A Bump in the Road (27 page)

The hilarity of Butterscotch the Gay Cat wore off quickly. Now? This is my predominant emotion: Hate.

All I feel is hate.

Why do I have to be knocked up in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave? I hate the sun, with its “I’m going to incinerate every last one of you.” I hate the weathermen, with their “It’s going to be a scorcher today, folks! Stay inside!” but then not telling us how to avoid going outside yet still go to our jobs. I hate my wireless connection, which has decided to punk out on me and stop working. I also hate jen2485, who told me she would pray for Skeletor since he obviously isn’t going to have a strong male role model in his life.

I definitely hate my car’s air conditioner, which decided to escape all of this heat and go on vacation, costing $750. Not to mention how awesome it was when it decided to crap out right in the middle of a traffic jam during rush hour. On a day dubbed “The hottest of the year so far!” I began to sweat profusely and pressed the automatic window button. I figured some circulation, even smog and exhaust filled, would help cool me down.

But . . . nothing.

I pressed it again.

Still nothing.

Beginning to panic, I tapped on the button repeatedly, with the same result. None of the windows would go down. I was trapped. In a car beginning to overheat. Desperate, I grabbed my cell phone and called Jake, who was already home, lying on the couch in front of the air conditioner while Butterscotch huddled for warmth in a corner.

“What am I going to do?” I screamed into the phone after I explained the situation.

“Shit, well, um . . .”

“Just tell me!” I could feel the sweat dripping down my back.

“You’re going to have to turn on the heat, to relieve some of the temperature from the engine. Clare, I’m so sorry. Pull off at the next exit and I’ll come and get you.”

“You’re kidding. I have to turn the heat on. Do you know it’s
ninety thousand degrees
out?”

“Yeah, I’m so sorry. Just pull over, get out, and I’ll come and get you.”

I snapped my phone closed, said a quick prayer, and turned my heat on. I fearfully wondered if it was possible to roast the baby from the inside out. I had about twenty feet to go before I could pull off into a highway oasis, but those twenty feet were the longest of my life. Traffic came to a standstill after about eight feet and I could no longer bear the heat. I ripped off my work shirt, relishing in the air, albeit warm, hitting my back. At least I had a bra on.

I didn’t care when other drivers began to stare at the nearly half-naked pregnant lady sweating profusely. I continued to stare straight ahead, focused on those twelve feet, until I heard honking next to me. I looked up and saw a man driving a Ford F-150, waving at me.

“Woo hoo! All right, darlin’!” he yelled out his window. As he opened his mouth, I could see he had nary a tooth.

Despite my situation, I smiled and waved at him. I figured,
Mr. Pickup Truck, even though you look like a child molester and probably have a severe case of genital warts, it’s nice to be appreciated
.

Ten minutes later, I made the extra twelve feet and was able to pull off onto the oasis and get out of the car. Mr. Pickup Truck bid me adieu as I pulled off. What I mean is, he yelled something to the effect of he always wanted to “bang” a pregnant “broad.” I’m not really sure. It was hard to tell with my windows up and the heat blasting.

The heat wave soldiers on. I think it’s global warming. Damn it. I knew I should’ve recycled more, turned down my heat in the winter, and bought a hybrid car. When I met Julie for lunch today, even she was amazed at the sheer volume of sweat I’m able to produce these days. And she’s seen me on spring break, in Cancun, in ninety-degree heat, pumped full of battery-acid margaritas.

“Are you OK? Jesus Christ, you’re making
me
hot. Do you need a napkin or something?” Julie said as she surveyed my limp hair plastered against my forehead.

I sat down across from her at Emilio’s, a tapas restaurant. “I’m fine. Just some water,” I panted as my arms shot forward and I made contact with a glass of ice water. “Ah, so much better,” I said after I gulped the glass down.

“You know, it’s not even that hot out,” Julie said disdainfully.

“Screw you. Yes it is. I’m dying. Skeletor is trying to roast me from the inside out.”

“Are you having hot flashes? Like women in menopause?”

“Hot flashes, my ass. It’s more like being punched in the face with a flame-thrower.”

“So, what’s good here? I’ve never been,” Julie said as she opened her menu.

“Everything. It’s tapas. You’ve done tapas before, right?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “To be honest, I thought you said ‘topless’ at first over the phone.”

“It’s like appetizer portions. You order a lot but it’s all little plates.”

“Groovy,” she said, surveying the menu.

A waiter materialized and I silently pointed to my empty glass of water. Mercifully, a bus boy hustled over and filled my glass, which I chugged again.

“Order for me since you’ve been here,” Julie announced.

I pointed to five dishes on the menu and when the waiter asked if there was anything else he could get us I said, “Water. And keep it coming.”

As she watched me take down my fifth glass of water, Julie asked, “Do you think it’s possible to sweat out your kid?”

I pushed my wet hair out of my eyes and glared at her.

“So, have you guys figured out a name yet?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“You should name him Ben,” she said dreamily.

“As in Hot Dr. Ben?” I smiled at her.

“Hell yes.”

Our food arrived and we passed the tapas plates around, sampling the delicious Spanish food.

“So how’s Disgusting Married Man?” I asked Julie.

“Disgusting. Perverted. Still stalking me. Let’s not talk about it, OK?” she said quickly.

“Oh, OK,” I said. I searched my brain for something else to say. “Isn’t it weird that Reese and I are pregnant at the same time?” I said before I could stop myself. “Uh . . . ,” I stuttered.

“What?” Julie put her fork down and narrowed her eyes.

“Nothing. Reese is pregnant again,” I said quickly.

“Is she really that fucking stupid?” Julie spat out.

“Uh . . .” I said. I lurched toward my water glass and chugged it again, trying to give myself a minute to regroup. “I don’t know” was all I came up with.

“She’ll be divorced with two kids before age thirty,” Julie muttered. “She needs to get her head out of her ass.”

“Well, she just . . .” I trailed off when I noticed a woman in her twenties, dressed in a gorgeous yellow sundress, walking toward our table.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to come over and introduce myself. I’m Rian O’Toole and I read your blog every day. I love your writing,” she said, and smiled at me.

“Thanks so much. Really, that means a lot. And thank you for introducing
yourself. It’s so great to meet you.” I tried to flip my now crusty and wavy hair behind my shoulders.

“And you must be Julie! I recognize you, too!” Rian said.

“The one and only.” Julie grinned at her.

“And congrats on the pregnancy! You look fabulous!”

I knew she was lying, but I accepted the compliment. Julie and I tried to continue our lunch after Rian the yellow sundress girl walked back to hers, but Rian’s entire table stared at us the entire time. I guess they are readers, too. Never before have I felt so exposed, not only because I’m pregnant and I feel like the entire world knows, but because my pregnancy news is so intimate, not just the usual blog stuff about what bar I went to last Saturday and how hungover I am. It’s becoming all very Internet-paparazzi-ish.

As I sweated this morning in my office, I decided to call Reese, since I knew she was one of the few people in my life who would truly understand just how on-fire my insides felt.

“Hello,” she said, sounding breathless.

“Hey! Just calling to see how everything’s going.”

“Hey there yourself. Everything’s going great. How are you feeling?”

“Melting in this heat wave, but other than that, pretty good.”

“How’s Jake?”

“Same old. How’s everything with Matt?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound fine. What’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. I was just cleaning yesterday and found another e-mail and it spooked me a little.”

“You’re kidding! From Leslie?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Read it to me.”

“I threw it out.”

“Well, what did it say?”

“Something about a great job on the Davis presentation and lunch and martinis on her today. Oh, and she liked his tie.”

“What do you think it means?” I asked.

“I really don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure Matt wouldn’t do anything to hurt our marriage.” Right. And Matt didn’t cheat on Reese five hundred times in college. I’m sure he outgrew cheating right after they took their vows.

“OK, well, you know best. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I’m not going to jump to any conclusions, Clare. It could be nothing.”

“Are you going to ask him about it?”

“And say what? That I saw a couple of e-mails that may or may not be suspicious?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you should say. That’s what people do when they’re married, talk to each other.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not going to turn this into a big deal. Because it’s not.”

“What was his reaction when you told him about the baby?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, because I haven’t told him yet.”

“Well, um, when are you planning on doing that?”

“I don’t know. When it’s the right time.”

“What is the right time?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. Listen, please don’t tell Jake about any of this, OK? You haven’t told him anything, right?”

“No,” I lied.

“Good. The last thing I need is everyone gossiping behind my back about something ridiculous.”

“Reese, we love you. No one is going to—,” I started to say when she interrupted me.

“I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

I hung up the phone. I tried to tell myself it was nothing, it was all a misunderstanding, things were going to be fine, Reese was probably right, and I was overreacting. But I knew what Reese told me was probably just 10 percent of what was going on. A gnawing feeling reminded me how many times in college Reese suspected other women, how I’d always suspected but buried deep down into my psyche that Matt wants to have Reese as his trophy wife and still have something on the side.

I asked Jake what he thought earlier tonight. All he said was, “She should ask him about it,” as he flipped back and forth between two baseball games.

“I know, but she won’t. Tell me what you think.”

“I just did.”

“No, but tell me what you
think
.” He flipped off the TV and looked me squarely in the eyes.

“Really? You really want to know what I think?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly cautious.

“And you won’t get pissed at me when I say it?”

“Why? Are you going to say something bad?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Just say it. I want to know what you think.” Although I was suddenly unsure if I wanted to hear his opinion.

“Fine. I think Matt is a complete fucking asshole.” He stared at me, his eyebrows raised.

“You do?”

“He treats Reese like shit and he’s the biggest egomaniac I’ve ever had the displeasure of coming into contact with.” I sat back, stunned. I knew he and Matt weren’t exactly close, but I didn’t realize he hated him.

“What do you mean?”

“The guy’s always talking about money, about how much his BMW cost or his house cost or what his Christmas bonus was.”

“Yeah, I guess he does talk about money a lot. But I always think it’s just because he has it.”

“He’s always ‘on.’ Whenever we get together, he asks me about how much is in my 401(k) and whether or not I took his advice to invest in a certain mutual fund or whatever.”