“Hey, Wren.”
“Whadya got for me today?”
He ran a hand through his jet-black hair and took a deep, calming breath before speaking. “Don’t deny the world your gifts. Step into your greatness.”
“Hell yeah. Will do.”
Tristan was the douchiest sales bro in the entire city, Wren was sure of it. She didn’t know if he actually worked in sales, but the title seemed fitting. He did business, that’s all she knew. And apparently did it quite well. More interesting to her, he was a grab bag of personal trainer catchphrases. A self-development podcast come to life. A walking acai-berry smoothie. She was endlessly tickled by him, and though she hated to admit it, he pulled the ridiculous car off pretty well through sheer earnestness or at least a profound and enduring commitment to the bit.
“You sure you don’t need help cleaning up?” he offered. “I don’t mind.”
“You guys go; I’ve got Arthur.”
Somewhere inside the building, a tumbling sound rangout, like an aluminum cake stand falling down a long flight of stairs.
Wren watched them drive off, and soon enough Arthur was back by her side, panting, sweating, greatly disheveled from a half dozen trips carrying things inside and up the stairs.
“Charlie can’t stay?” he asked. She shook her head. “Well, maybe they’re just in a hurry,” he offered.
“Tristan didn’t seem to be. He offered to help clean up.”
“He offered towhat?”
“Nothing.”
Arthur was still out of breath and looked briefly annoyed before softening.
“I’m sorry,” he said, throwing an arm around her. “I’m sure you guys will figure it out.”
There wasn’t much to figure out. Wren hadn’t planned on getting pregnant, hadn’t planned on the due date being so close to Charlie and Tristan’s wedding (September 3 and September 12, respectively). She’d give anything to be there, but there was a 99 percent chance it just wouldn’t be possible. In another world, she would have been the maid of honor, and if not that, then definitely the drunkest at the bachelorette party. Instead, she wasn’t even in the wedding party. Eventually, Charlie would realize that it wasn’t Wren’s fault. Eventually, she’d come around.
“I know what’ll cheer you up,” Arthur said. “Opening presents.”
“I feel worse.”
Wren had initially been optimistic, and excited even. There was a Target gift card, which was always fun, and a high-endbottle of wine for her to drink literally as soon as medically permissible.
But things went downhill from there. A four-pack of Aquaphor jumbo tubs. A rectal thermometer that looked like an elephant.
But it was the jar of nipple cream that really did her in.
“Where is all the cool shit?!” Wren whined, tossing wrapping paper into the air and out of the way as if sifting through a mound of feces for something, anything better.
“Admittedly, it’s a little dry,” Arthur said, holding a package that contained a long blue tube with what looked like a mouthpiece at the end. “But this is all important stuff we’re going to need. You could have helped me with the registry, you know.”
“I’m the mom. I don’t need some list on a random blog to tell me what my baby needs. I have millions of years of evolutionary wisdom stored in my DNA.”
“OK,” he said. “Then what’s this?” He held up the blue tubey thing.
“A straw,” Wren said confidently. “For breast milk.” She mimed popping one end of it onto her nipple. “That way, your arms don’t get tired from holding the baby. It can just lie down and chill while it eats.”
“So close,” Arthur said. “It’s for sucking boogers.” Wren retched dramatically.
In reality, she knew they needed all this junk. She’d read the stupid lists. But, come on, itwasboring. And worse, the whole pregnancy had been dreadfully boring. Nausea and aches and pains and being really tired all the time was hardly the adventure of a lifetime she was hoping for the day she found out she was pregnant. Today, at least, she would haveloved more of an ironic baby shower, like one of those “Over the Hill” birthday parties where you gave people piles of gag gifts. She wanted a comically large bra with a beer tap on each nipple, a pair of mom jeans that came up to her ribs. A wineglass the size of a globe, preferably one that said something stupid on the side, likeWhen the kids whine, mom wines.
Worst of all, she was not gifted a single piece of “Live Laugh Love” paraphernalia.
“This one, though,” Arthur said, ignoring her and scooting over a gigantic box wrapped in adorable stork wrapping paper. “This one looks like fun. Help me open it.”
