Something Blue

younger woman. Thirty-one years his junior.

'What a shame,' Lauren clucked.

'Shocking,' my mother added.

Even my father, whom I sometimes suspected of committing his own indiscretions, shook his head with apparent disgust.

But for some reason, Marcus couldn't just get on board and disapprove along with the rest of the group. Or simply say nothing at all, which he had mastered up until that point. Instead he chose to open his mouth and say, 'Thirty-one years, huh? Guess that means that my second wife hasn't even been born yet.'

My father and Jeremy exchanged glances, wearing identical raised-brow expressions. My mother deflated as she stroked the stem of her wine glass. Lauren laughed nervously and said, 'That's really funny, Marcus. Good one!'

Marcus smiled halfheartedly, realizing that his joke had not gone over.

Suddenly, I was in no mood to salvage the night or my new boyfriend's image. I stood and carried my dishes into the kitchen, my posture ramrod erect. I heard my mother excuse herself and click after me in her heels.

'Sweetheart, he was only trying to be funny,' my mother said under her breath when we were alone in the kitchen. 'Or perhaps he's just nervous, meeting your parents for the first time. Your father can be intimidating.'

But I could tell that she didn't believe her words. She thought Marcus was crass, subpar, nowhere close to Dexter's caliber.

'He's not usually like this,' I said. 'He's just as charming as Dex when he wants to be.'

But as I tried to convince my mother, I realized that I knew that Marcus was absolutely nothing like Dex. Nothing. The last remaining drops of coffee dripped into the pot in time with my one and only thought: I. Picked. Wrong.

We returned to the dining room, where everyone pretended to en joy a strawberry cream pie from Crawford's Bakery. My mother apologized twice for not baking one herself.

'I love pies from Crawford's! They taste homemade,' Lauren said.

My father whistled the theme from The Andy Griffith Show between bites until my mother glared at him to stop. After another few painful moments I said, 'I'm not in the mood for pie. I'm going to bed. Good night.'

Marcus stood, drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, and said he was 'bushed' too. He thanked my mother for dinner and followed me silently, leaving his plate at the table.

I walked up the stairs ahead of him, then down the hall, stopping abruptly at our guest room. 'Here's your room. Good night.' I was too exhausted to gear myself up for a big fight.

Marcus massaged my shoulder. 'C'mon, Darce.'

'Are you proud of yourself?'

He smirked-which only further riled me.

'How could you embarrass me like that?'

'It was a joke.'

'It wasn't funny.'

'I'm sorry.'

'No you're not.'

'I am sorry.'

'How am I supposed to tell them that we're getting married and that I'm pregnant with your baby?' I whispered. 'The man who plans to leave me in thirty years for another woman?' I felt a stab of vulnerability, something I had never felt before I got pregnant. It was an awful feeling.

'You know it was a joke.'

'Good night, Marcus.'

I went to my room, hoping he would follow me. He didn't. So I sat and stared at my lavender walls covered with photos from happier days. Photos that were yellowing and curling at the edges, reminding me of how much time had passed, how far removed I was from high school. I studied one picture of Rachel, Annalise, and me after a football game. I was in my cheerleading uniform, and they were both wearing Naperville High sweatshirts. Our cheeks were painted with little orange paw prints. I remembered that Blaine had just caught a long touchdown pass to win the game and advance our team to the state quarterfinals. I remember how he took off his helmet, his hair and face drenched with sweat like the sexy star of a Gatorade commercial. Then, as the crowd roared, he beamed up at me from the sidelines and pointed, as if to say, 'That one was for you, sweetie!' It seemed as though everyone in that stadium followed his finger right to me.

Life was good then, I thought, as I started to cry. Not so much because I missed the good times, although I did. It was more that I knew I was turning into one of those girls who, upon looking at high school photos, feels wistful.

fourteen

The next morning I heard a light rapping at the door and my mother's voice. 'Darcy, are you awake?' Her soothing tone-an unnatural one for her-made me feel even worse.

'Come in,' I said, as I felt a wave of morning sickness.

She opened the door, crossed my room, and sat on the foot of my bed. 'Sweetheart. Don't be so upset,' she said, patting my legs through the covers.

'I can't help it. I know you hate him.'

'I like Marcus,' she said unconvincingly.

'No you don't. You couldn't possibly after last night. He barely said anything-except to announce that he plans to leave me someday.'

She gave me a puzzled look. 'Leave you?'

'The 'second wife' comment,' I said, rearranging my head on my pillow.

'Well, you don't have plans to marry this boy anyway, do you?' she whispered.

The way she said 'this boy' told the full story.

'Maybe,' I whimpered.

My mother looked anxious and continued to whisper. 'Marcus is probably just your rebound boyfriend.'

I sniffed, stared back at her, wondering if I should tell her the big news. You are months away from being a grandmother. Instead I said, 'He's just going through a difficult stage.'

'Well, if he doesn't straighten up, just dump him and start over,' she said, snapping her fingers. 'You can get anybody you want.'

If only it were that easy. If only I could go back to the drawing board and fix my mistake. The realization that I couldn't, that I was stuck with Marcus, made me feel even more nauseated. I told my mother I wasn't feeling so well, and that I thought I should get a few more hours of sleep.

'Sure, dear. You get your rest… I'll just get your laundry.'

Our housekeeper always did the laundry, so my mother's offer was further confirmation of how much she pitied my current state of affairs.

'My dirty stuff is all in that turquoise mesh bag,' I instructed as I closed my eyes. 'And please don't put my La Perla bras in the dryer. They're very delicate.'

'Okay, honey,' she said.

I heard her unzip my suitcase and pull my clothes from it. Then I heard her gasp. My mother's gasp is one of her trademarks. A dramatic inhalation with more noise than you'd ever imagine possible. For a moment I thought she was making a point about my volume of dirty clothes. And then I remembered what I had popped last minute into my luggage: What to Expect When You're Expecting.