Meternity Page 13

  I walk through the first-floor restaurant Reynard to the outdoor space in the back, lit up with Edison-style lights. The industrial-chic block is open and airy—different from all the standard hotels in Manhattan Addison, Brie and I have cut our teeth on in our twenties. Spirit lifting, I think. New. My friends greet me with a big hug as I set down Brie’s gift—a bottle of her favorite perfume.

  “Aw, thank you, sweetie. Thirty-one is already looking up!” says Brie brightly.

  “How was your b-day so far, beauty?” I ask.

  “Great! I did a little morning meditation, and then collected on that Tibetan foot massage Lifehacker coupon you sent me—thanks, Lizzie.”

  “No problem,” I say, giving her a wink.

  “Though, I have to say, I’m a little bit bummed. This guy from the Bhagavad Gita reading was supposed to come by tonight, but he texted that he’s abstaining from alcohol this week and it would be too tempting to come out to a party.” Brie’s usual upbeat expression shifts a bit. “Honestly, I kinda hope Baxter shows up.”

  “But what about plan Secret-4-the-One?”

  Brie just looks down. “It got tiring.”

  A few hours later, Baxter does arrive, with him a bunch of guys that are keeping Addison, and thankfully Brie, busy, while I hang out on the couch, looking longingly at my phone.

  “How are we doing now?” Addison plops down in the space next to me. I know she means “Anything from Ryan?”

  “Already over it,” I say. The girls know that if Ryan texted, I’d tell them. But they also know the rules—they can’t bring it up until I do.

  “Liz, he’ll text. You’ve just put up a few walls and he’s trying to figure out how not to screw it up. That’s what guys do.”

  “You think I put up walls?”

  Brie nods emphatically.

  “You’ve seen what I deal with on Tinder.”

  “I get it, but all those walls are keeping out the good stuff, too.”

  At about 2 a.m. with still nothing from Ryan, I am feeling irked.

  Addison grabs the fourth drink from my hands, Brie’s signature drink of the night: “healthtinis,” supposedly filled with antioxidants, and containing a mix of gin, lavender liqueur, rosemary bitters and “ancient grain” alcohol—which happens to be overproof.

  “Lizzie, maybe it’s time to move to water.” I grab it back as I start scrolling through my phone. I decide to text Ryan—I probably shouldn’t. But I really want to. Maybe I can undo the weirdness between us. I text, What are you up to tonight? and then secretly I find the bartender for one last healthtini.

  By 3:30 a.m. he still hasn’t responded, and I can feel a darkness setting in through the cloud of the fermented ancient grains. I was wrong. He is just another Lucy.

  Instead of retreating, though, this time I attempt the opposite, gaining the confidence to look out across the room. A cute, tall, blond guy seems to spot me out of nowhere, walks over and gives me a huge hug and smack kiss on the cheek and immediately, a fun and distracting back-and-forth banter begins to flow. Amazingly it’s Gavin, from that night at Sparrow and Crow. The bartender calls last call, and then through the haze of the healthtinis, I feel him smushing his hand in mine while leading me out toward a cab to share a ride back into the city. The last thing I remember is his mouth on mine.

  * * *

  The alarm clock on my phone, which I always forget to turn off on the weekends, bores a hole in my head. It’s 8 a.m.

  “Owww!” I say, my head pounding.

  “You could say that again,” says someone from the other side of my bed. The sound is not Ryan’s voice.

  “Shit,” I say in terror.

  I look down to find all of my clothes still on. My down comforter and sheets pool around me as I lean over the left side of my bed to look for my purse, tightening into a cocoon. I fall off the bed onto the floor. “Ah!”

  It’s nowhere to be seen, but I do spot a pair of Rag and Bone jeans and a blue-checked shirt looking like it came from Brooks Brothers. I turn cold as I look to my right.

  Right there on the bed is this supremely tanned, sandy-haired guy with his arms crossed behind his head. He’s staring up at me with a bemused grin on his face. With stirring green eyes he looks a little bit like my favorite Australian actor crush, Chris Hemsworth.

  “Who are you?” I ask, barely able to really look at him through my puffy, swelled-up eyes.

  “Gavin,” he starts, with his lips curling up into a devilish grin, clearly unworried. “You don’t remembah?” he says, smiling up at me. Still, I’m surprised by how good-looking he is. “I gave you my number a few weeks ago at Sparrow and Crow?”

  Oh, yeah, I think, that night I was talking to the Aussie guy.

  “You texted me last night, and I happened to be out in Williamsburg, and well, one thing led to another.” Omigod, I must have tried to text Ryan. Damn you, cracked iPhone!

  “Sorry, I totally forgot you were in my phone!”

  I grab my phone to confirm the mix-up.

  Heysexywhat u up 2? I read, and the lame attempt makes me cringe—damn Brie and her healthtinis!

  “I actually didn’t mean to text you,” I explain.

  “Well, I think it turned out okay,” he says.

  “It did?” I ask meekly.

  “I don’t mind being a male escort, Liz, but we never settled our rates,” he says impishly. “So this is the kind of apartment fancy magazine editors have these days, is it?” he says, scanning my diminutive studio. I’m a little embarrassed about the accumulation of clothing, books and other random assorted crap—including an old vision board Brie suggested I make, and a few pairs of unsexy undies—scattered in no particular order around the room.

  Thank God I keep all the “bumps” in my closet. He leans over the other side of the bed to grab his clothes and the muscles on his back ripple. Oh, God. He is seriously hot. But Ryan, I think to myself, strangely guilty for a relationship that doesn’t even exist.

  “It’s all I can afford since I’m pretty selective with my escorts and it eats into the bank account,” I return playfully. He smiles at that. I scan my brain for any recollections of conversation from last night, but nothing immediately pops up.

  “Well, I’d better be off,” he says and pulls on his clothes and is out the door.

  I hop out of bed on the other side and step on his money clip on my floor. He’ll be calling to get it. Perfect. This is going to be another hungover Sunday.

  Later in the day, Ford comes by for some take-out Thai and TV watching. In our early twenties, this used to be our weekly tradition. Luckily Ford still has no problem with British reality shows.

  He tells me that he went out last night, too, with his friends from the gay men’s hockey league to the bars in the West Village and, as has been the case for the past month, ended up texting Hudson late at night after too many manhattans. Hudson let him come over at 4 a.m. finally, but kicked him out early before going to brunch. Ford swears he knows it’s a going-nowhere relationship, but I can tell from the sadness in his eyes as he’s recounting the play-by-play, his heart’s hooked and he can’t stop himself.

  I can’t stop thinking about Ryan. Did he go out last night? When will he text me again? Despite the ending, I thought what we did meant something? Could I get away with setting up a totally work-related follow-up meeting? But all told, maybe it’s for the best he didn’t text.

  Another wave of nausea strikes, causing me to heave up the pad see ew into the toilet (more like “pad see eeeeew,” ha! I’m too old for this). I think about crawling back under my duvet. Ford must be telepathic, or having a bad hangover, too, because he looks at me and nods silently in agreement.

  Just then I feel my phone buzzing. Aussie pops up on the phone, revealing a text.

  Thanks for last night.
Fun times. I think I left a few of my credit cards there, which is problematic since I’m on my way to the airport for a business trip. Had my passport and Australian cards at home, but would love to pick them up when I get back in a few weeks. Cheers.

  I text back, Will have it waiting when you get back. Have a good trip.

  “Eek!”

  Ford notices my text frenzy. “If it weren’t crazy, I’d say that bump is giving you major cred.”

  “I know. It’s like I didn’t exist at work before because I didn’t have mommy-track status. I’ve spent the last ten years on the work, work, drink, work, sleep and more work track, and it’s left me, well, like a woman without a passport. This whole meternity thing is finally making me feel like I fit in in some weird way—like I have a purpose.”

  “I hear you,” says Ford. “Everyone wants to put me in this stereotypical role of the single gay man—I don’t really like hanging out in most of the gay bars in Chelsea and am over my years of random hookups with strangers. I want a husband and a kid.”

  I frown solemnly. “Oh, God. You, too, now?”

  “Yes! That is why I continue to do what I do...get intoxicated at press events, hook up with cute young things, and hope my farmers’ market eggs en casserole brunch will woo them into a cohabitation arrangement akin to Cam, Mitchell and Lily on Modern Family.” He winks.

  I let out a huge belly laugh.

  “The strange thing is, I want it, too. I mean, someday I want a kid. But I’m not willing to give up hope of finding the right guy.”

  “You will, Lizzie. I know it.”

  “You will, too, Ford. I know it.”

  “Now, the fun part,” says Ford, thankfully changing the subject, “the part that makes all of us want to be moms and dads in the first place...”

  “The clothes?”

  “Nope...the names!” He pulls up the Baby Name Wizard book app and rattles through the “greatest hits” of the ’80s, ’90s and now. “How ’bout these ‘rising stars’—‘Allegra, Aura, Bai, Cocoa, Hyacinth, Jumbe, King,’ which happens to be the fastest rising baby name for American boys.”

  “Nooo...” I hold back a laugh.

  “Seriously. That’s what it says!

  “What about a new hipster ‘normcore’ name. ‘Gene, Frank, Bob, Gary...’”

  I turn my nose up, pulling up the app. “How about a ’90s ‘Throwback Must-See Thursday TV’ name, ‘Cody, Brandon, JR’?”

  “Oh, God...” says Ford.

  “That’s another one.”

  “What?”

  “God!” I giggle.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Yep, and that, too!” I find more, cackling out loud at the ridiculousness. “Listen to these—‘Momo, Lindberg, Lucie—’ with an e ‘—Montague, Spirit, Symphony, Schmoopie...’ That’s it,” I whisper.

  “What? Edith? Gertrude? Alice? Your favorite writers from Paris in the 1920s?”

  “No, but you’ve got excellent taste.” I give Ford a nod.

  “Well, what then?”

  “Lucie. Lucie Rose,” I say quietly, brushing a hair out of my eye.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I admit out loud. “When I was younger, I had this camp counselor named Lucy. She was British and I always wanted to be like her. She’d tell us stories of all the men she’d dated in the south of France and Greece. I always thought she was so cool. I’d love to have a daughter just like her. With the French e. And Rose is my maternal grandmother’s name. I’d like to give her a family name.” From out of nowhere, my eyes well up.

  “Uh, here. You’re tearing up,” says Ford, handing me a random napkin from Starbucks.

  “Ford, what if I have missed my window? What if this never happens for me? And instead of pushing a Bugaboo, I’m stuck writing about them forever?”

  “Well, you could always pull an Angelina,” replies Ford, trying his best to cheer me up. “And look at those women on your cover of Paddy Cakes. You mean to tell me that a forty-five-year-old woman got pregnant naturally? Really? I don’t think so. If they could get ‘pregnant,’ I’m sure by the time you’re pushing forty they’ll have invented some sperminator cocktail so potent it’ll make that healthtini you were drinking last night look like a Shirley Temple. Women will be having babies into their eighties in ten years. Just wait. If all of the business around babies keeps happening, Pfizer has to keep following, right? Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, cheering up a bit. Thankful for Ford’s comedic interventions, I click the “Baby Wizard” app closed. “I’d better go. I have to figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow with the bump.” But after Ford leaves, I pass out like a puppy dog.

  Somehow I allow the weekend’s indiscretions to evaporate and by Monday morning, on the way down Columbus Avenue toward the subway, I regain focus. I realize how many baby stores there are in my neighborhood. There’s one called Kidville that seems to be selling trendy rocker baby gear and Columbus Toys boasts all-organic wooden furniture. Another has a sign for Sophie the Giraffe, a toy we’ve featured a million times at Paddy Cakes. It’s been around for a century, is made from all natural materials, and the soft sponginess seems to soothe babies in an uncanny way. I smile. It would be the first thing I buy for little...Lucie Rose. The name I’ve secretly “chosen” for my own TBD baby pops into focus. Well, at this point, why the eff not?

  Once at work, Alix passes back her edits as per usual, but instead of reacting, I just let her talk. Life is much easier when you stay focused on the task at hand.

  All of a sudden, I see a photo text flash on my phone out of the corner of my eye. Could it be? I open it to find a gorgeous image of the sun just lighting up the sky, set behind a line of peaceful orange-robed monks taking alms.

  The sunrise in Laos...for your collection, Charlie Brown. It’s from Ryan. And sorry I couldn’t text you earlier—they bumped the shoot up and I had to take off straightaway.

  The hot orange sun in the expansive sky makes me sigh. Though my heart feels light as a feather, the bump beneath it feels like lead.

  Fourteen

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 22: Uh-oh. Get ready for some pretty gross vaginal discharge! We’re talking egg-white city! Baby Smiles: 5! [Eggs. Scared face. Rainy day. Baby bottle. Poop emojis.]

  About a week goes by with nothing from Ryan. By the next Tuesday morning, I’ve given up, only to arrive early at work to find Jules hanging up the phone at her desk, her face blotchy with tears. “Jules,” I ask, “what happened?”

  “I just heard from my gynecologist,” she says, her eyes stabbed with pain. “My AMH hormone is shockingly low and my progesterone levels are negligible. She says I have the eggs of a forty-three-year-old, which means very few and they’re most likely of poor quality.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Liz, you know what that means.”

  “That’s not what I—I...” I backtrack. “I mean, what does that mean for you.”

  “It means I’m going to have a harder time getting pregnant than most women my age. So, I have to decide if I want to start trying, like, now. Maybe even go through a round of IVF. The thing is—we really can’t afford it.”

  “What are you going to do?” I say.

  “Stick with the plan—have Henry get into business school—which will make me feel better about our financial future—and we’ll start trying after that. But he has to get in. I can’t afford to have a child and live here with Henry making his current salary. It’s not happening.”

  “Ugh,” I say lamely. Part of me understands what she’s saying, but the other part worries about how much pressure she’s putting on the situation. I stretch up, my bump inadvertently literally in her face.

  “Liz.” She straightens up before launching in. “At first I thought you were just kidding around wit
h this whole meternity, but well, for the past few weeks, it’s almost seemed as though you’re deluded into thinking some magical baby will be appearing once this is all over.”

  “Yes. Lucie Rose.” I nod, yawning.

  “Liz!” She stands, grabbing my arms. “Snap out of it. This is not really happening. The whole plan was for you to get out of here within a month.” She has the look on her face of someone trying to coax a schizophrenic into a mental institution. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’ve looked into Halpren-Davies’ policy on fraudulent health-care claims.Basically it says on-the-spot termination and they’ll sue you for the amount of salary you’re requesting.”

  I’m not expecting the Inquisition this early in the morning, but it immediately fires me up.

  “Yeah, well, what if I decide to countersue, for, for discrimination! These past few weeks, I’ve basically been put on a pedestal, and it’s all because of this bump!” I say, slapping myself in the stomach. “It’s like being pregnant gives women this get-out-of-jail-free pass. Like, oooh, no one can get mad at Pippa for not catching that extra z on the word lamaze in my story on better birthing techniques.”

  “Wasn’t that your mistake?” says Jules.

  “No matter how much of their weight we’ve pulled when they’re out, we never seem to get promoted, or even get a raise, or any notice,” I say. “At least fifteen years ago we’d have gotten their job when they left the workplace to raise their children, but now, no way would HR allow it. You just have to smile when they return and start leaving early while we’re here all hours of the night as if our lives aren’t important. Doesn’t it make you mad, too?”

  “You know it has, but, well, when you start thinking about having a family, your feelings change. I want what all the moms on staff have, but with the way things are, I can’t afford to have a baby. This effing industry,” says Jules quietly. She’s absolutely right. “I don’t know what you plan to do, Liz, but you’d better think of something soon. Maybe you might want to put aside the hookups for a while to think of a plan.”