Birthquake Page 4

  “What? The realization that we just had a run in with Long Duk Dong thirty years after his movie debut in Sixteen Candles, or the fact you cramped up like a little bitch in the throes of passion?”

  Jeff stops dead in his tracks and gives me a pointed look. “Hey, there was nothing bitchy about my moves back there. Or little for that matter.”

  I can’t help but laugh softly.

  “I love you,” he says with a smile that reaches his eyes.

  “I love you, too,” I pant, still trying to catch my breath from the sexcapades that happened over the past ten minutes. I roll up onto my tip toes to lay another kiss on him and—

  “You!”

  Jeff and I both turn toward the distinct voice echoing from the far end of the hallway.

  “Jesus! This guy is a stage five clinger,” I say.

  “Let’s go. The last thing I want is to get kicked out during my brother’s wedding reception for indecent exposure.”

  We slip inside the doorway, back into the reception hall full of Jeff’s intoxicated family and friends, but the security guard is still chasing after us, yelling about something I can’t make out while waving a tan-colored towel in the air like he’s trying to land a goddamned Boeing 747.

  Oh shit.

  I swallow hard and make a beeline to the bar with Jeff hot on my heels. “A glass of champagne—actually, two. Please.” I throw the last word in as an afterthought. I should probably try to be more polite in front of my boyfriend’s family.

  “Uh, just one,” Jeff corrects the bartender before adding, “I’ll take a glass of scotch, I was done with the bubbles hours ago.”

  “I know,” I deadpan and then look back over the counter to catch the barkeep’s attention. “Champagne, two glasses. Not one.”

  He nods in compliance and quickly produces two glasses, one for each hand, then grabs the bottle of Johnny Walker Black and a low ball glass for Jeff. I toss back the first champagne flute in one swift motion and squeeze my eyes tight as the bubbles quickly take effect.

  “Whoa, babe, slow down! The sex wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  I shake my head no because, if I’m honest, having spontaneous wedding reception sex now tops my nonexistent list of sexual experiences outside of the bedroom.

  Jeff laces his fingers through mine and lifts my chin toward his face. “Then what is it? Is everything okay?”

  “No … I mean yes …” I sigh in defeat. Or maybe it’s embarrassment?

  Tap … tap … tap … “Excuse me!” a man says in broken English from the microphone at the front of the stage.

  Fuck.

  “No. I'm not okay. That security guy is holding my Spanx hostage.” I bury my face in the crook of Jeff’s neck.

  “Would da young lady in navy dress who left these,” he waves my unmentionables far above his head and the crowd begins to snicker, “come see me to take back?”

  I groan and want for nothing more than the floor to swallow me whole.

  The man’s eyes finally find mine in the crowd, and he smiles like he's just discovered the golden ticket into the Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. “You!” He points excitedly, gesturing me to come up and see him. “Here you go! These belong to you!”

  More than a hundred pairs of eyes look from my underwear and then straight to me, standing in Jeff’s arms. They're quickly doing the math as to how I'm standing here and my Spanx are not plastered to my ass. The best I can hope for is that everyone is so completely wasted that they’ll have no memory of this moment when they wake up in the morning. I'd also settle for a cameo from Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones with those nifty mind eraser thingies from Men in Black.

  Mrs. Carrington’s eyes find mine, and her expression changes no less than fifteen times, teetering between horror and amusement in the span of three seconds.

  Just kill me. Kill me now!

  And without hesitation, Jeff thrusts his glass of scotch in the air and shouts, “To Love!” mirroring my words from our moment of glory in the other ballroom.

  For a fraction of a second, the room is frozen as they process the moment. Then everyone else lifts their drink in the air, echoing the sentiment and a valiant cheer.

  The band resumes.

  The chatter commences.

  And I exit stage left in sheer mortification.

  DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

  “You know what I love most about you?”

  “What’s that?” I stretch out on the other end of the couch and put my feet up in his lap.

  “How even after all these months, I’m still learning something new about you every day.”

  I smile at the sentiment, knowing it’s true. And I love how it goes both ways. Just this morning I learned that he prefers peanut butter on his waffles in addition to maple syrup. And not the store bought syrup. It has to be real Canadian Maple Syrup because, as he says, “That shit is legit.”

  “So what’d you learn about me today?”

  He stretches his arm across the back of the couch and looks at me curiously. “Hmm, not sure. The day’s not over, though, so I’ve still got time to figure it out.”

  I wiggle my toes in the air, a silent invitation for him to rub my feet, and he complies without hesitation. “Why don’t you just ask me something?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I’m an open book with you.”

  “Well, this could take a while because I want to know everything about you.”

  I roll my eyes at his ridiculousness. “I highly doubt you want to know everything. Most of my life has been boring and by the book.”

  “What? It’s true. I love you, and since I didn’t get to spend the past twenty-seven years with you, the least you can do it tell me the highlights of what I’ve missed.” He rubs the pads of his thumbs in tiny circles along the arches of my feet. It feels glorious.

  “Well, I’m not about to wax poetic about my awkward years with the permed bangs and braces, or how I was convinced as a child that if I stayed in the bathtub too long, I would shrink into nothing. So if there’s anything specific you’re curious about, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Jeff snorts. “You really thought that?”

  “Yep, that and many other ridiculous things you’re never going to learn if you make fun of me!” I poke my toes into his belly.

  “I would never.” He feigns defensiveness.

  I laugh so hard my stomach starts to hurt. We both know better than that. I’m an easy target, and I’m okay with it. The jokes are just one of the many ways he shows that he loves me.

  “Suuuuuuuure.”

  The look on his face makes my heart melt. Actually, everything about him makes me melt. Jeff opens his mouth to speak but quickly snaps it shut. “I’m gonna go against my better judgment here, but I feel like it’s something I should know.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  He wets his lips and smirks at me knowingly. “I want to know about your first time?”

  “My first time?” I cringe.

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m not naive. I know there were other guys before me.”

  I feel my face flush crimson and heat rises to my cheeks. I really don’t want to get into details with him, but it would be nice to know more about his past, too. I wonder if he’ll let me get away with ambiguity here? I pull my legs back underneath me and instantly miss his touch.

  “Mine was pretty lackluster,” I sigh, trying to downplay the whole ordeal. “I was nineteen and had been dating this guy for a while. He was in a fraternity, and there are only so many places you get an iota of privacy in a frat house. So we snuck into the sleeping dorm during a party.”

  “Sleeping dorm? What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s a big room with bunk beds where everyone slept. At any rate, I lost my virginity in a freaking sleeping dorm. It was painful and lasted all of three minutes—if that! And to add insult to injury, one of the party’s designated drivers was in there trying to sleep before his shift started at the end of the
party. Said, “Thanks for the show,” when we were done. It was the epitome of romance.” I laugh at how foolish I was.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah.” I swallow hard. “At the time, I thought it was love. But really, he was just looking for a quick fix.” When my gaze meets his, Jeff gives me a sad smile. “Stop that, I don’t want your pity. Besides, things have drastically improved since then. And you showed me what love actually is.” I wink at him so he knows I’m okay with how losing my v-card played out, even though I’m anything but okay with how it all went down. “So what about yourself? It’s only fair that you tell me about your first time now, too.”

  “Um, I must have been fifteen or sixteen. I was at my girlfriend’s house, and her parents ran to the grocery store for hamburger buns which gave us about a thirty-minute window — at that age, I only needed a fraction of that. Even so, her bedroom was right above the garage, and I was finishing right as the garage door was opening. I think her dad knew what we were up to when I couldn’t look him in the eye. But looking back, I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing.”

  “Does anyone ever really have a clue?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve had over a decade of women … I mean, of practice,” he quickly corrects himself, “so I’d like to think I’ve improved my game over the course of a decade.”

  “A decade of women?” I snort. As much as I love this adorable, ridiculous man, you’d think after his decade of women he’d know where to find the clitoris in a drunken stupor. Sober? He’s completely fine. But with that much ‘practice’ as he calls it, you’d think he’d know where it is based on muscle memory to really pack a punch after happy hour. It’s not like it’s a magic bean that is hidden in a different place on every different chick that has graced his mattress. It’s in the same general vicinity regardless of whether or not you’re sober. It’s really not that hard if you pay attention.

  “What? You don’t believe me? Between exes and hook ups, there have been at least a half-dozen women every year.”

  I quickly run the numbers in my head.

  “More than sixty women?” I give him a pointed look and fold my arms over my chest. I never felt inadequate with my number until now. “That’s just wrong.”

  Jeff stretches his arms out wide in defeat and shrugs. “Yeah ... give or take, I guess it’s around sixty. I don’t know what to tell you. None of them mattered because they weren’t you.” He leans over and kisses the tip of my nose.

  “It’s a good thing I love you.” I narrow my eyes at him playfully.

  Jeff settles back in his seat. “Sooo … tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “You know my number ... loosely … what’s yours?”

  I really don’t want to get into this with him today. It’s enough that he already knows how miserable my first time was. And there’s absolutely nothing romantic about sharing old bedroom war stories with your boyfriend about past lovers.

  “In my defense, I never actually asked you how many women you slept with before me.” My stomach turns at the thought of his decades of women, but I try not to let it get to me. Because, like he said, none of them mattered because they weren’t me.

  “I know, it’s just that we should be able to tell each other everything. We should want to tell each other everything. You weren’t a part of my past, but you’re my future. Point blank, you’re it for me. I want you to know everything in my life that happened before the day we met.”

  I really shouldn’t complain because that sentiment is incredibly sweet. But I could do without some of the gritty, intimate details.

  Jeff cocks one exaggerated eyebrow up at me like he’s a cartoon or something. “Well?”

  My secret hangs in the balance between us. And I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. I take a deep breath and steel myself. “Two.”

  “There were only two guys before me?”

  I swallow hard, and my pride goes right down with it. “No … two … total. Including you.”

  His eyes go wide, and my insides do a funny little flip flop. “Two?” he asks, like he didn’t hear me correctly the first time I told him. The tone of his voice makes me feel inadequate. Inexperienced. And suddenly unworthy because I wasn’t a leg spreading trollop in my college years.

  I nod, hold up two fingers, and whisper, “Two.”

  “Whoa.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t think the number would bother me so much if it had been anybody other than Leo who was my first. I was naive and, admittedly, feeling desperate to lose the proverbial v-card. We only slept together a few times before our relationship went to shit—if you could even call it a relationship. Relationship implies that more than one person was involved. And looking back, I was the only one making any effort.

  “It’s not something I really talk about.” I’ve done a damn good job skirting around the Leo conversation since we started dating, and I’m hoping he’ll just let this go because, really, I don’t want to get into the nitty gritty details.

  Jeff wraps his arm around me, pulling my body closer to his. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Henley. I just, I don’t know. With your moves, I thought it would’ve been significantly more, that’s all.”

  I snort at the mere insinuation of having moves in the sack, though the compliment feels a little good. However, I am anything but seasoned.

  “So …how do I compare with Mr. Three Minute Wonder Pants?” he asks with a wink. “I mean, should I track him down to thank him for setting the bar so low?”

  I swat his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Shut up, you! There is no comparison.”

  And it's true. Being with Jeff quickly showed me how sex is so much more awesome when there's emotion involved. It's like comparing a Tootsie Roll to a glorious gourmet five tier chocolate cake, when you really, really, really love chocolate and want your tombstone to one day read “Here lies Henley. Death by Chocolate with an orgasmic smile on her face.”

  Jeff laughs lightly and kisses my cheek. “I love you, woman.”

  “I know. I love me, too.”

  PERFORMANCE ANXIETY

  I have a lot of “things” that I can say are “my thing.”

  Being able to sing all of the lyrics to every Coolio and Salt-N-Peppa song ever released? My thing.

  Knowing an abundance of useless eighties movie trivia? My thing. In fact, I am the reigning undisputed champion.

  Tying a knot in a cherry stem using only my tongue? Totally my thing. And also a great way to score a date while out at the bars. Because if I can do that with my tongue, I must have mad skills with other tongue-related activities, right?

  Wrong.

  But peeing on command? Yeah, that is sooo not my thing. Even after a liter of apple juice.

  This one time at Christmas, when I was in college, my mom told my then boyfriend Leo how I used to sing America the Beautiful when I would go to the bathroom when I was little like the music would somehow coax my body into compliance. For the rest of the visit, Leo would stand outside the bathroom door humming patriotic tunes whenever I was trying to take care of business.

  I look at the white stick in my hand and anxiously bounce my foot against the tile floor of Tara’s guest bathroom.

  Oh, why the hell not?

  “O’ beautiful, for spacious skies … for amber waves of grain … ” I start singing softly before I am so rudely interrupted.

  “How’s it going in there?” Tara asks from the other side of the door as she taps her knuckles against the wood.

  “I have stage fright!”

  “Um, okay? Is that why you’re serenading me?”

  “No,” I sheepishly retort. “My bladder is shy.”

  “So you were serenading your bladder? Okay, then,” Tara says matter-of-factly.

  I hear her footsteps trail off down the hall, and I look at a random hole in my undies. I’m a mess. It’s a miracle that Jeff even wants to have sex with me.

  Then it h
appens.

  I hear Tara belting at the top of her lungs from a few rooms away. “For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plains!”

  By the time she gets to from “sea to shining sea,” the moment of relief has come, and I’m peeing faster than a racehorse.

  At the sound of the flushing toilet, Tara bursts into the bathroom. We’ve never been friends with personal barriers. She probably would have held the stick in between my legs if I’d asked her.

  “Did you do the deed?”

  Oh, I did the deed all right. A few weeks ago when a security guard held my Spanx ransom in front of my boyfriend’s family and closest friends.

  “Yeah. And now we wait.”

  I set the stick of fate on the side of the sink and wash my hands. Tara closes the door behind her and leans against it, examining the pregnancy test without actually touching it.

  “Well, it looks like we don’t have to wait for long.”

  I dry my hands on my shirt and look at her, then down at the test. My heart is in my throat and my stomach at my feet. A faint little pink plus sign slowly appears and grows increasingly bolder over the next minute.

  Stupid little stick.

  “Maybe it’s a false positive?” I try to convince myself weakly.

  “Or maybe you really are pregnant?” Tara wraps her arm around my shoulder. My breath quivers and my body starts to shake even though no tears fall. “Hey now, this is really exciting. Babies are good things.”

  “Right. Babies are good things when you’re emotionally and financially and mentally equipped to handle it. I’m not even married. Jeff is gonna freak out. He’s going to leave.”

  “Don’t you even worry about him. Women have been having babies without men for ages, and now, more than ever. I can go with you to all of your appointments if you want. We’ll let the doctors think we’re the ultimate lesbian tag team.”

  “Do you have any idea how totally un-p.c. that is of you to say?”

  Tara just shrugs and brushes me off. My eyes zero back in on the little white stick and the pink plus sign that has changed everything forever.