“Me neither,” Wyatt adds. Shelby suggests a girls’ night in, withcaramel popcorn and whatever movie Clementine wishes, and then Wyatt and I head out.
On the train into the city I make him promise this is only about my birthday—I’m not ready to share the pregnancy news yet—and he assures me that’s all this is. I send Dale a note of thanks, and he quickly responds withYou’re welcome! Curtis says you have to get the tarte tatin. Nonnegotiable.I promise I will.
—
Like many restaurants, Ciel de Terre uses augmented reality to enhance the dining experience. Tonight Wyatt has requested a “Musée d’Orsay” table, as a nod to my love of the famed Parisian gallery. I once visited Paris with my mother when I was eleven; she had to accompany a painting being loaned from Toronto’s museum to the Musée d’Orsay. As the gallery’s senior conservator, she was responsible for the safety and well-being of the art, from packaging it for travel to its installation in the Parisian exhibit.
I roamed the gallery alone, my mother occupied with work, in awe of the art housed in the beautiful old train station. Mesmerized, I spent hours with Edgar Degas’s statuePetite danseuse de quatorze ans, Claude Monet’sFemme à l’ombrelle tournée vers la droite, Auguste Renoir’sBal du moulin de la Galette, Vincent van Gogh’sVaches dans un pré. My favorite was a piece titledFleurs étranges, by French symbolist artist Odilon Redon. By the day’s end I told my mom I wished to live at the Musée d’Orsay, and she laughed, her Parisian colleague stating, “Telle mère, telle fille.”Like mother, like daughter.
“A toast to my beautiful wife and another year around the sun,” Wyatt starts, holding up a glass of deep-burgundy Bordeaux. He’s ordered two bottles for the table. I’m having nonalcoholic champagne, which is delightful and barely distinguishable from the real thing.
Everyone raises a glass.
“Everything that’s good in my life is because of you. You’ve mademy dreams come true, and you’ve done it with such strength, determination, and grace,” Wyatt continues.
I tear up, emotion welling inside me. With a small laugh I wipe at my eyes with the napkin Kat hands me, embarrassed by the display even among dear friends.
“To Tilly,” Nick adds. “Happy birthday, andhappy baby!” He winks at me, claps Wyatt on the back with his other hand. There’s a moment of surprised silence, and then everyone is talking at once at the unexpected reveal.
Happy birthday, happy baby!they repeat, clinking glasses around the table, offering me and Wyatt congratulations. I don’t know what to do with my face, my anger all-consuming and surely darkening my expression. I can’t look at Wyatt, my hand holding the champagne glass quivering, as Iclink,clink,clink. I only manage a smile when Maeve’s hand reaches my leg under the table, giving a small squeeze of support.
—
“I’m going to bring you the ring myself,” Nick says between bites of his mile-high mille-feuille dessert, the custard dotted with bright red raspberries.
“What a great idea,” Kat says, slicing her fork into the dessert they’re sharing.
My insides constrict at the mention of the ring. I don’t tell them I haven’t yet signed up for MotherWise.This week, I promise, I told Wyatt when he brought it up, again. How can I explain the superstition that has gripped me? With Poppy, once my perspective shifted on the pregnancy, I couldn’t wait to make that call. This time…whenever I think about MotherWise I hesitate. I’m not ready, and besides, there’s no rush. I technically have until thirty weeks to sign up.
“That’s a long way away,” I say to Nick, taking another bite of the tarte tatin even though I’m full. The caramelized apples are perfectlyspiced, nestled into a buttery crust that melts in my mouth. Wyatt catches my eye, and I can’t read his face. Later, he’ll confess he told Nick when they played pickleball the day after the positive test, unable to hold back his excitement. My anger lessens, because I also told Maeve. It isn’t only my news to share, though I wish Wyatt had asked Nick to use discretion. It is decidedly nothisnews to share.
“It will be here before we know it,” Wyatt says, and Kat murmurs how true that is. I try to swallow the tarte tatin, the bite glomming in my throat.
“You’re catching up to us, Tilly,” Nick says. “But we’re not done yet, so best keep at it, you two.” Kat smiles in a way that makes me wonder if there’s more to that comment.
“I’d love three. Maybe even four,” Wyatt replies. My tepid smile wanes, for this should be our third baby.Why does it feel like I’m the only one who remembers that?
“Who wouldn’t?” Nick says, going back to his dessert.
“Me. I wouldn’t.” Jenn raises one hand and sips her coffee. She often pushes Nick on this topic whenever we all get together. They are polarized on the program, and for Jenn, the main issue comes down to overreach. “The government shouldn’t be this involved with our uteruses” is a statement she has made more than once.
“Well, luckily you’re in the minority, Jenn,” Nick says, forking an icing-sugar-dusted raspberry before shifting the conversation back to me. “We’re working on more incentives, including a six-month extension for NourishBoxes. It will be up and running soon—well before you deliver, Tilly. People are excited.”
“Another six months is a big deal. Nick’s been instrumental in getting it to this point,” Kat says, glancing at her husband. They exchange a smile before she turns back my way. “I’ve loved the boxes, personally. And the program. Just wait, Tilly. You’ll see.”
“You can dress it up in whatever costume you want, Nick, or add a dozen new incentives, but it’s still about control,” Jenn says. “Weshould all stay vigilant, if you ask me. These things have a way of snowballing.”
Nick sighs quietly, and I see Kat nudge him gently. The waiter arrives then to check in on dessert and coffee refills, thankfully inserting a break in the conversation before it can escalate.
“He makes it so easy,” Jenn whispers my way, after Maeve mouths—for Kat’s sake, and also probably mine—for her partner to leave it be. She smiles then. “But fine. I can play nice. Itisyour birthday, and I love you.”
Jenn is petite with fiery red hair, which also matches her personality. I adore Maeve’s partner of three years, finding her both refreshingly different from many of my women friends, as well as incredibly empathetic.She’s the ride-or-die sort, Maeve told me after her first few dates with Jenn had gone well.You know that’s my love language.
For this reason alone Jenn will always get a pass with me, even when she’s needling Nick at my birthday dinner. I don’t disagree with her take on MotherWise, but I also know I’m biased, as a newly pregnant mother. The perksaretantalizing, and the benefits hard to ignore.
I also know that Nick is a wonderful husband to Kat and father to their kids, and that she’s as happy in her marriage and family as one can be. Not to mention, my husband values his long friendship with Nick. Both reasons I typically give Nick a pass for his insensitivity and at times clueless remarks.
“Jenn, you keep telling us you never want kids, but how does the saying go?” Nick asks, scraping his fork through a swirl of custard on the plate. He grins at Jenn. “Thou doth protest too much.”
