“How long does it take?” Jed asks nobody. “My stomach’s going to start eating itself if it hasn’t already. Oh, this is why I hate going out to eat. Nobody ever—”

“Honey,” Kristin says, “shut up. I’m trying to talk here.”

“Did you bring any antacids?” he asks. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten to bring some from home. This stress is going to kill me, I just know it.”

“Jed,” Kristin says, “shut the fuck up.”

His mouth is closed, but he’s still looking around in every direction, assumedly trying to spot the waiter who took our order less than five minutes ago.

“Jay-Jay—” Kristin starts.

“I hate that name,” I tell her. “I don’t know why you still call me that. I’ve been telling you for years that I hate it when you call me that.”

“I’m pregnant,” she says. “Jed and I are having a baby.”

After a minute of staring blankly, it occurs to me that she’s waiting for some kind of reaction.

“Wow,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. It’s not much.

I look over at Jed, who’s wiping his nose on one of the restaurant’s cloth napkins.

Yeah, that kid is going to get the shit beaten out of it.

“I know, right?” Kristin says. “I mean, we’re not like a hundred percent sure, but I haven’t had a period in like two months, and I’ve been getting really sick in the mornings, and I’m not even drinking anymore.”

“That’s fantastic,” I tell her and it’s all I can do to not jump with joy as my phone beeps.

I look down, reading, “Trust fall?”

“Yeah,” I write back. “I got it eventually, but it was a bit of a process.”

“What are you doing?” Kristin asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask back.

“I just told you that I’m pregnant—me, your one and only sister, the most important person in your world. Are you going to come over here and give me a hug or not?” she asks.

“Right,” I murmur and get out of my seat.

“Excuse me,” Jed says, hailing a passing waiter. “We’re still waiting for our entrees.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” the waiter says. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”

“You know, it’s best not to end sentences in prepositions,” Jed says.

As I’m almost around the table and now close to the waiter, I lean toward him and promise him twenty bucks if nobody spits in my food.

The waiter smiles and walks away.

I bend down and give Kristin a hug.

“Have you been in to see the doctor yet?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Jed answers. “I know pretty much everything there is to know about natal care and birthing.”

That’s easily one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever heard.

“I didn’t know you went to medical school,” I tell him, standing back up, releasing the hug.

“I didn’t,” he says.

“Paramedic training?” I ask. “Mid-wifing—or would that be mid-husbandry? That doesn’t sound right.”

“No,” Jed says.

“Have you had kids?” I ask.

“No,” he answers, “but I do have five brothers and sisters.”

“Jed, we’ve talked about this,” Kristin says. “I’m going to the doctor.”

“I don’t see why,” he responds, playing with the tuft of hair beneath his bottom lip. “All you have to do is make sure you’re getting enough vitamins and try not to overexert yourself.”

“I think Kristin’s right,” I chime in, “I’m sure you’ll be a big help, but she needs a doctor to help her through the process.”

“She really doesn’t,” he says. “Medical practice is just a big racket anyway. My mom never went to the doctor and she lived a good, long, healthy life.”

“Jed, your mother was always sick,” Kristin says. “I don’t even know how tall she was because she was always bedridden with something or another.”

“Prepositions,” Jed corrects.

“Whatever,” Kristin says. “If it’s a boy, we’re thinking of naming him Percival.”

Neither Jed nor my sister appreciate the loud, albeit quick burst of laughter that escapes my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to force my smile down. “Why Percival?”

“It was my grandfather’s name,” Jed says. “It’s a great name with a rich history.”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “That just seems like something you name your kids if you’re living in the eighteen hundreds. I don’t know that many Percivals walking around today.”

“That’s the problem with you people,” he starts, although what he means by “you people,” I can only guess at, “you’re always thinking that if something’s not already popular, there’s no value to it. I think a name should be picked because it’s a good name, not because everyone else’s kid has that name—and where in the hell is our meal? I must have asked that waiter to check on it about half an hour ago.”

“Three minutes,” I correct. “What are you going to name the kid if it’s a girl?”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you,” Kristin says. “I know that you and I have had our ups and downs or whatever, but I really think that we’re getting past all that. I wanted to name her Jay-Jay, after you.”

And now it’s awkward.

I’ve already told her, earlier in this conversation, that I hate the moniker Jay-Jay, but this is a rather sweet act.

“Why Jay-Jay?” I ask. “I mean, I’m very flattered, but if you wanted to name her after me, why not just go with Jessica.”

“Well,” Kristin groans, motioning her head toward Jed.

“It just seems too old-world to me,” he says. “I mean, I hear the name Jessica and I think of some woman in the renaissance posing nude for Da Vinci.”

“Did Da Vinci paint a lot of nudes?” I ask.

“It just doesn’t have that modern feel to it,” Jed says.

“Whereas Percival is hot off the presses,” I snicker.

Jed glares at me, but fortunately, my phone just beeped, so I don’t have to look at him.

The message reads, “Some friends and I are having a party this weekend, and I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”

Hot blood, cold sweat.

“Are you all right?” Jed asks. “You look rather peaked. I hope it’s not that flu that’s going around town.”

“What flu?” I ask, trying to get my mind off the bombshell on my phone.

“There’s always a flu,” Kristin answers, rolling her eyes.

“You should get yourself checked out,” Jed says.

“Prepositions,” Kristin mumbles. She said it quietly, but the look on her face is one of absolute victory.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I ask.

“Sure,” Kristin answers. “Want me to go with you?”

“No,” I tell her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

As I’m walking away, I can hear Jed somewhere behind, telling me to wash my hands.

A party? I don’t even know this man and already he’s asking me if I want to go to a party with him?

I guess it’s not all that outlandish. We have been talking for a while, and we do seem to get along really well.

Opening the door to the bathroom, I walk over to the sink and splash some water over my face.

I’ve been out of the game too long.

The guy didn’t ask me to marry him or bear his children. He just asked if I wanted to go to a party and I’m on the verge of a panic attack about it.

My phone beeps again.

I dry my hands and look at the message.

It says, “I hope that’s not too forward, but my friend, the one that gave me your number, he’s the one that’s throwing the party. I thought it might be a nice, low-pressu”

I wait a minute for the rest of the thought.

The phone beeps and the message continues, “re way for you and I to get to know one another a little better.”

“I don’t know,” I write back and look up into the mirror to see my mascara running from washing my face. I add, “I’m not sure that I’m really ready to start something serious with anyone right now.”

“Keep it together, Jessica,” I whisper to myself.

“I’m almost done!” some woman, apparently in one of the stalls, calls out.

I just grab a paper towel and clean myself up as best I can before going back out to the restaurant.