But Charlie and her fiancé, Tristan, were just getting settled into a new place and couldn’t host. And money was tight because of certain unnamed, rash career decisions Wren had made. Hosting at their own minuscule apartment was a nonstarter for myriad reasons, including space, bugs, and nonfunctioning appliances.
So Wren suggested just doing the thing in the grass outside their building.
As the party wrapped up, she was deeply regretting thechoice. The suffocating late July heat had left Wren—who in addition to her height and weight had, at thirty-five weeks now, developed a new measurement: circumference—sopping wet and riddled with mosquito bites.
“Thank you, thanks so much for coming, thank you,” she said, smiling at exiting guests. She realized no one was listening to her, only touching or talking to her belly, murmuring absurd goo-goo-ga-ga nonsense to it. “Namaste. Happy birthday. Congratulations. Cowabunga,” she began saying to the line of well-wishers. No one noticed.
A few not overly close friends she’d picked up at her last couple of jobs, a small gaggle of Arthur’s ripe-smelling teacher colleagues, and that was it.
The party was finally over.
Wren hurried over to Charlie, who was neatly boxing up the leftover food, her flowy sundress moving gently with the breeze. Wren looked down at her own outfit, which she had put very little effort into—an old Ravens jersey and maternity pants—and thought her friend looked more like the mom-to-be than she did.
“Thank God that’s over,” Wren said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean. I’m just hot and my feet hurt and I talked to way too many people about my vagina.”
“OK, but isn’t that normal for you?”
“My feet don’t usually hurt.”
Charlie rolled her eyes but couldn’t fully suppress her laugh.
“Come inside and veg with me,” Wren said. “I’ve been hankering for a relisten of the entire Ford the River discography, and 2000s pop punk always slaps harder when I listen with you.”
“Who’s gonna clean all this up?”
“Arthur’s got it.”
Arthur, who was in danger of being crushed under the massive pile of presents he was carrying, even had one balanced on his chin as he wiggled through the door to their building. She loved him, but he was not a well-built fellow. He looked like the Slender Man had picked up a part-time job with a moving company.
“See? Now, come on.”
“I—” Charlie stopped, hesitated.
“What?”
BEEP.A car horn blasted from the parking lot some twenty yards away. Wren turned and saw a shiny sports car with Tristan hanging a tan arm out the window.
“Sorry, Wren. I gotta go. Tristan’s taking me to dinner and he hates to be late.”
“What’s the restaurant? Maybe we could tag along.”
“It’s not a restaurant, per se, it’s more of a culinary experience. One of those dining-in-the-dark places, where the servers are blind and you can’t see the food before you taste it.”
“A culinary experience.Woman, just call it a restaurant.” Wren realized she was snapping at the person who had dropped everything to throw her a baby shower. “But, hey, of course I get it if you guys need some time together.”
“We’ve just been so busy with everything going on.”
Wren fought not to roll her eyes. She appreciated her friend, she really did. But she and Tristan had just gotten back from the Maldives, and Banff a few weeks before that. A fancy dinner—sorry,culinary experience—tonight. Having a sought-after wedding planner taking care of everything, andseemingly no budget limits to speak of, sure sounded like a lot of work.
“I totally understand. Thank you for all this, really. It means a lot.”
Charlie leaned in for a quick hug, then hurried off to the car.
“Hi, Tristan,” Wren called as Charlie got in on the passenger side of the all-white, all-electric sports car. It managed to be both environmentally conscious and incredibly obnoxious at the same time, which was an impressive feat. For people who wanted to save the planet butalsolet everyone know they were insecure about their penis.
