Making plans

Some bread and olives arrive, and you realize how hungry you are having not eaten since last night. Gwen puts you at ease with cackling small talk about her studies, her friends, her ex, and gradually you come down from the buzzing heights that you ascended to with your knees spread on the restroom floor. You've wolfed down two baskets of bread and a lot of olives by the time your lasagna arrives, which you tuck into with equal enthusiasm. Gwen's ever watchful eye lingering as she puts away her spaghetti rather more delicately.

"You know hun, I could really believe you're eating for two at the rate you're going." You pause, knowing that she's right. "Although of course it's far too soon for all that. But then we've no idea if this pregnancy is gonna be normal. Sorry - potential pregnancy, I mean. Maybe you'll be going into labor by next Sunday!"

You obviously don't respond very well to this notion, as Gwen hurries to distance herself from the joke. The truth is, she's right. You have no idea. All bets are off, you realize, for the thousandth time today.

"No point thinking about that right now sis," you mutter, trying to remain in control of the epic anxiety lurking within, "let's try and get some plans sorted. For mom and dad. And... well, I guess for Alex too."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'll behave." A moment's pause. "Well obviously we don't have to make any plans for the event where you're not preggo and you're back to normal. Except perhaps for going and giving Alex a good kicking when the odds would be a little more even. So let's start with the folks in the event that your delightful little tummy is harboring their grandchild. Dad will freak out that your Saturday fishing trips aren't 'guy time' anymore but otherwise he'll probably be chill." You smile together as you think about how your hippie dad has always had a thing for the spooky, the supernatural, and the strange. Convincing him of the weird-ass magic that's given him a second daughter should be easy.

"And Mom, well. She's definitely going to be furious because of the ****. I suggest we tone that down if we don't want Alex in a cell - big 'if,' that, I hasten to add - but she's a pragmatist. If she sees a problem she accepts it and moves on, so after a bit of a freak out she'll probably start sewing baby clothes for the grandchild she wished I was having."

Your head is in your hands as the possibilities wash over you: some piling up and weighing down on your shoulders, but many others slipping away and further from your grasp. For some reason, it is the mention of baby clothes that really gets to you.

"Fuck. Fuck..." Then a really small voice: "Gwen, I'm going to be a mother."

"Shh! Babe, don't worry. We still don't know that." She's holding your shaking hands. "Besides, there's more: The other thing to think about is Alex. You gotta try and decide what you want from him. Personally I want his face beneath my boot, but I'll help you with whatever you decide."

Grateful for a distraction from the impending motherhood fears, even if it returns you to thinking about your best friend and erstwhile lover, with his shocking behavior, his stupid golden blond hair, his dorky sweet smile, his manly shoulders, trim body, magnificent co-- Uh-oh. You steel yourself with a gulp of freezing wine. Gwen obviously notices your glassy eyes and change in breathing.

"Well I think I know what you want from the deadbeat."