Chapter 11

Once I accepted that short of taking up magic and learning a weather-altering spell, there was nothing I could do to make Jet Blue change their minds about canceling my flight, we made the most of Hurricane Daneen and our forced staycation in Casa Strong and Long for the weekend.

From next to Nicholas on the piano bench, I watched his long fingers tap the keys in a performance of “Piano Man.” We hoped to be inspired to choose our wedding song. So far, it wasn’t working. I’d suggested “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” or “Baby Come Back” since they were the songs we’d sang to each other in our respective grand gestures, but we agreed those lyrics weren’t declarations of love as much as expressions of apology and pleas for forgiveness—not exactly wedding appropriate. But if anyone could come up with the perfect song, it was Nicholas. I’d already done a stellar job at screwing up enough aspects of the wedding. Let Nicholas give this task his own tender loving care. I told him so after he played the final notes of the famous Billy Joel tune.

“Cut yourself some slack, Kimmie. It’s not like you did a rain dance or anything. You have no control over the weather.”

I leaned against him. “If I’d been more on the ball, the trip to Florida would have been unnecessary because I’d already have a dress. I should have stuck it out at Kleinfeld. I’m positive India would have found me a dress even Erin and Natalie would agree was ‘the one.’”

“It will all work out.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumbled as another boom of thunder sounded from outside. I pictured myself in a boring white suit like the one Carrie wore when she married Big in the Sex and the City movie. She looked elegant, but I didn’t want to wear a suit to my wedding. I was about to say this to Nicholas when my phone rang. It was Jonathan. Since he rarely called me directly, my heart raced in fear something had happened to Bridget. I answered in a shaky voice. “Hello?”

“Kim. It’s Jonathan.”

Twirling a strand of hair around my finger, I stood up and paced the living-room floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicholas, who had relocated to the couch, give me a curious look, but I was too nervous to focus on him. “What’s up?” What if something happened to the baby or Bridget?

“This might sound weird, but I’m worried about Bridget.”

“What do you mean?”

I heard him take a drag from a cigarette. “She’s so withdrawn lately. She claims her work is busy, but it’s always been that way. Part of the fun of sharing a home office is taking breaks at the same time to vent, but she keeps begging off. She says she doesn’t have time and we’ll talk later, but then she goes to bed really early. Has she said anything to you?”

I sat down next to Nicholas and covered my face with my hands, debating how to respond. If I said, “You need to ask her,” he’d know something was up. Something was up, but I promised Bridget I’d let her tell Jonathan in her own time. Too bad she was taking forever. At almost three months along, a baby bump would take the place of her normally flat stomach soon. I doubted Jonathan cared if he could bounce a quarter off Bridget’s abdominals, but he’d definitely notice the difference. “No. But I’ve been swamped with the wedding planning and stuff.” I glanced over at Nicholas who mouthed, “Tell him.” I shook my head. A best friend didn’t renege on her promises.

“Is she cheating on me?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“No!” I yelped before I could stop myself. Bridget might keep unplanned pregnancies from Jonathan, but she’d never be unfaithful to him. In a softer tone, I said, “There’s definitely no one else.”

He sighed. “What if she’s sick? She was on an antibiotic a couple weeks ago. She said it was for strep, but what if it’s more serious?”

My eyes welled up at Jonathan’s concern for Bridget. He loved her and I was positive he’d embrace the pregnancy. He just had to get used to the idea, which meant she had to tell him. But she wasn’t going to spill before we got off the phone and I couldn’t take being on the receiving end of his apprehension a minute longer. I could tell it was killing him and the guilt of enabling it wasn’t doing me any good either.

Nicholas had lost interest in the conversation and was now reading the latest issue of The Wire, an indie music magazine. I squeezed his knee until he jerked from my touch. When he caught my eye, I mouthed, “Get me off,” hoping he’d know I was referring to the phone call and not something sexual.

His eyes twinkled and I knew he was thinking the same thing. But he stood up, walked into the kitchen, and yelled, “Kim!”

Into the phone, I said, “Hold on a sec? Nicholas is calling me.” I paused for a beat. “What? I’m on the phone with Jonathan.”

“I think your roast is burning,” Nicholas said.

To Jonathan I said, “My roast is…” I blinked. My roast? I’d never cooked a roast in my life. I didn’t even know if he meant roast chicken or pot roast. My fiancé had some imagination. A giggle threatened to bubble out of me even though it was no laughing matter. Regaining my bearings, I said, “Since we were stuck inside all weekend, I decided to practice my cooking skills. Nicholas has informed me I’ve failed miserably and we can’t exactly risk our apartment going up in flames in the middle of a hurricane. Can I call you back? Where is Bridget now?”

“She’s napping—again. I’m freaking out a little. Do you promise to call me back?”

“I promise.” I was getting tired of making promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. I ended the call and faced Nicholas. “My roast is burning?”

He shrugged. “You caught me off guard. It was the best I could do.”

“It was good for a chuckle, which is more than I can say for the rest of the conversation. Bridget needs to come clean with Jonathan.”

“I agree,” Nicholas said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “What are you going to do?”

“I’d call her, but Jonathan said she was napping. She might just be avoiding him, but if she’s really asleep, I don’t want to wake her. I’ll send her a text.” I retreated to the living room where my phone was resting on the coffee table. I was afraid to say anything incriminating in case Jonathan intercepted the message, but how could I say what I wanted to say without really saying it? And then it came to me. I’d use Pig Latin. I wanted to text, “Jonathan is freaking out. You need to tell him. You won’t be able to hide it for much longer. Bridget, it’s time. Love you.” Instead, I typed, “Onathanjay isyay reakingoutfay. Ouyay eednay ootay elltay imhay. Ouyay on’tway ebay ableyay ootay idehay orfay uchmay ongerlay. Ridgetbay, it’s-yay imetay. ovelay ouyay.”

A few minutes later, Bridget wrote back. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Love you too.” Only, it said, “Ou’reyay ightray. Ovelay ouyay ootay.”