Who Do You Love(97)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

I was tired all the time. Tired from carrying around the extra weight, tired of the little swimmer inside me, who rolled and kicked all night long, tired just thinking about my reconstructed heart now having to pump for the baby, too. I was also increasingly tired of the conversation Jay and I kept having, one that wasn’t quite an argument but was on its way to becoming one. He wanted me to stay home once the baby came. I wanted to go back to work after three months. He said that I’d want to be with our baby once it was born. I said that I’d seen enough newborns on the job to know that I found them as interesting as potted plants that pooped and cried, and that if I was stuck with one I’d go crazy. He said it would be different when it was my own child and not some client’s, and we’d finally agreed to table the matter until after the birth, but it was like someone had left the window open in the room that was our marriage, and a chilly wind had blown through. My easygoing, affable husband became almost scary when he didn’t get his way, with his lips clamped shut and his nostrils flaring and the condescending, scolding, Father Knows Best tone that made me want to clamp my hand over his mouth. I felt like I was getting a preview of what he’d look and sound like in forty years, and the picture did not thrill me.

At least he looked good, I thought, dressed that night in a crisp button-down and khakis, with a confident walk and an easy smile as he introduced himself to my classmates and their dates or spouses, hand extended, saying, “Jay Kravitz,” and then cocking his thumb and adding, “I’m with her.” Jay had gone to work with his father, and with a little help from his parents and a little more from mine, we’d purchased a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn, with fireplaces and a small backyard and enough bedrooms for three or even four kids if we wanted them. He was perfectly comfortable in places like the Clearview Country Club, to which my parents belonged and I would have, too, if I’d stayed in Florida.

“Raaaa-chel!”

Britt’s hair was a brighter blond than it had been in high school, and she’d either grown it out or gotten extensions for the occasion. Her dress was short, red, and fringed, her heels impossibly high, and she was doing her makeup the same way she’d done it in high school, heavy on the black eyeliner, flicked out at the corners. “Honey!” she squealed, throwing her tanned arms around me. “Where’s your guy?”

“My husband, Jay, is over there,” I said.

Britt’s head swiveled, along with Kara’s and Kelsey’s. “Oooh, nice!” she said, like Jay was a handbag I’d bought on sale. “So, okay,” said Kelsey, grabbing my arm. “Last summer I was watching the Olympics, and I saw his name, and I screamed . . .” She raised her voice to Olympic-viewing-scream level. Heads turned. “I said, ‘Oh my God, I know that guy!’ And it was him, wasn’t it? The same Andy Landis?”

“The same,” I said, resting my hand on my belly and shooting Marissa a look. I’d finally settled on a black jersey tunic with an empire waist, black leggings, a pair of high-heeled boots that I was already regretting, and a statement necklace I’d borrowed from Nana, three strands of amber prayer beads, the first row small as peas and the last big as gumballs. “But how are you guys?”

Britt was teaching fifth grade in Clearview (I wondered what the boys there made of her long blond hair and even longer tanned legs). Kelsey was planning her wedding to a hotel manager named Rick, and Kara had gotten a nursing degree and worked on the labor and delivery floor. “But never mind us. What about you?” Britt grabbed my arm and pulled me close enough to smell the white wine she’d been drinking. “Are you and Andy still in touch?”

“Not really,” I said. “Things fizzled out after college.” Never mind my years in Portland; never mind that Andy had been living with me when he’d met Maisie. They were still together, I knew. I tried not to care and I tried not to Google, but over the years I’d had a few slips. I decided to try out Marissa’s line. “How many people marry their high school sweetheart?”

Grinning, Britt pointed at Patti Cohen, who, per her name­tag, was now Patti Cohen Mendelsohn. She’d actually married Larry. I hoped he’d improved as a kisser.

“Not every couple makes it,” she said. “But if I had to bet on anyone, I would have bet on you two. You were so . . .” And then she spotted Pete Driscoll by the buffet. Our former quarterback had gained fifty pounds and lost all his hair. Britt shrieked, “Pete, oh my God, you ASSHOLE, you didn’t tell me you’d be here!” Giving my arm a final squeeze, she teetered away, with Kara and Kelsey behind her, leaving me limp and tired and wanting desperately to be home.