Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [49]
Because I don’t want to run the risk of having to ride down in the elevator with Jake and Ethan, I make a stop in the ladies’ room, hopefully allowing them time to vacate the building. I wash my hands, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I’m uncomfortable in this constricting power suit, a pre-pregnancy outfit I had unearthed in the wee hours of the morning, the jacket of which, unbuttoned, is tight across my back. As I bend over the sink, I can hear a small, ominous rip somewhere in the jacket’s recesses. My hair has come loose, and there are dark circles under my eyes, courtesy of the TV Land, wine and Valium cocktail I’d subjected myself to in preparation for this morning’s meeting.
On my way out of the building, I see Jake, Ethan, and Nicola standing smack in the middle of the path out of the revolving door. So, she had been here, lurking around somewhere. Even from this distance I can see Jake’s grim expression; he is talking animatedly, and his energetic gesticulations are causing people exiting the revolving door to have to duck to avoid being taken out by an errant swipe. Nicola has one arm linked through Jake’s, her other arm resting consolingly on his chest.
Obviously, I can’t take the revolving door without running smack into them, so instead I walk around to the other door, meaning that, once out of the building, I’ll have to walk past them. Shit. I wish my jacket fit better and that I’d taken a minute to fix my hair, particularly since Nicola, as usual, is dressed to the nines. She’s wearing a long orange sweater and a faux Pucci scarf over black pants and boots with stiletto heels. On my way out of the building I reach into my bag, rummaging for a baseball cap or an umbrella, anything that might allow me to pass them unnoticed, but luckily the three of them are far too absorbed in their strategizing to notice me at all. On my way by, I can’t resist sneaking a look at her. Just as I’m about to pass them, Jake reaches across and gives Nicola’s stomach a gentle pat. It’s an intimate gesture and an unusual one. It takes a couple of seconds for my brain to fully register its implication; my body, as usual, is one step ahead. It begins as a chill at the base of my spine, quickly spreading its icy tentacles through my arms and legs. Luckily, the crowd passing in front of the building jostles me along; otherwise I might have stood frozen and rooted to the spot. Could it be?
I make it to the corner of Fifty-fourth and Fifth before I stop to hail a taxi. I slump back into the lumpy vinyl seat. I haven’t seen Nicola in months, except for that day at the restaurant, and then she had been wearing baggy pants and a chef’s tunic. Perhaps no accident, but pregnant? That couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. Jake had made it absolutely clear, at least after the fact, that he didn’t want children, that he had no desire to be a father. Hadn’t he?
I’m so busy pondering the fundamental truths of my life that I don’t immediately realize that the cab driver is trying to get my attention. He’s babbling in some language that I don’t immediately recognize as English.
“What?” I snap.
“Ees that you fun?”
“What, what are you saying? My fun?”
“Reenging, your fun?” He holds up his cell phone so I can see it. Even then, it takes me a few seconds to realize that my cell phone is ringing in my purse. I fumble to find it. “Hello, Mira, Jerry Fox here.” My heart, which is already racing, seems suddenly to skip several beats, and I wonder, fleetingly, if this could be the beginning of cardiac arrest.
“What? Jerry, is that you?”
“Yep, listen Mira, I forgot to mention this to you,