“I’ve never missed anything as much as I miss margaritas.” Elle tucks a hand under her chin and gazes at Sam’s spicy jalapeño drink. “I can sniff one, though, right? Margarita fumes can’t hurt the baby?”
Laughing, Sam slides her margarita under Elle’s nose. “I think it’s safe to take a whiff.”
We’re clustered around a table at Liberty Tavern in Powell, a stone’s throw from the zoo. Gleaming wood surfaces and a red-brick wall lend the bar a rustic vibe, and a painting of a disco-dancing Statue of Liberty adds a dash of eclectic patriotism.
I sip my strawberry-basil vodka lemonade and slide a plate of buffalo chicken tots toward Elle. “Here. These will lessen the pain.”
Sighing, she pops one into her mouth. “Want to hear something awful? Today I was leading a bunch of day campers to Polar Frontier, and when I sneezed, a little bit of pee came out. I thought that only happened after you push a baby out, but I was wrong. So that’s where I am now: I can’t drink margs or control my bladder. I’m basically a toddler in a grown woman’s body.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Want me to order some pretzel bread?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe later. But I shouldn’t complain. I don’t want to bore you guys with my lame preggo problems.”
“One, your problems are our problems,” Sam assures her. “And two, don’t worry about a little urinary incontinence now and then. It’ll all be worth it when your kiddo arrives, and then we can pop a high chair right here and introduce Elle Jr. to the wonders of seafood nachos.” She pats the open space next to the table like she’s patting the head of an invisible toddler.
I chew a tot, trying not to stress about how my friendship with Elle might change once her baby arrives. I’m thrilled for her and Nadeem, but I worry that once there’s an adorable baby in the mix, Elle and I will grow apart. After all, even the easiest kids suck up their parents’ time and energy, and that doesn’t leave much room for hanging out in my office while we eat tacos and gossip about work.
Plus, I worry that my easygoing, fashion-forward friend will transform into an overworked, underappreciated, over-puked-on mombie who refers to kids as “littles” and never gets a break. What if Elle trades her beloved romance novels for spit-covered board books and never picks them up again? What if she gets so beat down by the daily grind of pumping and feeding and diaper changing that she trades her stylish outfits for ratty T-shirts and the khaki pants she’s always giving me shit about?
It’s fine if she wants those things; being childfree doesn’t mean I dislike kids or think no one else should have them. But time and time again, I’ve watched female colleagues and acquaintances trade their cherished hobbies and ambitions for Mama Bear T-shirts and Mommy Fuel wineglasses. First it was Tracy from Reptiles, who spearheaded a loggerhead sea turtle research project in Mexico until she became a mom and found it too difficult to travel. Then there was Nona’s neighbor Akemi, who quit teaching her weekly aerial yoga class and started calling her husband’s attempts to care for their kids “helping out.” And then, of course, there was Nick, who looked at me like I was missing a femininity chip when I refused to budge on the issue of children.
Babies are great for people who want them. But we live in a world that still expects more of moms than dads, and while I have every confidence in Nadeem’s ability to be an equal team player, I don’t want Elle to lose her identity to motherhood.
And selfishly, I don’t want to lose any of her, either.
“So, Luce, spill: what happened at your meeting?” Elle asks, perhaps noticing the color draining from my face and deciding to change the subject.
I down my lemonade. “I’m going to need a stronger drink.”
After ordering a cherry sour, I give them a rundown of the day, from Phil’s announcement that I get to work with baby Keeva to how I almost ate shit when I tripped on Scotty’s skateboard.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Sam says when I’m done, “but how in the world did the first animal fact you thought of involve a pseudopenis?”
Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t know. But now there’s video evidence of me talking about how female hyenas get erections. I’m not sure I can look Phil in the eyes ever again.”
Sam laughs. “Doesn’t he have five kids? I’m sure he’s pretty familiar with erections.”
That’s the last thing I want to think about, so I take a bite of my salmon watermelon salad and try to chew the pain away.
“It’s cool of Kai to offer his help,” Elle says, changing the subject before Sam can unleash her arsenal of dick jokes.
She smiles so widely that arguing with her would be like telling Pollyanna to go fuck herself, so I make my tone gentle. “Did you miss the part where he bragged about his Emmys and called me a coward?”
“To be fair,” Sam says, “if I had an Emmy, I’d brag about it, too. I’d carry it around with me and make people kiss it.”
“And he didn’t call you a coward,” Elle adds. “It sounds like he was trying to get you fired up.”
“I’m sorry, but aren’t you guys supposed to be on my side?” I ask. “It’s like the cardinal rule of friendship that if one of us hates someone, the rest of us hate them, too. That’s why we all loathe most of Sam’s exes and that blond lady at Whole Foods who’s always hitting on Nadeem.”
“Erika from Prepared Foods,” Elle mutters, gritting her teeth like she’s saying Pansy Parkinson from Slytherin. “May she choke on her unscented organic toothpaste.”
It’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard her say, and she blushes when Sam and I do a double take. “Sorry. Pregnancy hormones.”
“I’m happy to hate anyone you do, minus a few exceptions, Luce,” Sam says. “Like if you suddenly started hating Malala Yousafzai or Sandra Bullock, I don’t think I could agree. Honestly, I’m not sure I can make myself hate Kai just yet.”
“Excuse me,” I say, stealing the tot Sam was reaching for, “but did you just compare Kai Bridges to America’s sweetheart and the girl who stood up to the Taliban?”
“No,” she says quickly, sipping her margarita. “I mean, sort of? I’m just saying that some people are really tough to dislike.”
“We’re on your side, but I think you’re being rough on Kai,” Elle clarifies. “It’s hard to imagine that a guy who rescues dogs like Penny can be all that terrible.”
“Ted Bundy volunteered at a suicide prevention hotline,” I argue. “John Wayne Gacy threw block parties for his neighbors.”
Sam stares at me in disbelief. “Seriously? You’re comparing Kai to Ted Bundy?”
My cheeks grow warm as Elle’s eyes widen in horror. “No, I’m just pointing out that plenty of people hide shady behavior behind a good public image.”
“Come on, look at this week’s edition of Kai’s newsletter,” Sam says, picking up her smartphone. “He’s hardly the spawn of Satan.” Before I can blink, I’m staring at the image of a beaming Kai posing with an adorably fluffy, wide-eyed baby capybara. Click to learn more about the Reizer Ridge Capybara Rescue!, a caption underneath reads, and the little rodent’s so disarmingly cute that I’m almost tempted to click the link.
Instead, I take a sip of cherry sour. “Cool. Maybe after Phil kicks me to the curb, you can frame that picture for me to put in my bedroom.”
“It would be a step up from your *NSYNC poster,” Elle grumbles, then pats my hand in apology. “Sorry. Like I said, it’s the hormones. Anyway, Luce, if you really think Kai’s awful, then I think I speak for both Sam and me when I say that we hope he balds prematurely.”
“Or gets lice and has to shave all his hair off,” Sam adds with a nod. “Including his eyebrows.”
“But I think you should consider the possibility that he’s not,” Elle continues, popping the last tot into her mouth. “Because you do have a tendency to assume the worst of people.”
I slide my sweet potato fries farther away from her. “I do not.”
Sam fixes me with a skeptical look. “Remember my ex-girlfriend Magdalene? You thought she was cheating on me when you saw her holding hands with another woman at Café Elena, and it turned out the other woman was her grandmother.”
“Okay, in my defense, her nana looked really good for seventy,” I argue. “And Magdalene was a little shifty. Nobody wins that many rounds of Bananagrams without breaking the rules.”
“Well, what about that time you found Lottie sneaking into your office after hours?” Elle asks. “You thought she was trying to steal data from your spreadsheets, but she was actually just decorating it for your birthday.”
I shift in my seat. “Okay, yes, that was a bad misjudgment. But in my defense, I’d only been working with her for a few months at that point.”
“You hate Mr. Rogers, Luce,” Sam says. “Mr. Rogers.”
“I do not hate Mr. Rogers,” I retort. “I just find it unsettling that he’s always taking his clothes off and putting new ones on. Like, at some point pick an outfit and call it a day, you know?”
Sam and Elle, who clearly do not know, stare at me with eyes as wide as the baby capybara’s.
“But, um, I guess I see your point,” I relent, picking at my fries. “I do rush to judgment sometimes.”
“And you love a good grudge,” Sam agrees.
She’s right: I can hold a grudge like nobody’s business. It’s why I refuse to even meet Karina for coffee despite the hundreds of invitations she’s extended, and why I’ll never forgive Sarah Jessica Parker for making Sex and the City 2.
I’m as stubborn as a wolverine, even if it takes my friends’ guidance for me to admit it.
“Don’t deprive yourself of an opportunity because you dislike Kai,” Elle says. “If he turns out to be the world’s biggest jerk, we’ll put Tabasco sauce in his coffee. But jerk or not, he can help you get your promotion.”
“Tabasco sauce?” Sam asks. “Hell, I’m going with ghost pepper.”
Before I can suggest something a bit stronger, like cyanide, Elle spots Ashley from Aquatics, another zoo employee, entering the tavern.
“Ash!” she calls, waving her over.
When Ashley joins our table, still smelling vaguely of fish from the sea lions’ evening feed, the conversation shifts to an upcoming girls’ trip to Nashville—one I was invited on but can’t swing with my work schedule. As my friends chatter about honky-tonk bars and the Grand Ole Opry, I eat my salad and reflect on their advice.
Maybe they’re right. After all, I did password-protect my spreadsheets after I spotted Lottie leaving my office four years ago, and she was only putting balloons and a plate of butterscotch cookies on my desk. Maybe I got so burned by Karina letting me down all those years ago and Nick bailing on me last winter that I’ve started writing people off before they have a chance to disappoint me.
But so what? There’s no rule that I have to like Mr. Rogers or give anyone—even baby-capybara-hugging Kai—the benefit of the doubt. Because I know something my friends don’t: that at the end of the day, no matter how good someone looks in a safari hat or how swiftly they change Trudy’s flat tire or how sincerely they look into your eyes and promise that they’ll be back to pick you up from Nona’s in a week, no later, they swear, the only person you can count on is yourself.