“Uh ….” Tyler falters on a suitable answer. He wasn’t expecting the likes of Muriel. No one ever is.
“Here, let me top that up for you.” Toby fills his glass to brimming. “On the house, seein’ as you have to deal with my mother.”
“If you’re trying to avoid attention, you came to the wrong place.” Despite my better judgment, I lean in to whisper, “It’s best you just go with it, champ.”
The tension in his jaw eases, and a crooked smile curls his lips. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Have fun.” I tap his full glass with my bottle and then swig from my beer.
The move draws his attention to my mouth—not my intention.
He collects his pint and rises, his thigh brushing against my hip. “Save my seat.”
“I’ll try.” I watch him trail behind Muriel, admiring the shape of his shoulders and his tapered waist.
“So, is that why you’ve been busy?” Toby teases.
“No. We’re just … friends.” I falter over that last word. Despite my best intentions, it’s happening, anyway. We’ve become friends. And I’m wildly attracted to him.
“Right.” With a chuckle, Toby heads off to fill some orders.
And I watch as Muriel drags Tyler from group to group, introducing him as if he’s a special guest for hire, coordinated by Muriel herself. I’ll give him credit; even if he hates the attention, he smiles and laughs with the best of them.
And hides the profound sadness that I’ve caught glimpses of beneath it all.
A commotion stirs behind the bar.
“You forgot the alcohol!” Teddy slaps his son over the shoulder, and with a laugh retrieves the bottle of vodka from beneath the bar—the only hard liquor in this place, and it’s been brought in solely for Calla. “Look at that. You haven’t even opened it yet! Is your head not screwed on tonight?” Teddy cracks the seal on the lid and sets the bottle down on the counter in front of him with a heavy thud.
Toby and Calla share a pointed look. Beside her, Jonah leans against the bar, absently watching while in the midst of a conversation with someone else.
“There. Bet that’ll be a lot stronger. Fix her a new one. A proper one,” Teddy goads, patting the counter so Calla can trade in the drink Toby just handed her for one with alcohol.
She was drinking a martini earlier. This is her second drink—at least. There’s no way she didn’t notice the absence of vodka in the last one.
Unless …
She’s dog-tired.
Can barely stay awake at night.
My breath hitches with the sinking realization.
Jonah has dismissed his conversation entirely and is frowning at his wife, and I can tell he’s walking through the exact same thoughts.
His mouth hangs as he grasps what I just did.
“Calla …” He drops his hand on his wife’s shoulder and leans in, eyebrows arched in a wordless question.
From this angle, I can only see her profile, but it’s enough as she sets the glass down. With a rare shy smile, she nods.
Jonah covers his mouth with a palm as he absorbs the shock.
“Way to blow it, Dad!” Toby smacks Teddy in the arm, a rare bout of irritation twisting his features. “She wanted to tell him later, when they were alone.”
“Tell him what—ooooh.” Teddy’s mouth forms a perfect O as he watches Jonah collect Calla in his arms and lift her into the air.
Toby was obviously in on this elaborate ruse. The only one in on it, I note, as I take in Agnes’s and Mabel’s faces, brimming with shock and unbridled excitement.
I plaster on what I hope is a matching mask to show my support, even as an odd, empty feeling settles over me.
This is really happening.
Jonah is going to be a father. He’s having a baby with Calla.
I knew this day would come. It was only a matter of time. Though, we only just mentioned it yesterday in passing, and it still seemed like years away.
And I’m thrilled for him, for them.
So why am I suddenly overwhelmed by emotions that feel entirely unsuitable?
Jonah has set Calla down on the counter, knocking over a pint in his oblivious excitement as he presses his face into her stomach. She’s beaming as she laughs, not a hint of the same trepidation she had when they had that pregnancy scare last year.
Panic swells as a painful lump forms in my throat, and I fear the worst—that I’m about to lose my composure in the middle of the Ale House. My hand is shaking as I down the rest of my beer in a giant gulp and slide off the stool, intent on stealing a moment for myself in the restroom, to deal with whatever this is in private. Only my legs keep going, carrying me past that little door and through the outer one.