manage to swallow enough to speak. “A lot can happen in ten minutes.”
“I can see that.”
“Thirty seconds!” Blaire announces.
“You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
I point at Michael. He immediately shakes his head and points at James. James, still unable to speak, points at Blaire, who looks personally offended by the accusation.
“Don’t drag me into this. I’m impartial.”
“You’re timing it,” Jackson says.
“Exactly. Impartial.”
He stares at her for another second before pulling out his chair. “Move over.”
Blaire narrows her eyes. “Why?”
Jackson reaches for the pizza box. “If you assholes are doing this, you’re not doing it without me.”
“That’s rud... oh God. Oh my God.”
Blaire drops her phone onto the table and both hands immediately go to her belly. Her face pinches as she shifts in her chair.
“That didn’t feel nice.”
Every single one of us freezes.
There’s no discussion about why. Blaire and Jenn are both less than two weeks from their due dates, which means we’ve entered the terrifying period where either woman can make one slightly unusual facial expression and everyone around her immediately wonders if we’re about to have a goddamn baby on the floor.
It doesn’t help that Michael has been living on the edge of panic for the past month.
The man is prepared for every possible scenario.
Bags packed. Car seat installed. Routes to the hospital mapped out.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he has contingency plans for road closures, flash flooding, earthquakes, and spontaneous civil unrest. Blaire could go into labor during the fucking apocalypse and Michael would probably pull a laminated evacuation route out of the glove compartment.
So naturally, none of us are looking at Blaire.
We’re looking at him.
He’s still chewing, but only because I don’t think his brain has remembered how to tell his mouth to stop. His eyes are huge as he watches his wife take a slow breath and rub one hand over the side of her stomach.
A few seconds pass before Blaire relaxes.
“Sorry about that. Let’s keep going.” She picks up her phone and waves the other hand dismissively, like she didn’t just toss a live grenade into the middle of lunch.
Nobody moves.
Blaire looks around. “What?”
Michael finally swallows whatever has been sitting in his mouth for the last thirty seconds. “What didn’t feel nice?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “A cramp or something.”
I watch what little color remains in his face disappear.
“A cramp?”
“Yes, Bennet.”
“What kind of cramp?”
Her eyebrows pull together. “I don’t know. The cramp kind.”
Beside me, James quietly lowers his pizza to his plate, then I do the same. Contest suspended due to possible baby.
Michael pushes his own plate away. “How long did it last?”
“I don’t know. A few seconds.”
“And where exactly was it?”
“Bennet.”
“I’m asking.”
“I noticed.”
“Was it your whole stomach? Your back? Did it start in your back and move around? Because they said...”
“Oh my God.” Blaire reaches over and puts her hand on his arm. “I’m fine.”
“You’re thirty-eight weeks pregnant and just doubled over at the table.”
“I did not double over.”
“You made a noise.”
“I’m pregnant. I make lots of noises.”
“That was a new noise.”
That nearly takes me out. I press my lips together and stare very intently at the parmesan shaker because laughing right now would make me an asshole, and more importantly, Michael might kill me.
Blaire slowly turns her head toward her husband. “You’re tracking my noises?”
“I’ve tracked everything you’ve done for the last few weeks.”
“That’s so disturbing, Bennet.”
“It’s called being prepared.”
“It’s called anxiety.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive, baby.”
A snort escapes Jackson beside me and Michael shoots him a glare.
James, who has been suspiciously calm through all of this, reaches for his drink. “It could just be Braxton Hicks.”
Michael turns toward him so fast you’d think the attending physician had finally arrived. “You think?”
James freezes with his straw halfway to his mouth. “I mean... maybe? Dude, I’m a teenager. I don’t know. But I watch a lot of medical shows, and I guarantee House would say it’s Braxton Hicks.”
“House would also diagnose her with lupus three times before the second commercial break,” I point out.
James considers that. “Fair.”
Michael drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”
Blaire reaches for him again, threading her fingers through his, and the irritation disappears from her face almost immediately.
“Baby, I’m okay.”
His attention goes straight back to her. For all the comedy of watching him unravel over one cramp, the fear underneath it is real. He loves this woman so fucking much that the possibility of anything happening to her turns his brain into mashed potatoes.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“If it happens again, we’re leaving.”
“If it happens again, we’ll time it.”
His brow furrows. “And then we’re leaving.”
“If we need to.”
“We’ll need to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m operating under an abundance of caution.”
“You’re operating under an abundance of crazy.”
He opens his mouth, probably with seventeen supporting arguments already queued up, but Blaire squeezes his hand and he decides living is more important.
Once it becomes clear she isn’t about to produce a baby between the pepperoni pizza and the parmesan shaker, everyone starts breathing again.
Jackson reaches for the pizza box.
Michael immediately slaps his hand away.
“The contest is over.”
Jackson jerks his hand back. “What the fuck?”
“We’re done.”
“You can’t just cancel it.”
“I absolutely can.”
Blaire plants both fists on her hips. “Excuse me? I’m the judge.”
“Not anymore.”
Her mouth falls open and for one long second, Blaire just stares at him. Then she picks up a balled napkin and throws it directly at his face.
I lose it.
So does James.
Jackson gets the pizza box while Michael is distracted.
And just like that, the contest is back on.