“Iris!” I shout when I spot my friend on Fox’s patio with a short cocktail in hand. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you, like, just have a baby?”
I have to refrain myself from immediately peppering her with a shit-ton of questions. I just had an appointment with Dr. B about my plan for a sperm donor and got the “do all this shit to get pregnant” checklist. It’s crazy overwhelming. I thought it was simply get sperm in the right place and BOOM. Done. Okay, that sounds flippant and ignorant. But for someone whose main obstacle to pregnancy is the oven shutting off too early, I had no idea the purposefully getting pregnant part was so complicated. The level of dumb I feel is epic.
She smiles, but it slips. “Ha ha, jerk,” she says. She had the baby almost six months ago. “I finally got a night off, but Daniel has already texted me three times and called once. I won’t be here for long, unfortunately.”
I rub her shoulder. “Not taking to daddyhood very well?”
I won’t even have a daddy to dump the kid on. Crap, have I given this anywhere near enough thought?
“Oh, he loves it,” she says with an eye-roll. “Except when Will’s crying. Then he can’t get out of the room fast enough. He panics! My six-foot-three man is afraid of a crying baby, for Pete’s sake.”
“Trial by fire,” I say and groan internally at the parallels. My ass is already burning at the thought of my own. “Don’t respond to his texts unless it’s nine-one-one. Let him figure it out.”
“Sophie,” she says, her face slack. “I want my kid to live.”
Cracking up, we pause and sigh when her phone rings.
“See what I mean?” Iris ducks into the house to answer the phone, handing me her drink.
Fox chooses that very moment to goose me with a beer.
“Holy hell!” I jump, then twist around to see his shit-eating grin and waggling eyebrows. “You are the devil sometimes, did you know?”
“You love it,” he mumbles.
I notice as he bites his tongue between his teeth that he’s wearing lipstick. Red. And lots of it. What’s more, it’s disturbingly well applied. I do a full scan and realize he’s dressed as a naughty nurse. A female naughty nurse, complete with vinyl minidress and stuffed tits.
“Sweet Christ, you are kidding me.”
He grins, then schools it, his face falling slack as he deadpans, “What? I never kid.”
I grab a fake titty and squeeze. I’m not sure if it’s socks or just a rag, so I honk the other horn. Socks. I look down at his feet. He’s got chunky platform heels on and his toenails are painted. “Halloween isn’t for another three months, Fox. And this isn’t even a costume party.”
He points at himself as if his logic is obvious. And sound. “Birthday boy.”
I stare at him, trying desperately to convey with my incredulous expression that his response does not properly explain anything. Slowly his amusement dissipates until he rolls his eyes. His green eye seems to roll slower than the hazel one.
“You’re already drunk, aren’t you?”
“No.” He hiccups. A friend bustles through, pushing between us to get to the coolers. Fox continues, unruffled. “Shit. I mean, yeah, a bit. I pregamed. And the costume is like a birthday crown but awesomer. Plus, I’m an actual nurse!” he shouts as if he has no idea his volume changed. “It’s funny.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle. “Granted, but you look like you showed up to the wrong party.”
“It’s my house!” He looks offended.
“Okay, Drunky McShitfaced.” I shrug and decide to let him off the hook. “Have you at least locked the rooms? Because if you haven’t, that’d be like inviting people to trash your place since you’re already three sheets.”
“I’m not even one sheet. And it’s like inviting people to outdo me, not tripping… trusting—no, wait. What did you say again?” He sways, and I realized that “pregame” means he and Doc hit the tequila like it was outlawed.
“Trash your place,” I repeat slowly, gesturing widely to the growing crowd on the deck. I know most of these people, but I also know with enough of us together… shit happens. “By which I mean having a vomitorium-style orgy all over everything you own. Including your absurd collection of ABBA vinyl.”
All the color drains from his face. I knew that would get him, even though my clear disapproval of said collection flies right over his head. No amount of gay jokes deter him from his love of ABBA. Even Cameron, my drag queen brother, teases him about it—though Cam detests ABBA for an entirely different host of reasons I don’t quite understand. It seems illegal for a drag queen to hate them, but there it is. In any case, Fox will jam to “Waterloo” with the queeniest of the queens as he is blissfully confident in his sexuality. It’s actually one of his best qualities. And worst.
“Think ‘Godzilla Does Dominoes’ with a barf tsunami chaser,” I add, highly enjoying his look of extreme unease and queasiness. It feels like payback for his Tinder contributions.
“For serious?”
“Dog Star Sirius.”
Fox shoves the beer into my free hand—the very same bottle he’d used to attempt a violation of my back door—and hurries into the house. He trips over the track of the sliding doors, and I cackle. My aim is to make sure he feels like an ass. Especially since he flashes the entire deck his red lace thong when he falls. For my trouble, I get a middle finger flung behind his back as he scrambles toward his “office.” I am a little scarred by the thong.
Fox leaves the door open, but Cameron takes care of it on his way out.
“I see his ass is on fire,” he notes. “Who lit it? You? Please say it was you, Sophie. You know I love you like a sister.”
I nod. “I am your sister.”
“My older sister.”
“Unnecessary and rude, but yes, I did light his ass on fire. Because I live for these moments.” I pause to take a sip of my foster beer, and then ask for the bottom line. “So Hamilton? Yay or nay?”
Cameron sucks his teeth and shakes his head. His long brown hair swirls, a curtain swinging in front of his face. Sometimes people think we’re twins despite the lack of identical features. I have blue eyes, he has brown. I have mom’s nose, he has dad’s. I tan easily. He fries like bacon.
“No! Really? I had high hopes for him,” I say. My brother has had a string of failed relationships lately—all of which seem to start with such promise, but end with spectacularly horrible results. I’m not sure what’s going on with him these days, but I’m happy to see him out again. He’s usually a fixture at Fox’s parties and in our circles, but over the last month or two he’s been a no-show.
“You liked him because you could sing the musical soundtrack at him instead of greet him by his actual name—which was actually Hamilton and not Alexander Hamilton,” he notes. He’s not wrong. “He hated it, by the way.”
“Who hates Hamilton the musical?! That’s un-American,” I declare jokingly and guzzle more of my beer.
“Hamilton the Boyfriend, that’s who. He is British, by the way.”
“And yet is also an American citizen,” I argue in the same tone of voice. Fox’s dog Flower bumps my free hip with her head. I hand Cameron my foster drinks to give my girl some love. “Am I right, baby girl? Yes. Yes, I am. Good baby puppy girl. We’re always right.”
My animal cooing increases in pitch and volume and quickly attracts others of my ilk—read: nutjobs who go googly-eyed over cute pets no matter where they are. Flower soon gets her share of belly rubs.
“In any case,” Cam says loud enough to regain my attention, “it’s over. He wants to move to Seattle or something grungy.”
“He knows Kurt Cobain died, right?” I say as I stand, leaving Flower to her next nap.
Cam shrugs, handing me back my alcoholic charges. “I’m not sure. He wasn’t the brightest.”
“Absolutely did not live up to the name, did he?”
“No.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “Except for the cheating part.”
“Motherfucker.”
“Stand down,” he teases. “You know, you’re like a sailor with that mouth. Anyway, it’s nothing worth mentioning. And it’s moot.”
I finally notice how uncomfortable my brother looks right now. He keeps shifting foot to foot and his eyes are constantly scanning everyone around us. He doesn’t have a problem discussing this kind of thing usually.
“Are you okay, Cam? Like, for real, not just bullshit conversation. You look almost queasy. Is something else going on aside from the Ham thing?”
He mumbles something I don’t understand, but the odd expression that had me questioning crumbles and disappears from his face like a landslide. I make a note to stop by unannounced and see if he’ll open up privately. In the meantime, I make sure he knows the door is open.
“If you need to unload anything,” I say, my hand on his arm, “I’ve got an ear. Two, even. You can talk to me. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving me off. “I’m okay right now, but thanks.”
“Okay,” I reply, probably examining the poor guy a little too closely. He’s not had it easy since coming out in high school. Dad was not the most understanding. He made a late effort, but his initial reactions significantly colored their relationship after that. They only just recently patched things up to the point that holidays and family time with him and Dad’s second wife, Kristin, aren’t super awkward and charged. They even occasionally talk unscheduled.
At that moment, Iris reemerges from the house with a look of defeat on her face. She runs her fingers through her short blond crop, gripping her locks tightly before dropping her arms to her sides and groaning.
“And? Daniel and the den of the one tiny, baby, toothless lion?” I ask, not at all hopeful.
Iris tries to enjoy the joke, but it’s forced and sounds more like a dying seal. “He’s coming.”
“Like, in his pants?” I hand her back her drink.
Cameron titters at my joke—sounds just like Mom. Good sign.
She rolls her eyes, annoyed. “No, Sophie. Jesus.”
“Jesus is coming?” I can’t help myself now. I’ve barely sipped my new ass-beer, and it’s technically my first drink. Cameron doubles over, but tries to stifle his noise. It just makes it worse.
“Ugh.” She’s clearly deciding to treat me like her husband, so she explains slowly and ignores Cameron altogether. “Daniel. Is bringing. The baby. To the barbecue.”
A look of horror spreads across my face—it’s sarcastic horror because it wouldn’t bother me, necessarily, but as pissed as she looks, I’m feigning support. Badly.
“Wow. That’s gorgeous. Put that on your Tinder profile,” she snarks, slightly amused.
I feel a stab in the side. Tinder. Never again. Maybe when someone creates an app for “Meet Your Ideal Sperm Donors.”
Cameron catches the slip in expression. His eyebrows pinch together and he raises one at me, questioning. I shake my head to indicate I will tell him later and he nods. Iris, however, is silently fuming. I sense a potential spontaneous combustion so I snatch the phone from her hands and pull up the call log.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice jumping octaves like a teenage boy in the midst of the change. She grabs at me, trying to get the phone back, but I’m much taller and block her easily.
“I am taking care of this shit,” I say. The surge of power comes from the inability to control my own life, I’m sure, but if it makes me feel like I can do something, let’s do it.
The phone rings once before Daniel picks up. “I’m on my way! I just have to find the car seat adaptor!” He sounds panicked like “the house is burning down around me” panicked. I can hear Will screaming in the background.
“Daniel?” I say, loud as I can without alerting everyone at the barbecue that I’m going to lay down the law. I pace away from Iris a little. Cam wraps an arm around her to keep her still. “Daniel!”
“What? Who—? Sophie? What are you doing?”
“I’m telling you to stay home,” I say firmly. “Your wife is not going to stay super late and get shitfaced. You can handle another two hours on your own.”
“You don’t understand, Sophie,” he begins and it sounds like he’s going to cry. “Will hates me. He doesn’t like anything I do. I’ve changed his diaper four times in the last hour!”
“I get it, but Will does not hate you. I promise. Now, I’m guessing you tried feeding him and burping and all that?” Iris gets free and palms at the phone. I slap her hands away again. Daniel confirms he did. I’m no expert, despite the books I’ve started reading—I’ve never had more than some babysitting experience and a baby brother. That said, babies feed off others’ energies sometimes. “Okay, okay. Listen, if you freak out, he’s going to freak out. Babies learn how to react to things from us.” Holy ball sack, I sound supersmart right now. I could pass for a doctor. Fine, not at all. “Not to mention I can practically feel the vibrations of anxiety through the phone. Two things: distract and relax. Keep that in mind and Iris will see you in a couple. Okay?”
“Um.”
I look at Iris. “Daniel, I’m serious. This is parenting… from what I’ve heard. I mean, you figure it out as you go, because you’re all getting to know each other. Right? Now I’m going to give you over to Iris, who’s going to also calm the fuck down and tell you some things he likes and what works to chill him out. Right?” I glare back at Iris’s cold stare.
It doesn’t take long before she caves and nods, sucking in a deep breath. She takes the phone roughly and goes back inside. Five minutes later, she emerges and says, “I’m getting a divorce.”
My skin goes cold and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I would not make it as a therapist. “Stop it.”
She breaks into a grin and winks, and I’m saved from vomiting. “Kidding. He’s got enough chutzpah for another hour or so. If he can’t make it past that, I’ll just leave.”
“Good!” I say, patting her shoulder. “See?” Truth is I was talking out of my ass. I didn’t want Iris to leave before I ask her some pregnancy stuff.
“I tell him things like you mentioned all the time, but for some reason it does not filter through. Anyway, let’s do a shot so it wears off before I have to drive or nurse Will later.”
I wipe sweat from my brow and lead her to the booze spread for a refill. Just as I finish pouring, Fox pushes between us, picks up her glass, and proceeds to throw it back.
“You have no idea what I’ve just been through,” he says, throwing a serious look to both of us. “I… I can’t even talk about it.”
Iris and I eye each other, ready to enjoy his humiliation.
“Were you inappropriately fondled by a patient?” I ask, scanning his nurse outfit.
“Samson rubbed his boner on me,” he whispers and dissolves into a crying face, even though he is not, in fact, crying. “I felt it on my ass cheek… while he was groping my fake boobs!”
Iris falls into the nearest chair in hysterics. Meanwhile, I laugh so hard I cry my mascara off. Since it ends up on my cheeks, I decide to tell anyone who asks that I’m dressing up for early Halloween in solidarity with the birthday boy.
“I don’t even want to know why Samson has a boner,” I say.
“He had a g—”
“I said I do not want to know!” I remind him. “I’m sorry you’ve been violated. You want me to call the cops?” The dirty look he gives me is particularly pathetic. And hilarious. “That’s basically sexual assault, you know.”
“Nah,” he says, blowing me off. He takes his backdoor-violator beer back and guzzles. He whisper-screams “ahh” before he confesses, “I gave him a bloody nose, so I’m good.”
“Lucky girl,” Iris tells him with a wink.