Chapter 16

“Start at the beginning. When did you first find out?” Caroline asked, before reaching into a bowl of assorted raw nuts on Bridget’s coffee table.

Now that Jonathan was in the know, Bridget was more open about her pregnancy. She had me and Caroline over for snacks a few nights later. In keeping with her nutritionist’s orders, the menu consisted of the raw nuts, a fruit and cheese platter, peanut butter and whole-wheat crackers, and caffeine-free sparkling fruit juice.

While we nibbled, Bridget caught Caroline up on everything I already knew. She was now at the part where Jonathan kicked me out of the emergency room. “I was positive he was going to yell at me,” she said, covering her face with her long red hair as if embarrassed. “I’d never seen him so angry.”

“It was obvious to me he was more hurt than anything else, Bridge. Although, I’m afraid there’s a picture of me with dart holes piercing my face somewhere in this apartment. It’s me he’s mad at, not you.” I took a sip of juice. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through at least six more months of strictly non-alcoholic get-togethers with Bridget. Of course, I would never encourage her to drink during her pregnancy. I just assumed it would be years before we’d be in that position, if ever, considering their previous negative stance on children.

Bridget frowned. “He’ll get over it, but I’m sorry I put you in a position to keep my secrets.”

“I’d bet money he didn’t yell at you. Jonathan?” Caroline scrunched her face. “No way.”

I tended to agree with Caroline, but with her higher salary as Vice President of a Fortune 500 company, she could better afford to place a wager on it. I also knew much of Jonathan’s calm demeanor was marijuana induced. I was pretty sure even if he’d toked up during the afternoon, being summoned to the ER followed by news of his expectant girlfriend sobered him up pretty darn quick.

“We were eerily silent on the walk back to our apartment. A million thoughts ran through my head, but I took it as a good sign when he held my hand the entire way,” Bridget said.

Caroline and I nodded our agreement.

“When we arrived home, he got me settled on the couch, poured us both a cup of green tea, and said we had a lot to discuss.” She closed her eyes for a beat. When she opened them, she pushed her lips together and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “In a nutshell, he said he’s okay with having a baby, but he needs time to adjust to the idea because it wasn’t the life he thought he’d live. He took some responsibility for me keeping it from him, given his blatant disgust for other people’s babies, but ours would be different. Then he made me promise never to keep anything so important from him again.”

Caroline and I locked eyes for a moment and I wondered if she was thinking the same thing as me: Jonathan was “okay” with having a baby?

As if reading my mind, Bridget said, “It wasn’t the worst-case scenario I feared, but being ‘okay’ with having a baby is not the same as wanting it.” She looked from me to Caroline with haunted green eyes. “What if he doesn’t love our baby? What if he doesn’t love me anymore, but is only sticking around because it’s the right thing to do?” Her face contorted and she burst into tears.

I moved closer to her on the couch and pulled her close to me. Stroking her hair, I said, “Don’t be silly. He loves you. He’ll love both of you.” I hoped I sounded more convinced than I felt.

As if on autopilot, Bridget stopped crying, removed herself from my embrace, and stood up. She wiped the corners of her eyes and clapped her hands together. “Enough about me. What’s going on with you guys?”

Caroline and I exchanged curious glances we hoped were subtle enough to go unnoticed by Bridget. “Nothing new with me, but The Society of Features Journalism nominated Felix for an award.” Caroline’s face radiated pride at her husband’s achievements.

“Awesome!” I said.

“We’ll have to celebrate when he wins,” Bridget said.

Caroline grinned. “Absolutely.” She motioned toward me. “What’s new on your end? How’s the wedding planning going? Making progress on book two?”

If someone asked me the two topics of conversation I’d least like to discuss, it would be wedding planning and writing, but circling back to Bridget’s problems to avoid my own would be mean. “The cake we ordered is superb. It’s pink.”

Bridget looked at me fondly. “Of course it is.”

“What about the dress?” Caroline asked.

After everything she’d been through, I was hesitant to tell Bridget she was responsible for cutting short yet another one of my attempts to suit up for my wedding. “It’s magnificent,” I lied. “I don’t have pictures of it with me, but I’ll take some at my next fitting.” I swallowed down the unease of being dishonest. Bridget had been so hurt when I lied about having dinner with Hannah the year before and I promised never to do it again. I’d tell her once she felt better about the baby. Swiftly, changing the subject, I said, “Natalie reserved a restaurant for the rehearsal dinner and shockingly, it’s normal. And Nicholas and I are going to register this weekend.” I instantly felt a pick-me-up from focusing on the positive. I decided to stay on the “glass is half full” course for the remainder of the evening.

“I’m so jealous,” Caroline and Bridget said in unison.

“I’m not sorry I didn’t have a wedding, but the whole registering process seems like fun,” Caroline went on.

I smiled wryly. “I’ll let you know.” I spread some peanut butter on a cracker.

“And the writing is going well?”

In the instant the words slipped off Caroline’s tongue, my face fell, and along with it went my intentions to focus on the positive. I let the cracker slip through my fingers and on to the plate in front of me.

Caroline’s blue eyes widened. “What’s wrong, Kim?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t confessed to anyone, not even Nicholas, how blocked I was. They were my friends. Wasn’t it in their job description to offer advice?

“Kim?” Caroline repeated.

I chewed my lip. “The truth is I’m having a bit of trouble with the writing.” I went on to describe my attempts to learn from the negative reviews for A Blogger’s Life by adding a less whimsical secondary plot to Love on Stone Street. “My editor and agent hated both ideas and now I’m completely stuck. It’s like I lost my voice.” It was the first time I’d vocalized my fear. My chest hitched and I brought a shaky hand to my forehead.

“For the non-writers in the house, what do you mean by ‘lost your voice’?” Bridget asked.

I picked up my abandoned cracker and popped it in my mouth. I gathered my thoughts while I chewed and swallowed. “It’s hard to describe, but until recently, my characters would speak to me almost constantly—while making copies for Rob, during sprints in spin class, sometimes even during sex.”

The girls giggled.

Joining in their mirth, I said, “Don’t tell Nicholas” before becoming serious again. “I could see my scenes play out in my head before I even sat down to write. Sometimes, my characters would have extended conversations on my commute to the office. If it didn’t work on the page, I always came up with a better alternative. Now it’s like my characters went on strike. They’re ignoring me.”

“Have you told Felicia?” Bridget asked.

I shook my head. “It’s not her problem. She’s my agent, not my shrink. I’m the writer. I need to write.”

“You have to talk to someone about it,” Caroline urged.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.” I dropped my gaze to the floor.

Caroline placed her hand over mine. “Of course, and we’re happy to listen, but maybe other authors would be able to give you advice. What author hasn’t experienced writer’s block?”

Hannah Marshak. I thought it, but didn’t say it out loud.

“Aren’t there writers’ groups on Facebook you can join?” she asked.

“I’m on some of them.” I was a member of several Facebook groups for authors and bloggers devoted to the chick lit, women’s fiction, and romantic comedy genres.

“You should post about your blockage on one of them,” Caroline said. “They’re all authors too. I’m sure they’ve been where you are and gotten through it.”

“You make it sound like Kim’s constipated.” Bridget giggled. “But I agree with Caroline, K. I bet your fellow writers could help you.”

“You’re right. I will.” This was another lie, but I knew the surest way to move on to a less tumultuous topic of conversation was to agree with my besties. I’d be too ashamed to tell other authors I had writer’s block. What if it got back to the publisher and Felicia? Or worse, Hannah? But I’d do some lurking. Maybe another author, one clearly less worried about what others thought of her, already did the work for me.