“A good writer is always a people watcher.”
-Judy Blume
Four days later, in a tiny little room, I watched Deanna’s face light up as she stared at her baby on the ultrasound screen. Allen was still out of town for work, and she’d asked if I’d like to go with her for her ultrasound. I was also the designated cell phone holder so Allen could be present via FaceTime.
“Look at our little guy,” Allen cooed.
Deanna rolled her eyes. “We don’t know it’s a boy, Allen.”
“I have a feeling,” he replied.
“It’s too soon to know the sex for sure,” the perky tech chirped in.
“We don’t want to know the sex.” Deanna held up a hand as if it affirmed her statement. “We want it to be a surprise.”
“We’re still discussing that one,” Allen insisted.
Deanna flicked her gaze up to me. “Can you mute him somehow?”
Laughing, I flipped the screen so Allen could see my face. “You better watch it, Papa Bear. Don’t upset Mama Bear, or I’m gonna have to silence you.” I swiped my finger across my throat.
Allen didn’t get a chance to respond because the baby’s heartbeat roared before the tech turned down the volume and began pointing out what was what on the screen.
“Does everything look okay?” Deanna asked.
“Everything looks perfect to me,” the tech replied with a reassuring smile.
Allen and Deanna asked the tech several questions while I did what I did best—observed.
One might think I’d be fixated on the screen in awe of the baby, and the baby was most certainly awe-worthy, but it was Deanna I watched. I prided myself on being an intuitive person; someone who noticed things most might not. I was not sure if it was that part of me that noticed, or if it was that I knew my best friend so well I couldn’t not notice it. Maybe it was both.
Love.
It was all over her; radiating from her; leaking out of every pore. And while a wistful smile captured her features, something else pooled in her eyes.
Fear.
She was somehow equally ecstatic and terrified all at once. Love was kind of an asshole that way—we all pined for it in its numerous variations, yet it scared the hell out of us, too.
“You’re amazing, Deanna,” Allen spoke softly, drawing me from my thoughts. “Look at what you’re doing. Look at you, creating that little piece of you and me.”
The ultrasound tech and I met eyes, both of us silently asking the other the same question: Did your heart just melt, too?
At that moment, Deanna’s eyes fixed on the cell screen as her features softened. “I love you,” she told him.
Seeing them and their bond always obliterated my cynical view that real love didn’t exist. Clearly it did. But what did that mean—did it mean maybe it just didn’t exist for me? Deanna and Allen would end up old and gray, covered in grandchildren, and I’d most likely still be sleeping on a mattress on the floor in my crappy house. I rolled my eyes at myself. I was pulling a stool up to the bar in Pity Town. I needed to stop that right away.
After her appointment, Deanna and I went for Mexican because she was craving it. As soon as we were seated, she rushed off to the restroom. While I waited, I opened my phone and went into my photos, smiling at the pictures of Wren I’d taken a few nights before. I’d stood with my arms crossed as I watched Wren fire his .308 rifle into the water. Not necessarily something crazy, but he had the gun set up on the bed at his new house and was firing through the balcony doors into the river.
Inhaling through his nose, he closed his eyes as if pleased. “I love that smell.” The room smelled of gunpowder, a sourish odor that was somehow offensive but oddly enjoyable as well.
When the first shot rang out, he’d grinned, his dimples showing through his coarse beard, and something about it made me feel so happy. He looked like a kid with a toy, amazed by what he was doing. I couldn’t remember the last time something made me smile that way, and I envied him, in a good way.
“You see where it hit?” He’d pointed at the river where ringlets were forming around where the bullet contacted the water. We were a good five hundred feet away, but I could still see them. Firing a gun was a big deal for obvious reasons. You had to know what you were doing and all of the safety measures, but to Wren, it was a passion. He loved his guns. When he’d readied the rifle to fire again, I’d snapped a few photos of him on my cell phone.
He’d been busy with work, so I hadn’t seen him since the last day I helped him move, but he’d texted and we’d spoken twice. We’d made plans to see each other the following day, and I hated myself for it, but I was way more excited to see him than I cared to admit. My cell started vibrating in my hand, an unknown number calling.
“Hello?”
“Hello, my friend,” a deep voice answered. Tilting my head, I paused for a moment. It couldn’t be… “It’s Brigham.”
“How’d you get my number?” I half laughed.
“I know people,” he replied simply. Closing my eyes, I realized it must’ve been our coach that gave it to him. Wasn’t that some kind of privacy violation?
“Nice of her to check with me first.”
“What are you doing?” He went on, ignoring my comment. I noticed he did this often—would simply drop or ignore something without batting a lash.
“Uh…” I stammered. Why was he calling me? I didn’t want to answer that question after his last interrogation. He thought he knew me, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, even when he had hit on a few sore points. “Having lunch with my friend.”
“Well I’m assuming a female friend since you answered the phone.”
“Brigham, why are you calling me?”
“Because we’re friends.”
Our waiter placed two glasses of water on the table, and I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him. “Yeah, but don’t you think asking me for my number might have been more appropriate than getting it from someone else who clearly violated privacy laws giving it to you?”
“Oh, Hannah,” he groaned. “Don’t be like that.”
“Be like what?”
“Like you’re being,” he explained. “It’s a volleyball league, not a gynecologist’s office. Geez.”
Why did he always have to be so extreme? To show that you exaggerate, I thought, my mouth in a flat line. He did know me…a little.
“I’m not hitting on you, so if your Beamer boyfriend is around or something, tell him he has nothing to worry about from me. I’m simply calling because I like to talk to my friends when I’m bored. It’s not a crime, you know. Lighten up, Hannah.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I gritted.
“Good. I hope that’s true because we’re all lying assholes.”
Rubbing my temple, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. This was weird…right? I mean, we’d chatted a couple of times, and he’d imparted some unwanted advice about men on me, but him pulling strings to get my number…this was odd. And we were certainly not friends. Before I responded, Deanna returned, and I decided I would have to deal with Brigham later.
“Listen, I’m with my friend right now. Can we talk later?”
“You gonna call me back?” he asked.
“Sure, Brigham. Later.”
I hung up and chucked my cell in my purse with a huff.
“Who was that?” Deanna asked before sipping her water.
“That was…” I paused and wondered for a moment…who was Brigham? What would I tell her? Brigham was a guy I barely knew who told me his life’s secrets and wasn’t attracted to me at all. Even I knew, though I was in the thick of it, nothing about the “associate friendship” Brigham and I had formed would make sense to anyone else. I knew it was easier to tell perfect strangers your struggles than to admit them to your loved ones. I decided to compartmentalize him as much as possible. When appropriate, or desperate, I would speak with him. But outside of that, I wouldn’t let him become part of my people. I wouldn’t let myself worry about him. I had enough to worry about already. Besides, my brother was the only guy friend I had.
“That’s a long story,” I finally replied to Deanna just as the waiter arrived at the table to take our orders.