A Not So Meet Cute(62)

Lottie turns distinctively into my shoulder and whispers, “She looks as if she just busted out of the insane asylum.”

I chuckle and assess Ellie. Bouncing far too high on the ball, wearing leggings and a sports bra, her hair swishing back and forth, while a giant, unfaltering grin is plastered to her face. Lottie isn’t wrong.

Just then, Dave comes up behind Ellie and settles her down with his hands to her shoulders. He spots me and waves. “So glad you guys could make it.”

We walk up to them and Ellie immediately takes Lottie into a hug, while Dave gives me a firm handshake.

“You will absolutely love Heaven,” Ellie says. “She’s the best in the business.”

“Heaven?” Lottie asks, confused.

I place my hand on Lottie’s lower back and say, “The prenatal teacher. Remember I was telling you about her in the car?”

I told her nothing. Because her text, I think you’ve met your match, inspired me. Rather than discussing today’s outing, I went into great detail about how if she’d actually attend the pedicures I’d set up for her, her crusty feet wouldn’t scrape across our beautiful hardwood floors. And the murderous look on Lottie’s face when I said we had to get a contractor to come in and check out a spot on the floor where she’d left a gash was priceless.

“Oh, yes, sorry.” She taps her head. “Pregnancy brain.” Turning to Ellie, she asks, “You’re sure it’s not too early for us to do something like this?”

Ellie waves off Lottie’s concerns. “I think the more you can learn and practice the better.”

“That’s what I told her in the car,” I say.

Lottie adds, “We do love education, don’t we, Hux?”

I look down at her. “We do. We really love education.”

“Then you’re in the right spot,” Dave says. “Pull up a yoga mat, a ball, and one of those pillows. We should be getting started soon.”

“Great.”

I head toward the wall when Lottie takes my hand in hers, reminding me to be affectionate in the moment. Together we work our way to the wall where all of the “supplies” are. Out of earshot, she whispers, “What the hell are we supposed to do with an exercise ball, yoga mat, and pillows? I’m not very bendy, Huxley. I’m very stiff, and when I squat, my knees crack. I might be twenty-eight, but my body acts like a seventy-five-year-old arthritic woman.”

“I don’t think there’s a lot of bending in this class.”

“Have you been to one of these before?”

I give her a look. “Do you think I’ve been to one of these before?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know what you do in your spare time.”

“Not this,” I almost hiss. I really need to start thinking before I react to situations, aka, don’t say yes to everything Dave asks. “I don’t think we’re going to be required to be professionals. This is our first time.”

“What if we have to imitate sexual positions?” She glances behind her back.

“Why the fuck would we have to do that?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “We’re in LA and we’re in a birthing class. They like granola things here. Hip and trendy things. What if this class isn’t about breathing but more about the journey, the process? You know, we did this whole story on Angeloop where they talked about unique birthing classes and how you had to share your entire journey with the class. What if this is one of those?”

“We barely have a journey. You’re what, six weeks pregnant?”

Her eyes widen. “I don’t know, am I? I don’t remember what I said.”

“Jesus Christ.” I drag my hand over my face.

“Everything okay over there?” Dave asks. “Need help?”

“We’re good,” I say with a smile, while waving to him. I turn back to Lottie and say, “I think you said you were eight weeks pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” I answer. “But it feels familiar.”

“You’re the brains of this operation, you’re supposed to catalogue these things,” she hisses at me. “What kind of mom am I going to look like if I can’t even remember how many weeks this little cashew in my belly is?” She pats her flat stomach.

“Then you should’ve remembered what you said.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me for being put on the spot and not remembering. I’ll have you know, I often black out in stressful situations, so . . . good luck with that.”

“Great,” I mutter and then reach for a pillow. The easy camaraderie from the car is quickly evaporating between us. “Maybe avoid the question if asked.”

“You know the teacher is going to ask, everyone asks. Even when they’re not supposed to ask, they ask. It’s a common pregnancy small-talk specialty. ‘Oh, hey, Judy, you’re pregnant, look at that. How many weeks are you?’ ‘Thanks, Carolyn, yeah, this little banana in my belly is thirty-two weeks.’”

“Thirty-two weeks is a banana?”

“I have no freaking clue, Huxley, that was me babbling.”

“Well, for the love of God, don’t babble.”

With a smile on her face, because Ellie is starting to move toward us, Lottie says, “Babbling is what you get for plucking an amateur off the streets.”