Speaking of Grandmother…
I was pretty sure if I sat here feeling sorry for myself much longer, someone from the reception would come looking for me. And I so didn’t want to have to explain this to my relatives. How many Hail Marys did one get for sleeping with criminals?
Because it hit me, that’s just what Richard was. Even if he hadn’t had anything to do with the murders, he’d flat out confessed to the embezzlement. White collar or no, that was a crime. I was carrying a criminal’s baby. Maybe.
That squishy burrito turned into a lead weight in my stomach.
I left the room, closing Richard’s door behind me and took the elevator back down to the lobby. I was sure in a matter of minutes Ramirez’s backup would have CSI teams combing the room for any speck of incriminating evidence. And I wasn’t in the mood for a lint roll right now.
I hightailed it back into the main hall just in time to see Mom throwing her bouquet. Both Mrs. Rosenblatt and Dana made a mad dash for it. A few beads popped off Mrs. Rosenblatt’s mumu, but Dana caught the flowers in the end. Then gazed starry eyed at No Neck. Poor guy, he didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into.
I think I put on a passably convincing façade of everything was hunky dory in Maddie’s life for the rest of the reception. I avoided Grandmother’s not-so-subtle hinting over my biological clock versus Ramirez’s suitable Catholic husband status, and even managed not to scratch my own eyeballs out through the removal of the garter belt, which I now knew should never be attempted by any bride over the age of forty. Yick.
By the time we were all blowing bubbles out of tiny bell shaped wands as Mom and Faux Dad jumped into their 1974 Mercedes with the words “just married” in shaving cream on the back window, I felt like I’d run a marathon. If I had to keep the plastic smile wedged on my face any longer I had a feeling I’d permanently end up looking like Perky Reporter Woman.
And as I watched them drive away I had a sudden and profound feeling of loneliness. Richard was on his way to prison, Ramirez – whatever that was between us – was over, Dana and No Neck had left hand in hand for another night of great sex at the Actor’s Duplex, and even Mom and Faux Dad were in their own little honeymoon world for two weeks in Hawaii. It was just me and the Purple People Eater. Deep sigh.
Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed to give me a ride back to Beefcakes, where my little red Jeep had spent the night. It was dark by the time I finally drove up to my studio and I was beyond tired. I was in that state of feeling sorry for myself that comes just before the walking dead phase of exhaustion. I trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door, not even bothering to turn on the lights before I collapsed onto my futon.
I gave myself five minutes to cry. Just five. Then, I was going to be done, finished. Over that creep for good. Never mind I wasn’t quite sure which creep I was talking about.
Richard, right? I mean, Richard was the one I should be getting over. He was the one I’d been dating for the past five months, all the while blind to the fact he’d been married to Cinderella on the side. Richard’s betrayal was what should be eating me up inside.
Only, as I closed my eyes all I could think about was the way Ramirez’s lips had tasted on mine. Like canapés and champagne.
God I was pathetic.
I rolled over and buried my head in a pillow, my only comfort knowing that tomorrow couldn’t possibly be worse than today had been.
I felt sunlight hit my face the next morning, but was almost afraid to open my eyes for fear of what new disaster might await me. Tornado? Hurricane? Plague? It wouldn’t surprise me. With the way my life was going my aura must be a pukey puce by now.
I summoned up all my courage and cracked one eye open.
No detectives sleeping beside me. No cell phone ringing. No screeching brides or best friends. So far so good.
Gingerly I got up and flipped on my Mr. Coffee. After two strong cups I turned on the news to see if Richard had made the morning report.
Perky Reporter Woman did a ten second snippet on the arrest of Devon Greenway’s lawyer, but the whole story was losing steam and had been sandwiched between a segment on a school closure in Watts and a dog who sniffed out heroin at the airport. The press had moved on.
And, honestly, I should too. Richard probably had a whole team of lawyers surrounding him by now, pulling every rabbit out of their legal hats to get him safely back to his leather and chrome condo. What could I possibly do to help that they couldn’t? More importantly, why did I even want to?
I sighed. My gaze straying to the EPT on the counter.
That’s why.
I stared at the little pink box. It stared back and I could swear it was silently mocking me. (bok, bok, bok)
“Fine, I’ll take the damn test!” I yelled to the universe at large. I picked up the stupid little box and marched into the bathroom. After reading the instructions only three times (my hands were shaking just a little) I ascertained that I was supposed to pee for five full seconds on the little cottony strip. Five seconds? This was going to take some preparation.
I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a liter of Diet Coke from the fridge. I downed half of it, only getting slightly fizzy nosed from the bubbles. I waited ten minutes, then took the Coke back into the bathroom with me. It was now or never.
I clipped my hair back, took a deep breath and did the whole peeing thing. Which ended up being way more complicated than it sounded. When I finished, I set the test down on my bathroom counter to wait. One line negative. Two lines… I’d be asking my mother to pick up another basinet full of booties and binkies. I took a fortifying swig of Diet Coke as I watched the hands on my watch crawl by. Three minutes.
Okay, I could do this. I was a tough chick. Whatever those pink lines threw at me, I could handle this, right? Okay, so maybe I’d have to take little Ritchie Junior to visit his father behind bars, and maybe I’d never again fit into that cute Dolce crop top again, but I could do this. Of course, I’d have to get a second job. Tot Trots barely kept me in Top Ramen and pumps, there was no way I could raise a baby on that salary. I looked around my dinky studio. And I’d probably have to move back in with Mom and Faux Dad. And the Jeep would have to go. No way was a convertible Jeep safe for a baby to ride in. Oh God, would I have to get a mini van? I had a vision of myself in Mom clothes from Target, driving a beige Odyssey and living in the room above my parents’ garage.
Not surprisingly, I started to hyperventilate again. I sat down hard on the tiled floor and put my head between my knees. Unfortunately, as I flipped my head down, my hair clip came undone, flying across the tiny room and knocking into the bottle of Diet Coke. Which swayed precariously on its plastic bottom, then, as I watched in slow motion horror, fell over and spilled bubbly liquid all over the EPT.
“Shit!” I jumped up and grabbed a bath towel, dabbing at the test. I looked down. It was soaked, the cottony swap at the end quickly swelling up like a sponge as the little windows turned a murky caramel color. I squinted, trying to make out any faint lines. Preferably just one of them.
Nothing.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I sank back down to the floor. Great. Now what?
I stared at the ruined EPT. The way I saw it, I had two options. One, go back to the drug store, pick up a new test, and go through his whole thing again. Or, two, hop back on the denial train (Because it was probably just stress anyway. I mean, sometimes stress messed up your hormone, right? And I had been under a tad bit of stress lately.) and go back to ticking off blonde murder suspects to earn my boyfriend that get out of jail free card.