“Henley? Honey?”

“Hey, Mom, what’s—”

“Henley Louise? Can you hear me?” she interrupts.

Shit. I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure I didn’t accidentally mute the line.

“Yes, Mom. I can hear you.” I sigh into the speaker.

“Henley. Was that Jeff I saw on the computer?”

Okay. She’s off her technological rocker again. It’s not unusual for her to call and ask how to turn on her computer any given day. I suppose it’s all part of her charm. But most days it gets old pretty fast.

“Um … no? I don’t think so? Did you try to FaceTime him or something?”

“No, honey. The video. The one on the computer. Mrs. Kensington — you remember Mrs. Kensington, right?”

How could I forget Mrs. Kensington? She’s lived across the street from us since I was eleven and she organized the neighborhood ladies euchre league so she could get all the latest gossip. She kept secrets about as well as I keep my legs shut at wedding receptions. So once something was confessed during a rousing Thursday night euchre game, it was only a matter of hours before the whole damn town knew.

“Yeah. I remember Mrs. Kensington. But what does she have to do with Jeff or your computer?”

“Well, dear, if you’d stop interrupting, I could tell you.”

I sigh heavily into the phone again. No use in hiding my annoyance. My mom pauses, making sure that I don’t have anything else that could possibly interrupt her story.

“Okay … well, Mrs. Kensington came over this morning with a basket of muffins and some tea.” She pauses again, but this time for reasons unknown. If she thinks I’m going to comment on the gesture, she’s got another thing coming to her. “So I invited her in, and we got to chatting, and it turns out that she saw a movie on her computer with Jeff. But I told her that Jeff hadn’t been in any movies and that she must have him confused with someone else. But you know Mrs. Kensington. She always has to be right. And so she brought me to my computer and went to some tube website where the logo is a red tv … I think it’s called Red Tube or something? I can’t remember … and she—”

And that’s the precise moment where I don’t hear anything else she says. Two seemingly innocent words “red” and “tube” are echoing in the depths of my mind as I have a visual of my mother having a heart attack and falling over in her chair at the sight of her baby girl saving a horse and riding her boyfriend reverse cowgirl style. Once upon a time I jokingly suggested to Jeff that we should record ourselves having sex to see just what our moves looked like. I was drunk. He was drunk. There may have been a good old fashioned blow job while he was playing Mario Kart to set the mood. And then things happened. The kind of things no mother should ever witness their child doing. We were convinced it would be amazingly sexy to watch back at a later time, so we recorded it. Instead, the outcome was more of a comedy of horrors … or whores. Take your pick because both are entirely applicable in this particular situation.

But the short of it is that video has now ended up on Red Tube, the most infamous amateur porn website, and my mother’s nosy neighbor took the liberty of playing it for her.

“Mom! Mom! Stop talking!”

“What, dear?” This time she’s the one sighing in annoyance.

I squeeze my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose. How do I even broach this subject? This isn’t something they teach you how to handle in sex ed class.

Okay … just rip the bandage off fast.

“Did you say Red Tube?”

She pauses momentarily. “Yes, I think that’s what it was.”

Shit.

I take a deep breath and steel myself for my next question. I’m not sure I want to know, and I would much rather crawl into a hole and die right now. “Mom, why did Mrs. Kensington take you to a porn site?”

My mother gasps audibly and for a moment I think she’s fainted or dropped the phone.

“Mom?”

“Henley Louise Carson! I never! What on earth are you talking about? I’m not watching pornography! Are you watching porn? Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I need to pray for your soul.”

She starts whispering a Hail Mary underneath her breath, and I quickly realize that I have everything wrong. If our little video experiment ended up on Red Tube, my mother would have shown up on my doorstep and whisked me away to a convent.

“Mom? Mom! Stop that!” And by some miracle she does. I wish she weren’t so aloof. I wish she could actually articulate herself and be direct so I know what’s actually going on here. “Exactly what video are you talking about?”

“If you’d actually listen to your mother, you’d know. The video of Jeff, sweetie. The one on the computer. The one where he’s using your breast pump. What on earth was he thinking? That boy is so silly. He can’t produce milk. He should have learned all about that in sixth grade. Though I have to admit, it was hilarious watching him try. And oh my heavens, when he started to moo like a cow, I nearly wet my knickers.”

Oh.

My.

God.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. OHMYGOD!

I’m not sure if I should be relieved that it wasn’t our sex tape she saw or mortified that my soon-to-be-husband is on the internet proving he’s incapable of lactating.

“You saw that video? How did you see that video? That video only exists on my phone.” The phone that I’m clenching tighter in my hands.

And then I remember …

I made him keep good on his promise, and we emailed it to his brothers last week.

Those punks must have uploaded it to YouTube.

“I told you. Mrs. Kensington played it for me. Her son thought she’d find it funny, so he sent her an email about it. He’s thoughtful like that. You never send me emails about things you think are funny.”

“That’s because nobody sends funny email forwards anymore. It’s not 1998, Mom.” I shut my eyes so tightly, little bursts of color form behind my eyelids. I’m not sure if I should scream or cry or laugh, but I am one heartbeat away from driving over to my mom’s house and ripping her hair out. She is oblivious to the implications of what has been posted online.

“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t kill you to think of your poor mom once in a while. Especially if you’ve got a funny video to share. Jeff is hilarious. Why weren’t you the one to send this to me?”

Because it was never intended for your eyes. It wasn't intended for anyone’s eyes. I cannot believe Chris and Kyle posted this online. We all got a good laugh when we sent it their way, but this is low ... even for them.

My mind is running a million miles an hour, and I bolt to the laptop, booting it up as quickly as I can. In the search field I type man milks himself with breast pump, and sure enough, Jeff is the first video that pops up. He’s clear as day, smiling in all of his shirtless glory with two funnels pressed against his chest. My eyes quickly go to the total number of views.

One million, six hundred forty-three thousand, five hundred ninety-two.

And this was only posted yesterday.

Yesterday!

“Holy fuck nuggets … My fiancé has gone viral,” I whisper underneath my breath. We shared that stupid video with his stupid brothers, and one of them stupidly put it online.

My mom says something about me not speaking profanity, but I don’t catch it because I am so focused on the screen in front of me.

After what feels like hours but is probably a few overdramatic seconds, I’m finally capable of forming words. “Um, Mom? I’m gonna have to call you back.” I hang up, not even bothering to say good-bye. I will no doubt get an etiquette lesson for that.

Back on the computer, I quickly start scrolling through the countless comments as Jeff’s infectious laughter comes through the speakers.

The comments go on and on and on. And then something peculiar catches my eye, and I pick my phone back up, dial the number, and wait.

“Tara!” I scold.

“Hey, Hen! What’s up?” Her voice is casual … content … clueless.

“Oh my God, T. Jeff’s breast pump video. It’s online.”

“I know! He’s an internet sensation!” Her voice is almost proud.

“How the hell did it get online? Why am I seeing this posted by 98DegreesSupahFan?” Tara has had the same absurd online handle since junior high, refusing to opt for something more mature as she’s aged. Anytime you call her out on it, you’re met with a resounding proclamation of “98 Degrees for Life!” with a triumphant fist pump in the air.

“Um, because I put it there, obviously.”

I take a calming breath and adjust in my seat. “You weren’t supposed to show anyone. You weren’t supposed to take it. I wasn’t supposed to even show you!” My voice is shrill and panicked and fast, and I’m desperate to rewind time and make this all go away.

“I know, but that shit is pure gold. I sent it to myself from your phone so I could show Cameron. How many views is it up to now?”

“Over one point six million.” As embarrassing as this whole thing is, that part is pretty impressive.

“No shit? This morning it was just under a million.” She’s almost bewildered at the power of social media.

“Listen, T. I need you to take it down.” If Jeff hasn’t seen it yet, it’s only a matter of time before he does. Or worse, someone recognizes him and blindsides him with his unknown internet fame.

“Well, I can take it off of YouTube, but it’s not going to do you much good.”

“What do you mean? You put it up there, you can just take it down.”

“I can, but it’s already out in the wild. People have saved it. Reposted it. Shared it. A few hours ago I saw it trending over on BuzzFeed. And it made the main page of Reddit. Reddit! Can you believe that?”

Holy shit. It’s only a matter of time before everyone in the whole world sees this video. He’s going to be so pissed at me.

“So this can’t be undone? There’s nothing that we can do?”

“Nope. The internet never forgets. You can’t undo Nipplegate. But don’t go getting all uptight over it. He’s the one who did it to himself, really. Remember? He egged you on to video it because he was ‘soooooo secure in his masculinity.’ And now everyone will know just how manly he is.” Her statement is almost proud. “Besides, it's like I always say, people in glass houses should never throw orgies.”

What? Jesus Christ on a bike, she never makes any sense. I pull the phone away from my ear and let out a blood curling scream, fighting the growing urge to chuck my phone. I can’t believe this is happening.

“I’m so mad at you, Tara.” I’m in utter disbelief.

“Sweetie, of all the people in the world that this could happen to, Jeff is most likely to take everything in stride. He’ll probably find the whole thing hilarious.” She’s trying to downplay it all.

God, I hope she’s right. “I hope so. I need to go and figure out how to break this to Jeff.”

“Okay, Hen. But really, it’ll be okay. Let me know how it goes?”

When she sees the evening headline of man decapitates pregnant fiancée over milking video she’ll know exactly how it went.

“Sure. Whatever,” I say, unconvinced that I will actually be talking to her later. But Tara is right about one thing. The internet never forgets.

And unfortunately for her, neither do I.

I stare at my phone, willing it to light up with life. I’m not sure exactly how to break it to Jeff that his man boobs are plastered all over the internet to see, but I know I need to tell him before he finds out on his own. With my luck, he’ll probably blame me—payback for him not telling me about the job situation. I know I can be cruel at times, but come on, I’m not that mean.

And before I can even respond, my phone lights up with a photo of Jeff and me taken last winter.

“Oh my God, Henley, is it time? I can leave right now and come home. Or wait, should I meet you at the hospital? How far apart are the contractions? Shit! We never packed the hospital bag! You head to the hospital, and I’ll come home and grab everything we need.” He speaks faster than an auctioneer on speed.

I laugh at this silly, ridiculous man. “No, no, I’m not in labor. Not yet at least. I just wanted to find out what time you’ll be home.”

He exhales dramatically, and it makes me smile. “Oh, why? What’s up?”

“I … uh…” I fumble over my words. I hadn’t quite thought this far ahead when I was playing it through in my mind. Okay. So I panicked and texted him too quickly. I hadn’t thought this through at all. “I was, um … I was thinking we should have a talk. Tonight. Whenever you get home.”

“Oh, God.” His voice goes grave, and I can literally hear him swallowing on the line. “The last time you wanted to have a talk, you told me you were pregnant.” I hear the distinct rustling of papers shuffling, and he says something to the recruiter he’s working with, but I can’t quite make out the words.

“Babe, it’s okay. It’s nothing, really,” I lie, more so for me than for him. “You don’t need to come home right now. We can talk about it later tonight.”

“I’m halfway to the car already. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Exactly three minutes and forty-five seconds later, he’s running through the door, gasping for air. He drops his bag, places his hands on his knees, and takes a few deep breaths while bent over.

“Hey, babe,” gasp, “what’s up?” Gasp. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

“Jesus, Jeff, did you sprint home?”

“Well …” He sucks in a gulp of air and straightens back up to look at me. “When my baby needs me, she needs me, and I come running.”

I take a seat on the couch and gently pat the cushion next to me. Jeff slowly moves to take his seat and turns to me, eyes laced with concern. “There’s something you should see,” I tell him as I open up the laptop in front of us. “And I want you to know that while it wasn’t me directly who did this, I accept full responsibility … and I’m sorry.”

I take a deep breath and type the URL for YouTube into the browser. Just as I’m about to enter “man milks himself with breast pump” into the search bar, Jeff grabs my wrist.

“Holy shit!”

I swallow and look to him and then back to the screen. Sure enough, in the first position under the “Trending” headline, there’s a thumbnail of a bare-chested Jeff holding two funnels to his body and mouth wide open in what looks to be an agonizing “O” face.

“That’s me!” he shouts proudly. The edges of his lips crinkle in a subtle smile and his eyes narrow as he tries to process exactly what he’s witnessing on the screen. Jeff fingers the touch pad and clicks the video open. “Oh my god. Almost two million views since yesterday?” His hand flies to his mouth, covering it as he scrolls through pages and pages of comments.

“And um … that’s not all.”

He turns back to me. “It’s not?”

I shake my head. “It’s made its way through Reddit. BuzzFeed. Facebook. All of the usual social suspects.”

He stifles laughter, and his cheeks puff out like the cat that ate the goddamned canary. There’s a moment of recognition on his face. “So that’s why the girl at the bakery looked at me funny and then moo’ed.”

All I can do is shake my head in disbelief at how well he’s taking this entire scenario.

“I’m going to kill my brothers.” His tone is playful, but his face is strangely cold. I’m pretty sure he’s only half kidding right now.

“About that …” My voice squeaks. “It wasn’t them.”

“Well, if it wasn’t them, and you didn’t do it, then how’d it end up on YouTube’s greatest hits?”

I look at my hands that are knotted clumsily in my lap and flash my eyes up to him sweetly. I gently push my swollen boobs together with my upper arms and lean over slightly, giving him a good view of the ladies busting out of my shirt. A little skin never hurt an apology.

“I’m sorry!” I whine, batting my lashes and trying to appear all cute and innocent when we both know I am anything but. “I showed Tara the other day when we were out shopping, and the next thing I know my mom is calling to ask how you ended up inside of her computer. Tara texted the video to herself and took it upon herself to unleash it to the masses. Had I known she was going to do that, I never would have shown her. This isn’t some revenge video, I swear.”

I feel the tears starting to build inside, and my lip quivers as I try to keep my shit together. This whole spontaneous pregnant melt down thing is really starting to piss me off.

Jeff’s eyes go from mine, straight down to my chest where they linger for just a beat too long and then back up to my face. Silent tears begin to fall, and I know there’s not enough gratuitous boobage in the world to make up for launching this video into the wilds of the internet.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and he cups his palm to my cheek.

I sniffle and blink away a few tears. “Wha … What’d you say?”

Jeff shifts in his seat so he’s facing me head on. “Henley, it’s okay. Seriously. I’m not mad.”

What? Is this some kind of joke? “You’re not angry?”

“No.” He reassures me and leans over to kiss me sweetly, but I can’t kiss him back. Because frankly, part of me wishes he were mad. He deserves to be mad at me. I don’t want him harboring these emotions only to grow to resent me later.

“You should be,” I mumble when he breaks my half-assed kiss.

“Why? You didn’t do this deliberately. It was all out of your hands, right?”

I nod then swallow hard, speaking to the obvious issue in the room. “But don’t you think this could bite you in the ass with your job search? It’s not like that video is the most professional thing you’ve ever done.”

I can see the cogs moving in his head for a fleeting moment, but he shakes it off. “You know what? It’s really no big deal. If any prospective company sees that and wants to hold it against me, then that’s not the right company for me.”

I’m not convinced that’s the right mentality, but who am I to argue? Tara was right. He really is taking this in stride. I’m kind of impressed.

Jeff’s phone chirps and I instantly recognize the ringtone for his older brother, Kyle. He rolls his eyes as the incoming message, then flashes it toward me.

Attached to Kyle’s message is a screen shot of Jeff with the breast pump funnels against his body and the caption “GOT MILK?” in bold white letters across the bottom.

I choke back a laugh and place my hand on his knee. “You sure you’re okay with all of this?” I ask softly as I close my eyes.

He turns his phone off and tosses it onto the coffee table, then leans back into the couch and stretches his arm around me, pulling me close under his arm. “Yeah, I always thought it’d be cool to become one of those meme things.”

I curl up into his body as much as my pregnant body will let me and close my eyes, thankful for his level-headedness.