Page 56 of Not Your Basic Love Story

Once I was back outside I called Miranda. I needed to hear her voice. She’d be mad, of course, but it didn’t matter.

She answered right away.

“Hell-oooooooo!” she sounded like she was singing in a musical.

“Oh, he-hey,” I stammered, caught off-guard by her over-the-top happy mood, especially when I was feeling so miserable. “You wanted me to call?”

“Becky, ohmigod, I wanted to wait to tell you, maybe take you out for dinner or something, but I just CAN’T! Becky! I… I’m pregnant!”

I stopped in the middle of an intersection.

“… Becky? Hello? Did we lose… Becky?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” I said, my feet somehow finding their way in front of each other, horns blaring.

“Are you okay? Shit. I knew I should have told you in person. I peed on the stick like an hour ago, and I couldn’t wait! I’m sorry!”

“Of course, I’m okay!” I sniffed, my eyes blurring. I stopped walking and leaned against the closest building.

“You’re crying!”

“I’m just so… so happy…” I sobbed, tears running down my face.

Now it sounded like she was crying. “I’m so ha-happy, too!”

“You’re going to be a mom!” I wailed.

“I’m gonna be a momma!” she echoed.

We both cried on either ends of our phone, snorting, slobbery messes. When I finally found my words, I managed to croak out something along the lines of needing to celebrate, of going to brunch on me, or maybe a spa day, and then the call ended, and I was walking down the street in a state of partial zombification back to my apartment, where I collapsed on the floor and bawled until there were no tears left.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The rest of the night was spent in a stupor of self-pity. I’d managed to crawl into the shower and then onto the couch, still damp and naked, and turn on the TV to a random show to provide enough background noise so I could pretend I wasn’t completely alone. I’d left the wine in the cupboard. The last thing my body needed was a depressant. Though I hadn’t eaten all day, I wasn’t hungry. I let my stomach growl to itself, the physical discomfort somehow lessening my mental anguish.

My brain rolled over the day again, and again, and again. Dev didn’t want to live with me. His family didn’t approve of me. Graham wanted me back in his life. And Miranda was pregnant.

I’d felt it creeping up—being left behind.

All my other friends from high school had either moved away or were married with kids. We’d stopped hanging out after that, having nothing in common anymore.

It had been just Miranda and me.

At her wedding, it had all come rushing back. I was the only one who showed up without a boyfriend when everyone else was either married with kids, or soon to be. Even Nicole, that fake bimbo, was further ahead in her love life than me.

Where had I gone wrong? What had I done to deserve this?

I’d had a plan. School. Travel. Job. Date. Marry. Kids. I was a modern woman. I could have it all, right? I didn’t think it would take me until thirty to get this far, though. Had I wasted too much of my youth travelling, studying, partying when I really should have been looking for a husband? Had my mom been right this whole time?

Maybe all the good ones were gone. Dev would move on and marry his ex Sonja, who his parents loved and respected. Would I be with Graham? That, or endlessly scrolling Tinder trying to find someone halfway decent who’d probably cheat on me anyway. At least with Graham, I knew what to expect. I knew the signs. I’d be able to tell sooner if something was going on.

If it hadn’t been for him cheating, we’d be engaged by now. We’d be on our way. A quiet, peaceful wedding in the forest. Two-point-five children. Move out of the city, into the suburbs. White picket fence. A minivan. I’d learn to drive, to get the kids to hockey practice.

We’d been happy, hadn’t we? I tried to remember, my memories shrouded, as if I’d covered them up like they did to furniture in old houses to keep the dust at bay. I remembered sitting on the couch in his apartment. Small, like mine, but well finished. Granite countertops. Gas stove. Real furniture that hadn’t either been purchased from Ikea or from strangers on the internet. Tasteful yet safe art upon the walls, not wanting to make too much of a statement.

He’d cooked for me. Chicken breasts, Sidekick Noodles, and boiled peas. At least he’d tried, right? He even watchedThe Bachelorwith me. Not many guys would do that!

The sex was… sex. Some kissing beforehand, not much during. It was good, but, you know. I’d had better. It was like cereal. Yeah, cereal is good. You can eat it every day. But it’s not like waffles and bacon, smothered in maple syrup, with powdered sugar sprinkled on top.

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