Drew: I already got it.
Well, I’m here. At Drew’s fancy-schmancy fundraiser thing WITHOUT HIM. One of his patients went into labor this morning so he’s been bouncing back and forth between his practice and the hospital all day. I thought maybe we were going to have to bail on the event (and my epic revenge plan), but he texted me about two hours ago saying he would meet me here and to grab my ticket off the kitchen counter.
Needless to say, I was not too thrilled about the idea of showing up by myself.
So that’s why I’m hiding in the uncomfortably cold bathroom like a loser. I texted Drew incessantly as I was getting ready to ensure this very thing didn’t happen. Are you going to be on time? I texted at least five different times as the hour to leave the house grew closer. Yep! he’d say. Still on time? I asked before I ever stepped foot in my car. Yep! I’ll see you there, he said.
And then, as I was walking into the glowing ballroom of the fanciest event I’ve ever been to outside of prom a hundred thousand years ago, Drew texted me: Traffic. Gonna be late. So sorry. I wanted to hit the ground and army-crawl my way out of there, but it was too late. I’d been spotted by too many of the high-profile doctors and power couples.
I rushed to the bathroom, and it’s where I’m still lingering, pretending to obsess about my hair, wash my hands, and re-apply lipstick every time someone new walks in here. My hands are going to be shriveled-up prunes by the time Drew finally arrives.
A woman comes into the bathroom for the second time and eyes me warily, and I realize it’s time to leave my post as bathroom attendant. I swallow and look at myself in the mirror one more time, really wishing I had bought the more modest dress the online store tried to sell me instead of this one. It’s like it knew. Snooty sales attendants could somehow see me through my computer and were silently sticking up their noses, trying to thrust their grey lifeless maternity dress into my cart. But nooooooo. I had been watching Dancing with the Stars and was feeling frisky. So I bought the slinky, jet-black number with the high knee slit that appeared right next to the one a woman at my stage of gestation should purchase.
I hiss when I spin to look at myself over my shoulder. When did my butt get so big? Seriously. It’s massive. Like the peach emoji got implants and some dimples. The woman comes out of the stall and follows my gaze to my rear end as she washes her hands.
“Tell me straight—is my butt too big in this?”
If you’re imagining we have a moment of sisterhood, you’re dreaming. This woman looks as if I have wholly offended her genteel sensibilities and is planning an epic snub. She rips off a length of paper towels and blots her hands before saying, “It’s definitely not a dress I would have chosen for you.”
Oh great. I’m going to cry now as Miss Demure leaves the bathroom in her ravishing gold dress, hip bones protruding from beneath the fabric, tiny firm booty twitching up and down with every step. She wasn’t offended that my dress was too provocative; she was offended that I stuffed my maternal body inside this provocative dress.
The moment I’m alone again, I pull my phone out of my clutch and FaceTime Lucy. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper impatiently as it continues to ring. I know I don’t have long until someone else walks in.
Finally, Lucy answers, and I say, “Thank God. Luce, do I look like a trifling harlot?”
She’s sitting on her couch, snacking on popcorn and wearing her glasses. I’m so jealous. “Have you been watching a lot of BBC period dramas again?”
“Beside the point. Do I?” I spin around and give her a nice butt shot.
She whistles. “Look at that booty! You look killer!”
“I do not. You’re lying. I look like a double-wide.”
“You look like a goddess of fertility.”
“Then why do I feel like an elephant dressed up for the circus?”
“Because you have hormones raging through your body at all times. But I swear to you, Jessie, you look lovely. Has Drew seen you yet?” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye.
“No. He’s running late, which isn’t helping my nerves at all. I may look tough, but I don’t think I’ll be able to take it if he tells me I look hideous and he’s too embarrassed to be seen with me.”
A slow grin spreads on Lucy’s face. “I have a feeling he’s going to make you feel nothing but beautiful when he gets there.”
I squint at the screen. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a canary feather should be hanging out of your mouth?”
I take one last look in the mirror and try to stuff my overflowing cleavage back down inside my dress, but that somehow makes it worse.
“No, stop, you’re making them angry. They’re trying to revolt by swelling up more.” Super. “Just relax, Jessie. You’re gorgeous.”
At least I look classy from the neck up. My blonde hair is curled into soft 1920s style finger waves that frame my face with one side pinned back. My eye makeup is dark and smoky, and even I can admit I look runway ready. Then my eyes drop to my velvet black dress and swollen stomach.
“Nope. I’m coming over to your place. Pop some extra popcorn.”
“Wait! Jess—”