“For what?”
“Scattergories.”
“Right!” he exclaimed, then disappeared through the bedroom.
Alone for the moment, I finally applied my lip gloss and allowed myself a thought or two about Megan and Trevor. Two kids, in as many years. Before getting married, Megan had been on the fast track at the Food Network, working in what was in many ways a dream job. But her dream was a family, and she made that happen. And now she was on the baby fast track. Instead of styling artisanal cheese boards and making cream puffs puffier, she was wiping spittle and stepping on baby rattles.
I had a sudden flash image of Simon stepping on a baby rattle that Clive had stolen for his own toy and then left in his path, and I chuckled. Babies babies everywhere, and not a vodka to drink. I finished my lip gloss, twisting the cap shut with a click, and took a deep breath. I chased away rattle thoughts and indulged in a cheesesteak fantasy moment, interrupted by Simon calling out, “Idiots are here!”
Hmmm, that could be anyone—we knew a lot of idiots. Time to go kick some idiot ass in Scattergories . . .
As usual, game night ended in bloodshed. The girls went down, and went down hard. I know exactly how that sounds. But it’s true. We sucked a big fat Scattergories dick. And Pictionary dick. And Apples to Apples could very well have been renamed Dicks to Dicks. In the end, the boys won big. But once everyone was gone, and my skirt was up around my ears as Simon took his victory lap . . . ahem . . . all was right with the world.
chapter four
The following broadcast was originally aired on local San Francisco NBC affiliate KNTV . . .
“Hey there, it’s Neil coming to you live from Levi’s Stadium, where the 49ers are taking on the Seattle Seahawks, their toughest rivals in the NFC West. We’ll be with you play-by-play as these two powerhouse teams hash it out on the gridiron. But before the teams take to the field, there’s another rivalry playing out, one equally as fiercely competitive as anything inside the stadium. I’m talking, of course, about tailgating. Wieners or bratwurst? Hots or brats? We’re going to let these fans put it all on the line, and in the bun, as we taste test the best in tailgating cuisine.
“Now here we have Marcus O’Reilly, a native of the Bay Area, and a staunch hot dog supporter. He says there’s nothing like a good hot dog at a football game, isn’t that right, Marcus?”
“Oh, it sure is, Neil. A hot dog will take out a bratwurst any day of the week.”
“Those are fighting words, Marcus. And I’ll be taking a big bite out of that wiener in just a moment. Now over here we’ve got Angus Wheelwright, bratwurst enthusiast and, I understand, an amateur kickboxing champion, is that right?”
“You’re right about that, Neil. And I’m here to say that my bratwurst can kick a hot dog’s butt anywhere, anytime. Bring it, hot dog boy!”
“Whoa, whoa, fellas, let’s keep the trash talking on the field, huh? We’re just here to enjoy some delicious sausages before the big game and . . . Sorry, what’s that? I apologize, gentlemen, I’m getting some breaking news over my headphone about . . . a baby and a . . . delivery . . . van? Some kind of labor . . . dispute? Shouldn’t we be going back to the studio for this story? Wait a minute—who’s in labor? Sophia—wait, my Sophia? I’m on my way, I’m on my way! John! Gimme the van keys! Gimme the keys so I can—”
Audio is dropped at this point as the shot widens to include two confused sausage enthusiasts, three confused news crew guys, and an entire legion of tailgating fans eager to be on television, all watching as the KNTV satellite van careens away toward the on-ramp, driven by a panicked sportscaster. The last shot we can see before the feed is lost is the newscaster yelling out of the window at drivers to “Pull over, this is a baby emergency” and to “Get out of the way, for God’s sake” and “I’m having a baby! Waahooooooo!”
“Are you watching that again?”
“I can’t stop. I literally can’t stop. It’s too fantastic.”
“It is pretty great. How many hits is it up to now?” Simon asked.
“Hmm, looks like . . . Jesus Christ, it’s over thirty thousand views!” I refreshed the page and watched it climb again.
Neil finding out on air that Sophia had gone into labor had turned into YouTube gold in literally hours. It was posted within minutes of its airing here in the Bay Area, and it was all anyone in town was talking about. Sophia had texted Mimi and me, so we were already en route to the hospital when the on-air incident happened.
Unable to reach Neil, Sophia had contacted his producer, who unwisely began speaking into his ear during his broadcast. Unable to multitask at the best of times, Neil usually received very little feedback during his live segments, as he had trouble concentrating when the “little man in the booth” became the “little man in my ear.” But knowing she was in labor, they took a chance and told him.
And the world can now see what happened. His hijacking the affiliate van during the hot dog-versus-bratwurst debate had become comedy gold. Luckily, he was so beloved by viewers that the station had been flooded with emails and calls wishing Neil and Sophia luck in their special delivery.
In the meantime, I was in the hospital waiting room with Simon, Mimi, and Ryan. And I couldn’t stop watching the clip.
“He’s, like, a legitimate Internet star now,” I gushed, refreshing the page once more. “And we’re at thirty-five thousand views. This is crazy!”
“How many of those came from us?” Ryan asked, watching it on his phone.
“At least a hundred,” Mimi answered, watching it on her iPad.
Simon sat down next to me, then stood up and walked over toward the nurses’ station, scanned the hallway where our friends were, and then came to sit back down.
“Relax, babe, we’ll know something when we’re supposed to know something,” I told him.
“I know, I know,” Simon said, then looked toward the nurses’ station again. “How early was she?”
“Only a week, everything’s fine,” I answered, reaching for his hand and holding it on my lap.
“Oh I know, I know,” he said again, squeezing my hand. “I’m gonna go get some coffee, want anything?”
“I’m good, babe, go ahead. Take Ryan.”
He nodded, squeezed my hand once more, then he and Ryan headed for the cafeteria. Mimi came and sat down in front of me and leaned against my legs.
“Play with my hair,” she commanded, pulling out her ponytail and shaking it out. I ran my fingers through it, separating it for braids. She loved to have her hair braided. “Simon seems worried.”
“I think anytime anyone is in the hospital he gets a little jittery. I don’t even think he’s aware of it,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the door where they’d just left. “He’ll be fine as soon as we know how Mama’s doing.”
“It’s so crazy. I mean, this morning, Sophia was just Sophia. By tonight? She’ll be someone’s mother.”
“She might already be.”
“Shit, you’re right,” Mimi said, crossing her legs and sitting up straighter. “I always figured I’d be the first with the kiddos.”
“So did we.” I chuckled, flipping her hair under and over my fingers, weaving it into a plait.
“We’re trying, did I tell you that?”
“Shit no! When did that start?”
“Pretty much right after the honeymoon, I stopped taking the pill. We thought we’d wait at first, but we talked about it and we both want a family right away. So we figured, what the hell. Let’s do it.” She turned back to look at me over her shoulder. “And believe me, we’re doing it.”
“Atta girl,” I said, tugging on her new pigtails.
“I didn’t want to say anything until after she had the baby, you know. I didn’t want any thunder stealing.”
“I don’t think you can steal thunder when you don’t technically have thunder yet.”
“True,” she replied, then turned around as the boys came back in.
“Any news yet?” Ryan aske
d, carrying a tray of coffees. “We grabbed extra, just in case you changed your mind.”
“Nothing yet,” Mimi answered, springing from the floor to snatch up a coffee. “Come on, let’s go look at the babies behind the glass.” She led him by the hand as he handed off the tray to Simon.
“How’re you doing?” I asked him as he handed me a coffee and sat in the chair next to mine.
“Me? I’m fine, why?” he replied. I looked pointedly at his leg, which was bouncing up and down nervously. “Eh, a little edgy I guess.”
“I know.” I sighed and leaned my head on his shoulder. We sat in silence for a bit, as silent as a hospital waiting room can ever be.
“I hate hospitals,” he said, and I nodded my head against him. “I just hate them. Even good news, like this is obviously going to be, I hate being in them.”
“I can imagine,” I whispered, and looped my arm through his. He didn’t say anything else. And he didn’t have to. I sat next to him, and kept my head on his shoulder. A few minutes later, Mimi and Ryan came back in. And a few minutes after that, Neil came walking around the corner from the nurse’s station, wearing scrubs and a pie-eating grin.
“You guys want to come meet my daughter?”
Mary Jane: 6.2 pounds, 19¼ inches long. Tiny and pink, with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. And one giant voice. We didn’t stay long, since by then both sets of grandparents were swarming. But we stayed long enough to see both Sophia and the baby. Each of us got to take a turn holding her; each got to take a turn hugging Neil, who was Mr. Waterworks. There were many dudes said, many backslaps and half hugs exchanged. And when the four of us finally left the new parents, we were exhausted. Not as exhausted as Sophia, but tired nonetheless.
We said good night, or good morning actually, to Ryan and Mimi, and headed back across the bridge to Sausalito. The sky was just beginning to lighten, just a barely lighter gray than the rest of the sky. Simon was pretty quiet, although he’d been so happy at the hospital. He’d held Mary Jane as long as they would let him. He was so gentle and sweet, nervous, sure, but willing to try it. Did my eyes fill a bit? Oh my goodness, yes. Simon? Holding a baby girl? It was like a bomb of cute went off inside me. Still, he was quiet now. Thoughtful.
I pushed the door open first, bracing myself for a rush toward my ankles. First came Norah, our sweet little calico. Always the first to greet, she trotted over and promptly laid on top of my feet, rolling back and forth in delight that her people were home. Only a few seconds later, in strolled Ella, long and lean and beautiful. She headed straight for Simon, as ever. She was a one-woman cat for sure. She tolerated me, but she adored Simon. Thumping down the stairs one at a time came Dinah, meowing and chirping at the top of her lungs, seeming to say “Hello hello, where have you been? Hello hello, why did you leave? Hello hello, why would anyone ever leave here?”
“Hi, sweet girls, how’ve you been? Did you miss us?” I cooed, scooping up both Norah and Dinah, while Ella languished in Simon’s arms like she was born to be placed there. And on the landing, just around the corner, sat Clive. Calmly licking his paws and staring at us all with bland disinterest.
When Clive ran away last year, we had been devastated. He was lost for weeks, and while we had kept up the search, over time I had to admit that the chances of him ever returning were growing slimmer by the day. Until one night when he surprised us both by just waltzing into the backyard and back into our lives. And he wasn’t traveling alone. No sir, my boy had been busy squiring half the town. He’d brought home not one girlfriend, but three. And as ridiculous at it seemed at the time, adopting three more cats into our household had proved to be a wonderful idea. Now Clive had his harem, and we had three more personalities to keep us entertained. And entertained we were, on the daily.
“Are you hungry? I can make you something,” I offered as we all headed into the kitchen. Clive in tow now as well, winding his way through my ankles in greeting.
“I don’t think so,” Simon replied, looking out the bay window, still holding Ella.
“Okay, I’m going to go run through the shower real quick then before bed.”
“Okay, babe,” he said, and before I went upstairs I went to him.
“Love you,” I whispered, planting a kiss on his neck.
“Love you,” he replied.
I left him standing by the window, thinking his thoughts, whatever they might be. In the time I’d been with Simon, I’d learned that sometimes he just went inside himself a little, needed a moment or two alone when something was particularly emotional. Like today had been. He’d talk when he was ready.
I dragged myself up the stairs, straightening a painting as I went. Living in Northern California, we might not feel every earthquake tremor, but I was constantly straightening frames. As I walked into our bedroom, I sighed as I always did at the sight of it. Soft area rugs laid over gorgeous deep-toned wood floors, puddles of linen hanging from the rods over the windows that looked out over the bay and, in the distance, San Francisco. I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my clothes, and headed into the bathroom, where I flipped on the steam shower and let the glass begin to cloud. I yawned as I dragged a brush through my hair, trying to get most of the snarls out before getting it wet. I might have to take a personal day today, stay in bed. I was beat. I could hear Simon walking up the stairs, and I called out to him.
“I’m getting in, babe, if you want to join me. You know, for conservation’s sake only. No ulterior motive at all.” I laughed silently to myself as I heard his steps quicken, and I slipped in before he got to the bathroom. I stood under the spray, eyes closed, letting the warm water sweep down over my tired muscles. I heard him enter the room, heard the sound of his shoes kicking off, heard the sound of his belt buckle jingling, heard the slide of denim moving down down down and then hitting the floor. I heard the shower door creak open on the other side of the steam and I smiled underneath the spray, raising my hands to my hair and arching backward in a very specific way. I was tired, sure. But I was never too tired for his hands and his mouth and his everything else he had to offer. So I arched. And waited. And arched some more. And still, waited. I peeked out from underneath the water, and he stood there. His eyes poured over my skin, his mouth set . . . and tense.
“Babe?” I asked, leaning forward to wrap my hands around the back of his neck, just as his hands slipped around my waist, fingers digging into my skin. “You okay?”
Water poured down over both of us, wetting his skin, sliding against mine as the steam created a little puffy cloud of our very own. The shower disappeared, the world disappeared, and in the middle of that world it was just me and my Simon. His lips parted, one stream of water trickling down, wetting his lips and making them irresistible to mine. But before I could bring my mouth to his, he spoke.
“Marry me.”
A statement. Not a question. It came again.
“Marry. Me.” His eyes burned into mine.
I breathed in, my ears ringing. My pulse sped up, my heart raced, I was trying to remember exactly what breathing meant. I was wet, and I was gasping.
“I want you. I want that, what they had today. I want it all, and I want it with you. I want you, want you to be my wife. I’ve got a ring, I’ll give it to you right now if you’ll say yes.” With every word, his hands tightened on my hips, desperate, crazy, longing. “I had this all planned out, so much smoother and romantic and everything you deserve. But my head’s been spinning since yesterday, when I saw my best friend steal a van to go meet his new family. And all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is exactly that. Exactly you. And when I walked up those stairs, and heard the shower go on, and knew you were in here all naked and wet and waiting for me, I knew I couldn’t wait another day, another hour, another minute, without asking you to be my wife. So. Marry. Me.”
He knelt. Christ on a crutch, he knelt on the shower floor, where he had knelt countless times before . . . ahem . . . took my hand, and repeated those words again. Finally, wit
h a question mark at the end.
“Marry me?”
And in that moment, I realized all the worrying, all the hand wringing and wonder ponder, all the thoughts about who says what’s right for a couple, and when is it too soon, and when is it the right time, and if it ain’t broke don’t blah blah blah. Fuck all that noise. It wasn’t about what was right for other couples, it was about what was right for us. Simon and me. Because when Wallbanger kneels down and asks you to be his wife, it’s not really something you need to think too long on.
Funny thing about getting proposed to in a shower. You can’t tell which is water and which is tears.
I said yes, and then he kissed me. I said yes, and then he touched me. I said yes, and then he slipped inside me. I said yes, yes, yes, and then he loved me.
Sometime later, he carried me to our bed, took a ring from his bedside table, and slid it onto the fourth finger of my left hand. It was shiny and sparkly and perfect and beautiful and looked amazing when I was clutching his backside as he pressed into me again.
“I can’t believe . . . you asked me . . . to marry you . . .” I panted as he thrust hard.
“Believe it, babe,” he murmured, rolling us both so that I was perched on top of him.
“I can’t believe . . . how lucky . . . I am . . .” I panted once more, getting into my rhythm.
“Wrong.” He sat up underneath me, driving deeper into my body. “I’m the lucky one.” I gasped, he groaned, and my hips went wild.
“I can’t believe . . . you’re going to be . . . Simon . . . Reynolds . . .”
Yeah, I got rolled over for that one.
I made my fiancé scrambled eggs for breakfast. Can you believe that? Not the scrambled eggs part, although they were pretty unbelievable. Old Barefoot Contessa trick. Beat the eggs with a few tablespoons of cream, then gently pour into a buttered pan, stirring lightly over low heat. Perfect eggs, every time. À la Ina. À la sparkly ring. À la 2.5 carat cushion cut on a platinum band. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I added some kosher salt to the eggs. I marveled at my ring in front of the salt box, noting how nice it looked next to the Morton’s girl. I added a twist or two of freshly ground cracked pepper. I gazed at how my ring caught the light and made tiny rainbows on the countertop.