“I will. I’m so, so sorry.”
“And if she tries to steal you to be her best friend, I’ll kick her butt.”
“There is no chance of that.” She squeezed me harder. “I’m just trying to be the bigger person. That’s all.”
We pulled apart. I took a deep breath and blew it out. “So, you’ll come over tonight? Bring me that gratitude candle? Maybe we can even do a group IM with Caressa, celebrate the fact that I can take myself off the dreaded Burger Wonder waiting list and won’t have to wear a French fry hat. Ever.”
Meryl smiled with relief. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I’ll totally need you there. This Dylan / Jennifer thing is freaking me out like you wouldn’t believe.” That inner shaking I’d felt for days returned.
“Go ask him,” she said.
I grabbed both of her hands and squished them like tension-relief balls, feeling more scared than I ever had in my life. “I’ll think about it.” Translation: The Land o’ Denial was a much more comfortable place to be, thankyouverymuch, and I’d rather just stay there for a while, bathed in my pretty illusions.
Turns out Dylan was sick of being avoided.
My super-cowardly Live in Denial plan? Denied.
When I arrived home, he was sprawled on our front steps drawing cartoon images on the soles of his tennis shoes with a red Sharpie. “Hey,” he said all casual-like, when I got out of my car and closed the door.
“Hey.” I wanted to puke.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Nothing like getting straight to the point. My throat tightened. “No, I’m not. I was looking for a job.”
“And avoiding me,” he said, accustomed to my bullshit. Trust me, his words hadn’t been a question. “All I want to know is, why? Did I do something wrong?”
He was right. We needed to get past this.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. It’s sort of the Latina way, as instilled by my paternal grandma when I was younger. If you don’t know what to say next in any given situation, offer something to eat. The direct route is for wusses. (Right.)
“If it’s not for real food, sure,” he said.
“You’re speaking my language.”
We went for a couple of scoops at I Scream, because it was a normal Dylan and Lila thing to do. Dylan ordered this enormous waffle cone concoction with so many extras, it bordered on barf-worthy. Of course, it wouldn’t put an ounce of extra poundage on the guy (argh!), because the body fat universe is not fair. I settled for a single scoop of butter pecan in a cup.
Loved the stuff. Unfortunately, I couldn’t eat it.
My throat was still clamped and my gut felt as though it was having a grand mal seizure in the middle of a mosh pit, with all kinds of stoned rock fans stomping on it. All during an earthquake. Yeah, that bad. I poked at the ice cream with my plastic spoon while it melted.
We’d taken an umbrella table on the outdoor patio, enjoying (Dylan) or pretending to enjoy (me) the warm breezes, which were, admittedly, a pleasant change from the rain we’d been having over the past week. Despite everything, it was so good to see him. I studied him from beneath my lashes. He didn’t look like a teen father to be, not that I really knew what one would look like. No giant scarlet sperm tattoo on his forehead or anything. It just didn’t seem like such a big part of him was…somewhere else. He looked exactly like my Dylan—nice, fun, weird, sexy.
And then he lunged into this enormous bite.
I shook my head, rethinking the sexy part. Ha, not really. Still, I scoffed. “You’re such a hog, Sebring.”
Unapologetic, he hiked his chin toward my cup while he chewed. Once he’d swallowed (thank goodness his mother had instilled some manners into him), he said, “You aren’t eating.”
I started to make excuses, but stopped myself. “Nope.”
“Why not?” He frowned. “The Lila Moreno I know never met a scoop of butter pecan she didn’t love.”
Now or never.
I garnered my courage. “I have to ask you something.”
I watched him freeze in mid-bite. He probably picked up on the tone or something in my words. But he didn’t seem cornered or worried or guilty. That gave me hope.
He skipped the bite. “Okay, shoot.”
Deep breath in.
Whoosh.
“I’m working with your mom for the summer.”
“Cool. I already knew because she told me.” He paused, lowered his chin. “But that’s not a question.”
My heart shook like a tambourine inside my chest cavity. Was that even safe? Like, did I need immediate medical attention? I’d find out in a moment, that’s was for sure.
“Jennifer Hamilton is pregnant,” I said in a rush, as if it were one long word: jenniferhamiltonispregnant. A German word, one of those super-gigantic compound nouns we learned about in seventh grade when we had one month each of four different languages, French, Spanish, German, and Russian.
Jenniferhamiltonispregnant.
Sprechen Sie Preggo?
He stared at me for several excruciating moments, then set down the remaining part of his porker cone. “I’d heard. But that isn’t a question either, Lila. Which brings up the point, what is your question?”
I blinked at him, feeling exposed and raw, wanting to cry and hating myself for it. Or maybe I should hate him for it. Yeah, much better plan. I mean, I’d never been a big crier. That kind of emotional display had never gone over well with four evil brothers on hand to mock and pummel me at a moment’s notice, so I’d learned to rein it in. And then along came Dylan, the one guy who made me feel all kinds of things I wasn’t used to. Yep, the crying urge? Definitely his fault.
“Lila?”
Oh yeah. The heinous conversation.
Just get it over with!
“Is it yours?” I asked finally, in a near whisper.
Dylan sat in silence so long, I started to think I’d spoken the question in Bosnian, or some other language he didn’t understand. Not that I spoke a second language with any kind of fluency, much to my bilingual dad’s chagrin, but maybe it was a stress reaction from a past life or something, during which I had spoken a different language. Tagalog or Mandarin Chinese or German, with its fun compound nouns. Or perhaps I’d just thought the question and not actually voiced it.
Maybe I was freakin’ insane.
Distinct possibility!
After a full eternity had passed, Dylan reached across the table and took my hand. “Listen to me.”
Oh no. Here it came. I braced myself as if he were going to throw a punch, tightening up the ab muscles and all that.
“Are you listening?” he asked.
“I’m listening,” I said, peevishly, to mask my abject fear.
“I never had sex with Jennifer.” Long pause. “Never. Not even close.”
Okay, stop. Rewind.
Not at all what I expected, but the pall started to lift. I tried not to smile, because that would have been crass, I think, considering the conversation. Her life’s totally screwed, but mine isn’t, and it’s all about ME ME ME—YIPPEE-KI-YAY! Just so wrong. Even if she is a hag. “You…you didn’t?”
“No. We weren’t…that close.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I thought you understood that.”
“You thought I understood it?”
He rolled his eyes. “Polly want a cracker?”
“Huh?”
“You’re repeating everything I say.”
I pulled a face. “Sorry. I’m just…I don’t know. Something. Surprised. Relieved. Stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. Don’t sweat it. But please believe me when I say there is no possible way that baby is mine,” he said, enunciating every syllable slowly. “Okay?”
“Swear it?”
“On my Olympic dreams.”
“On your—?”
“Polly,” he said, in a warning tone.
“Oops.”
He reached out and touched my cheek. “Yes, I swear it on my Olympic dreams, so stop freaking out. You have no reason to. Ask Jennifer herself if you think I’m not telling the truth.”
I huffed. “I think I’ll avoid that particular circle of hell, but thanks for the suggestion.” I exhaled a week’s worth of trauma and silently castigated myself for wasting a perfectly good scoop of butter pecan ice cream over worst-case-scenario stress.
Hand churned, people!
If Dylan was willing to swear on his goal of making the U.S. Olympic Ski Team, I had zero doubt that he was telling the truth. That’s nothing he’d take lightly. I almost felt bad for having asked him, now that it was over. I sighed. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I just…I had to know.”
“Of course. I understand.” He seemed to be contemplating digging back into the wreckage of his melting porker cone, then threw a napkin on top of it. Apparently it had lost its appeal. “If our situations were reversed, I would’ve needed to ask you, too. For my own peace of mind.”
“Good thing I’m physiologically incapable of knocking anyone up, I guess.” My tummy flipped. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have used that terminology.”
“It’s okay. Stop apologizing.”
I glanced into my cup. “My ice cream is screwed,” I groused. Oops. “No inappropriate pun intended.”
“Yeah, the pregnancy puns just seem to pop out, don’t they? Hey, there was another one. Pop out.”
We both laughed, then I said, “Gallows humor.”
“Excuse me?”
I flipped my hand. “It’s like when cops joke around on a murder scene. They call it gallows humor. I’m sure Meryl would know the derivation and so forth, but all I know is, cops do it. And not because they’re heartless jerks, but because the reality is so awful, joking around depersonalizes it.”
“Makes sense.” He started to stand. “Hang on. I’ll get you a new cup of ice cream. And a pickle. Ha ha.”
“No.” I swallowed back my need. “Just…stay with me.”
He stilled in this half-crouched pose for several seconds waiting for me to change my mind. When I didn’t, he sat. “It sucks for her, though, doesn’t it? All other things aside.”
I didn’t want to feel sympathy for Jennifer Hellspawn Hamilton, of all people, but I did. It was almost as if her pregnancy resulted in emotional stretch marks for me and my friends. Namely, Meryl. “Yeah.”
“Her senior year is going to totally blow, if she even goes to school.”
“You think she’ll drop out?” Wow. Hadn’t thought of that.
“I don’t know. But either way, she’ll have to take some time off. And it’s not like you can relive your senior year.”
“Not true. Bart Holyoke did,” I pointed out, referring to our reigning twenty-year-old senior from last year. “Twice.”
He cocked his head. “You know what I mean. Everyone thinks Bart is a joke, even though he’s nice enough. They’re going to think worse of Jennifer, and she’s going to take the full blame for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the pregnancy did take two.”
Oh. “It’s always that way with girls.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
My boyfriend—such a coolio guy.
“No, it doesn’t. But it’s still true.” I planted my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands. “Do you have any idea whose baby it is?”
He pulled his mouth sideways. “I have my suspicions, but the sad part is it could be one of several guys.”
I bugged my eyes, truly shocked by his statement. “Really? I didn’t know Jennifer was…that way.”
“She wasn’t.” He hiked one shoulder. “She took our break-up harder than I’d figured she would and went off the deep end. Which surprises me. Our relationship wasn’t some first love kind of thing, as you well know. I mean, neither of us were exactly into each other.”
“Uh, to put it mildly.” Before we were a couple, he used to confide in me all the time. I was his undateable gal pal. Holy crap, I was Alleged-Boyfriend-Ned to his Nancy! I almost laughed at that, but nipped it off. Talk about inappropriate.
For the love of God, it was almost as if I were incapable of carrying on a serious conversation. I chalked it up to being slap happy with relief, but really I think it’s because I’m not, nor will I ever be, as mature as Meryl. Smart-ass comments just live in my head, like squatters in an abandoned house. Every so often, one of them has to dart out for a six-pack of Pepsi and some chips, you know? “Usually, you could barely stand each other.”