Page 102 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
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Jordan
Jordan stood in the center of the pregnancy meditation circle turned spider-freak-out crime scene as the clap of Georgie’s footsteps, booking it out of the barn, echoed through the cavernous space.
Not counting the baby goats, who hadn’t been bothered by the crazy lady dragging a doll in circles across the creaky hay-covered planks of wood, the room remained stock still. Lenny and Stu stood with their heads cocked to the side while the meditation specialist’s eyes looked ready to pop out of her skull. He glanced around the room as the three CityBeat cameramen pointed their cameras straight at him. Even Barry, who’d been with them through the majority of their bizarro moments, stared slack-jawed at the goat eating the envelope containing their baby’s gender.
He did one last scan of the stunned group, then tucked Faby in the crook of his arm.
“That was something, wasn’t it, folks?” he said, going for breezy-casual, but, from the gaping silence, he’d only managed to appear run-of-the-mill cuckoo.
He sucked in a tight breath through his teeth. “It looks like Georgie and I are cutting this one short. Enjoy the rest of your day. Namaste and all that bullshit,” he finished, giving the yogi a quick bow before following in his wife’s footsteps and hightailing it out of the barn.
Was this one of their best moments?
Oh, for Christ’s sake, no!
But was it one of the worst?
He let that sink in.
Yeah, maybe it was.
A non-spider phobic person might have simply brushed the creepy-crawly away and left it at that. But that is not how it went down today. And to add insult to injury, the cameras had caught Georgie losing her ever-loving mind over an arachnid, then dragging her infant simulation doll across the ground. An activity he would bet every dollar he had was a big no-no with a real infant.
Out of the barn and away from the gaping mouths and bugged-out eyes, he patted Faby’s head.
“You’re okay, aren’t you, Faby?”
The fake baby stared up at him. Streaks of dirt ran down its plastic cheeks.
He rubbed out a smudge with his thumb. “You look okay to me. Do you want to guess who’s not doing okay?”
He glanced around the half-empty parking area and spied his wife pulling on the locked passenger side door handle like a common pregnant car thief.
He jogged across the lot and came to her side. “It’s easier when you have these,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket, then pressed the fob as the click of the locks disengaging cut through the air.
He rubbed her shoulder. “Do you want to take a minute and then go back into the barn?”
She rested her forehead against the car. “Is Faby all right?”
He looked at the lifeless doll. “Never better. Don’t forget, Faby survived being kidnapped by wild dogs. Faby is a badass fake baby.”
“It wasn’t wild dogs. It was a dog,” she replied against the car window, her breath making little puffs of condensation.
“A pack of wild dogs sounds better,” he countered.
She sighed, then met his gaze. “I can’t go back in there, Jordan.”
He nodded. “Then, we’ll leave.”
“You’re not upset about the Battle of the Births score? We’re probably still dead last.”
“They said there was another secret challenge. We’ll aim for a Hail Mary finish,” he replied.
Did it stink to lose?
Yeah.
