Emergency Contact(35)

Sam picked Lorraine up in Fin’s Ford Festiva slightly before eight. It was a mud-brown fourteen-year-old beater that was so rusted through you could lift the mat on the driver’s side and watch the highway rush by from a quarter-sized peephole.

Sam buzzed at the gate as she’d requested.

“Hey,” she said. She wore what she usually did when she was off work—a somewhat abbreviated version of a nightie.

Lorraine. Lorr. Lore. Or Lola as she called herself lately, though Sam never did.

He could practically feel his pupils dilate when he saw her.

“Nice dress,” he said when she opened the door to his car. He wondered if he should’ve gotten out and opened it for her, though she would’ve made fun of him for it. It wasn’t as if she were infirm.

“Uh, thanks for picking me up.” She pulled him in for a hug. It was an awkward sideways embrace where you’re both sitting down and the non-hugging arm gets mashed, but still, it knocked the wind out of him.

As was customary for when he saw her, he felt his thoughts go all soft and watery. She smelled so good, exactly the way she was supposed to. He knew every bit of real estate on her body. He thought about her feet again.

Lorraine pulled away and started laughing. “This is so absurd,” she said, putting her seat belt on.

“I can’t believe Fin loaned you his car.” She looked into the backseat and wrinkled her nose. “I could have picked you up.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Sam partially regretted leaving Fin’s empty soda bottles in the backseat even if he’d done it on purpose. This was not a date.

By the time Sam pulled up at Mother’s, a spot far enough off campus that it wasn’t overrun with students, they’d exhausted small talk. And when Sam got her door, she didn’t make too big a deal out of it. She thanked him primly and touched his forearm.

They slid into the deep, padded booth. On their early dates, they were the annoying couple that sat on the same side, whispering, canoodling, picking up bits of food to feed each other like lovesick birds.

“Do you want to split the ziti and the sausage and peppers?” Lorraine asked, scanning the menu. Sam had been dreaming about meatballs, yet he found himself shrugging. “Sure.”

Sam remembered why they shared food whenever they went out. Lorraine would order the two things she wanted and strong-armed him into wanting them as well.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get a vegetable or a salad?” he asked, eyeing the sides. “Something with folate?”

Lorraine peered over the leather-bound wine list.

“Sam, what is folate?”

“It’s in broccoli,” he said. “Pregnant ladies have to take it so the baby’s spine doesn’t grow outside of their bodies. Don’t do an image search. It’s upsetting.”

She laughed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

Lorraine picked up a piece of focaccia, dipped it in olive oil, and took a bite, chewing slowly.

She crossed her arms, and Sam noticed the glint of a new charm bracelet on her wrist. It was visibly expensive—crowded with ornate silver beads and intricate replicas of what appeared to be shoes. He wondered who’d bought it for her.

“How are you, Lorr?” he asked. What he wanted to ask her was: “Do you miss me?” But it didn’t quite seem the right time. Maybe after tiramisu.

Sam also really wanted to ask what all of this was about. Whether she’d had her appointment and discovered complications. Why else would she not have texted him back?

“Before you light into me,” she began, “I haven’t gone to the clinic yet.”

He couldn’t believe it.

“What? Why?”

“I couldn’t make it,” she said, snapping a breadstick in half. “It was insane at work. But I made an appointment for tomorrow. I’m going tomorrow.”

Sam couldn’t believe how cavalier she was being. Period lateness count: seven weeks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I . . . I couldn’t deal.” She crumbled the rest of the breadstick onto the tablecloth.

“Well, you’re going to have to deal with this,” he said. “We’re going to have to deal.”

“I know,” she said. “I know this makes no sense, but I don’t think I’m pregnant. I don’t feel pregnant.”

Sam studied Lorraine for any physical differences. He took a quick peek at her boobs and they appeared about the same.

“Are you checking me out to see if I look knocked up?”

Yes.

“No,” he told her.

The waiter came around.

“Uh, yeah, we’re going to split the ziti and the . . .” Man, he definitely wanted meatballs.

“Sausage and peppers,” she finished.

“And a glass of merlot,” said Lorraine. She pulled out her driver’s license.

“I guess you really don’t feel pregnant, huh?” he asked, once the waiter had left.

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “French women drink up until the very end,” she said.

“French women also eat horse,” said Sam under his breath.

“What?” Lorraine asked.

“Nothing.”