Birthquake

  Birthquake

  A Romantic Comedy of Seismic Proportions

  B.L. Berry

  © 2017 by B.L. Berry

  All rights reserved.

  Editing: Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Proofreading: Virginia Carey

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs

  Interior Designer: The Write Assistants

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To Karma,

  For bestowing upon me a little girl who is just as sassy and smartassy as I was at this age.

  May what goes around come back around to her in twenty-five years.

  This one’s for you, Betsy!

  I’d say thank you for letting me be your mom, but you’re kinda stuck with me, kiddo. I love you more than all the unicorns in the galaxy!

  Contents

  BIG THINGS AND TIGHT SPACES

  THE UNICORN

  PACKING BAGGAGE

  CRIMES AGAINST CRAMPING

  THE FIRST TRIMESTER

  DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

  PERFORMANCE ANXIETY

  THE HOLY GRAIL

  WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO SHAME

  CONFESSIONS OF A MODERN DAY VIRGIN MARY

  THE SECOND TRIMESTER

  THE SPANK BANK

  PERSONAL SPACE

  THE WAKE-UP CALL

  VAGINAS AND VAJUDGMENTS

  SILENCE AND STRETCHY PANTS

  HAPPY BAT MITZVAH

  LET YOUR WEIRDO LIGHT SHINE BRIGHTLY

  FULL MOON OVER 1999

  ELEPHANTS

  THE THIRD TRIMESTER

  ASSHOLES AND APOLOGIES

  UNDERWHELMED BY OVERWHELMED

  ANTI-ADVICE

  THE MILKMAN

  POOH BEAR LOGIC

  LITTLE WHITE LIES

  SPARKLY TASSELS

  NIPPLEGATE

  IS THIS REAL LIFE?

  TWATSICLES

  CLEAN UP IN AISLE TWO

  DINNER AND A SHOW

  THE FOURTH TRIMESTER

  SEMANTICS

  PUTTING THE FUN IN FUN BAGS

  THE GIANT TEDDY BEAR SUIT

  THE NATURAL DISASTER

  GIRL SCOUT TEARS AND THE PERFECT PENIS

  MILK FACIALS AND SLIP N’ SLIDES

  THE BEST DAY EVER

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By B.L. Berry

  BIG THINGS AND TIGHT SPACES

  Jeff

  Beads of sweat race down the back of my neck and adrenaline pulsates through my veins. I can feel my heartbeat in my head all the way down to my toes, and I know that if I don’t get there fast, I’m going to explode. And not just metaphorically.

  Pull your shit together, Jeff! This isn’t like you.

  My legs quiver and the harder I go, the more I feel like my body is going to give out from underneath me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I lick my lips and gasp for air. I swallow hard, doing my best to keep it together. This moment will not end before it even begins. I quickly wipe at the sheen of sweat building on my forehead. I send silent prayers above.

  Dear, God, please. Just hold out a little longer. Come on …

  My breath is short and fast, and it all hurts so good, and my body aches from the incessant pounding this morning. And then all of my muscles tense simultaneously, and it’s almost euphoric.

  Almost.

  Because the radiant woman before me finally comes into focus. And from the looks of it, she’s pissed.

  “Hold the plane!” I beg in my final sprint toward the Southwest Airlines gate agent, waving my ticket in the air. My brother Chris will string me up by my balls if I’m not there for tee time later this morning. “Please … wait!” I beg.

  The woman is starting to close the door to the tarmac but notices me moments before she shuts it. Her glare pierces right through me, and I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or if that look is just permanent resting bitch face. Either way, it doesn’t matter because, at this moment, she hates me. I’m likely the reason the entire day has started off with a delay. I went so far as to call the Southwest Airlines desk at the Kansas City Airport from my taxi, letting them know I would be there before takeoff, but depending on the security line, I would be cutting it close. In true Midwest hospitality, the agent on the other end of the line informed me that, “We can’t hold the plane for you, but I’ll call the gate agent and see if they can stall closing the doors until the last possible moment.”

  The woman guarding the door at the gate looks down at her wristwatch and raises her eyebrows, silently scolding me. Without so much as a word, she holds out her hand, palm up.

  So much for that Midwest hospitality.

  I hand her my ticket to scan and give her my best apologetic smile.

  “Running a bit late are we?”

  “I know. I injured myself trying to get into my skinny jeans,” I say breathlessly, my lungs still on fire from my unexpected morning run.

  The woman looks me up and down, unamused. “You’re not even wearing skinny jeans, sir.”

  Okay, so humor isn’t immune from her sour mood.

  “I know. Ironic, right?” I don’t know why I’m making excuses to this woman. I don’t owe her anything. She doesn’t know me.

  “Whatever,” she sighs. “This is a nearly full flight, so take the first seat you can find.” The machine between us beeps, and she hands my ticket back to me as I silently curse the fact I didn’t book an airline that actually assigns seats. “Have a nice trip.”

  Clearly, this is code for get the hell out of my face.

  I hustle down the tarmac, and when I turn into the aisle of the plane, all eyes are on me. It reminds me of the recurring dream I had in junior high where I’d show up to school naked, and everyone would double over in fits of laughter. That dream was far different from my fantasy where I’d show up to school naked and the entire varsity cheerleading squad would fawn over just how ginormous I was. I blame my older brother Kyle’s retro VHS porn collection for my unrealistic expectations of high school and sex and girls.

  Ah, those were the days.

  “It’s all middle seats now, and there’s only a handful left. Also, the overhead bins are full, so you’ll need to put your bag underneath the seat in front of you.” The flight attendant is a little too perky for this ungodly hour of the morning. She must be running on three pots of extra strong coffee. What I’d give for a hit of caffeine.

  I’m close to halfway through the plane when I cross the first open seat and I clumsily climb over a businessman in the aisle and plop into the chair with an exasperated oomph! I take the backpack from my lap and wrestle to stuff it underneath the seat in front of me, which means my long legs are going to be cramped for the duration of the flight. I silently curse myself for not putting more into my checked bag.

  “Winning the war against physics, I see.” A woman’s voice jests with a delicate laugh.

  I turn toward her and my whole world freezes. And for the first time ever, I have the elusive Dream Weaver moment. You know, where everything moves in slow motion, and you see heinous special effects stars and glitter and Gary Wright’s terrible song plays in the background? It happened to Wayne when he first saw Cassandra rockin
g out on stage in Wayne’s World. Yeah. That is this exact moment for me, including the part where I have to physically pick my jaw up off of the floor as I mentally go sha-wing!

  She raises her eyebrows at me, seemingly pleased with herself. Her auburn hair cascades down her back and perfectly frames her face, and her perfectly glossed lips just beg to be tasted. Even seated, I can tell she’s fit, and it’s easy to imagine what she looks like under all those clothes.

  And I’m instantly a believer.

  I believe you can get me through the night.

  I try to recall what she said exactly three seconds ago before I was dumbstruck by her beauty. Yes. Physics. The fact my backpack can barely fit underneath the seat in front of me.

  I clear my throat and try to sound suave. “Uh … yeah, I’m kind of the master of fitting big things into tight spaces.” What the fuck kind of comment was that? Although the prospect of fitting my big thing in her tight space is not lost on me, that is not an appropriate conversation with a stranger, and certainly not something you say to a woman whose beauty has stunned you into stupidity.

  Her cheeks flush red as she purses her lips and turns to look out the window. “Ooookay, then …” she mutters under her breath.

  Shit.

  I shift in my seat, rattle the thought from my brain, and try to avoid my junk from springing into action. And while I subscribe to the theory that it’s never too early for a hard on, I do believe that I need to keep my junk in check when I’m on a plane. Unless, of course, I’m being inducted into The Mile High Club. Which I wouldn’t say no to, especially if she were to do the honors.

  “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t mean that to come out so … sexually. I just meant that I’m the master of getting things to go exactly where they belong.” You’re making no sense. This conversation is so stupid. You need to stop talking and close your eyes and stop looking at the pretty girl and simply sleep this flight away.

  But I don’t. Because I’m an idiot.

  “You should see what I’m packing down below.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I meant my bag! Under the plane!” I shut my eyes tight, willing everything I’ve said to her back into my mouth. Heat rises in my cheeks. “I can pack a bag like it’s nobody’s business.” I’m just going to shut now. And die up. I mean I’m just going to shut up and then die. Jesus! She’s even infiltrated my internal monologue!

  “I see,” she responds slowly.

  I’m desperate to escape this whole scenario, so I grab a magazine from the seat back pocket and start thumbing through, pretending to read some article that appears to be about weight loss based on the pictures on the page.

  The flight attendants go through the safety procedures while no one pays attention, and before I know it, we’re barreling down the runway, thrusting hundreds of thousands of pounds into the air, defying all laws of gravity. It’s kind of terrifying when you think about it.

  Just like this woman.

  She terrifies me in all the best ways possible.

  “So …” She turns back toward me, and I’m pleasantly surprised that she’s still engaging with me. Maybe I’m not royally screwing this up after all? “Good article?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty good.” Okay, I can handle short, casual phrases if I don’t look at her. This is improvement. Keep it quick. “This is one of my favorite mags.”

  She tilts her head and flashes me her pearly whites. “Long-time reader?”

  “Yeah. For years.” I keep my eyes trained to the page, interest feigned. Good! This is good! We’re connecting on common ground.

  “I never would have pegged you as a Senior Women’s Weekly aficionado.”

  I shut the magazine and look at the silver-haired grandmother on the cover. Shit. I shrug it off and focus on being casual. Cool. Someone she would want to get to know. I turn to look at her. “There’s a lot of things you probably wouldn’t peg me as.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” I smile smugly.

  “Let me guess.” She shifts in her seat, trying to turn toward me and folds her arms over her chest. “You’re a professional snuggler, who prefers taco Tuesdays to wine Wednesdays. In your spare time you enjoy playing video games on the couch in your mom’s basement. You secretly fancy cats over dogs. And you were late this morning because you accidentally took an ex-lax instead of your daily vitamins and had a rough time getting here.” The teasing smile that plays her lips is enough to make my dick twitch.

  “Close. While I am good at being the big spoon in a snuggle sandwich, I’m actually a software engineer who enjoys a good ole fashioned Kentucky Bourbon. The last time I played video games on the couch in my mother’s basement was when I was fifteen alongside my two brothers. I was late this morning not because I couldn’t control my bowels, but rather because I had a love affair with my snooze button.” I lean in closer and lower my voice, looking for any excuse to be close enough to breathe her in. “But yes, I do secretly prefer cats over dogs, and if you ever divulge that to anyone, I will hunt you down and force you to listen to the song Tom’s Diner on repeat until your ears bleed.”

  The words don’t come out as confidently as I’d like, but at least it was a coherent sentence, so I’ll take that as a win given my track record with this conversation.

  She stares right through me and my mouth suddenly goes dry. I swallow hard before grabbing my bottle of water for a satisfying swig. “So …” She cocks an eyebrow like she’s deep in thought. “You like pussy?”

  I choke on my water and nearly cough up a lung as I try to collect myself. I take a few deep breaths. “Excuse me?” Is she offering hers? What the hell is with this woman?

  “You admitted you like cats. I was just fucking with you.” She laughs and gently touches her fingers to my forearm, and it sets my entire body on high alert.

  She goes on to tell me random thoughts about her childhood dog, Zeus, her best friend, Tara, and how last night she managed to ruin a batch of instant pudding and instead of trying to clean the pot she simply threw it away.

  I hang on her every last word. She could be reading me the dictionary, and I’d still grasp onto her every last syllable like a talisman. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever met before. And that notion makes me uneasy because every girl I’ve ever met has been candidly predictable. But in spite of how she makes me feel, I want more.

  “So are you from Kansas City? Or are you heading home to Denver?”

  Please don’t be from Denver. Please don’t be from Denver. If she’s from Denver, the likelihood of me seeing her again is slim. And that would suck. But if she is from Denver, please don’t let her be a Broncos fan.

  “Nah. I’m a Kansas City girl through and through. Born and raised in the suburbs. I’m just headed to Denver on business.” She gestures to the leather satchel at her feet as if I should have known this little fact based on her handbag choices. “What about yourself? Are you from Denver? You’re not one of those obnoxious Broncos fans, are you? Because if you are, I’m going to have to change seats. I was sitting over there, and then that sat next to me.” She nods toward the aisle where a grown ass man is sporting a beer belly, a lumberjack beard dyed orange and blue, and the Denver Broncos logo shaved into the side of his head. “His mother must be so proud.”

  Oh my god. I think I love you.

  “Yes. I mean no. No, I’m not a Broncos fan.” Please don’t change seats on me! “But yes, I am from Denver … was … originally … I mean … not originally originally. I’m originally from Seattle. But we moved to Denver when I was little. And then I moved to KC. Not when I was little, but after college. Kansas City lives me. I mean, I live in Kansas City. Downtown. On the plaza. Where I work. On the plaza. As a software engineer.” What the ever living fuck is my problem?

  She smiles and snickers politely. “So you live … and work … on the plaza,” she repeats slowly.

  I swallow hard. Idiot! “Yeah, I do.” I can feel all the blood rushing to my face. I reac
h up and turn the knob to increase the airflow. Would it be too much trouble to get some god damned air back here?

  “I don’t work too far from there.”

  So not only is she local, she’s in close proximity. There is a god looking down on me!

  She nails me with an expectant look, and I think I should just keep my mouth shut. “I’m a teacher, by the way. I teach sixth grade Language Arts at Waterview Elementary.”

  I can practically hear the ‘Thanks for asking, douche canoe!’ in her voice. My mind runs wild with all the questions I want to ask, but don’t trust myself to form complete sentences.

  Do you get summers off?

  Can you put me in detention?

  Will you marry me?

  What is it about this woman that makes it impossible to talk to her like a normal human being?

  She looks up at me from underneath her mile long lashes. And there it is.

  Her eyes.

  Holy shit.

  Those eyes are remarkable. A mysterious, rich shade of chocolate brown that is disarming. And kind. Each time I look into her eyes, I turn into a bumbling bumblefuck. Whatever the hell that means. I can’t talk to her when I’m actually looking at her, so I shift my gaze downward, hoping the change in scenery will allow me to regain my composure. I smile as I’m greeted by what are, quite possibly, the world’s most perfect pair of breasts perfectly contoured in this perfect little black v-neck top. I can feel the corners of my lips curl up in a dopey-ass grin. But I can’t even care because…