Jennifer Close - The Hopefuls

“Deal,” I said. He fell back to sleep immediately, but I lay there for a while in the dark, thinking about my dream, shivering at how shiny Mitt’s hair had been as he circled around me.

—

The next morning, Matt was already dressed in his suit and eating cereal at the table when I finally managed to come downstairs, still in my pajamas. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from him while he gave me a sympathetic look.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked.

“I think an hour or two,” I said, yawning, as if just talking about it made it worse. After the Mitt-on-a-bike dream, I’d tossed and turned, falling asleep to more creepy Romney dreams that were equally bizarre.

“Oh, Buzz,” Matt said.

“I know. It’s stupid. It’s not like I think he’s even going to win. It’s just — what if he does? Can you imagine?”

“No.” Matt’s voice sounded certain, but I knew he was worried. We’d spent the whole night before, in fact, discussing what would happen if Obama lost — not just how disappointing it would be, but also how strange. Matt would lose his job (along with everyone else we knew who worked in the administration), DC would empty out, all of our friends would go back to where they were from — Chicago or Texas or Iowa. And maybe the strangest part of all was to think that Matt and I would most likely stay. Maybe we’d move to Maryland right away, live on the same block as Matt’s brothers, start playing tennis with Babs. Who knew?

I hadn’t expected to feel this way, to be so invested in the election. In some ways, it felt bigger to me than it had four years ago. I was always aware that our life in DC was temporary, that there was an expiration date — but now with all of the election coverage, I had a daily reminder that things might change overnight. Everything seemed so tenuous. We could pretend that this town was ours, but really it was just on loan.

I drank my first cup of coffee quickly and poured a second, holding it in my hands and willing the caffeine to kick in. Matt checked his BlackBerry, knowing without me having to tell him that I wasn’t up for conversation just yet, and I watched him from across the table. He always did this thing when he ate breakfast, where he’d put his tie over his shoulder to keep it from getting dirty, like some old-fashioned businessman. It killed me. It must’ve been something that his father did, a habit he picked up along the way, and there was just something about it that I loved.

He looked up to see me watching him, smiled back, and stood to carry his bowl to the sink. I listened to him rinsing it out and putting it in the dishwasher. When he came out of the kitchen, he flipped his tie back to its proper place and smoothed it down with his palm.

“Look,” he finally said. “This is stressful. It’s going to be a stressful few months. All we can do is try not to worry about it. And vote, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Are you going to fall asleep at the office?”

“Actually, I might work from home today,” I said, meaning that I would be heading back to bed for a couple of hours as soon as he left. I hoped Ellie wouldn’t mind much. Or at least that she wouldn’t notice.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Matt said, leaning down to kiss me good-bye. “And remember — we’ll just stay positive, right? Positive thoughts?”

“Yes. Positive thoughts,” I said. And then when the door shut behind him, I said again, to no one, “Positive thoughts.”

—

The next Saturday, Ash insisted that I meet her for brunch. We hadn’t gone out with the Dillons on Friday, because Jimmy was traveling, and I figured she just wanted to get together, but when I’d suggested that we cancel (mostly because I was tired from not sleeping all week and kind of just wanted to sit on my couch) she’d whined, “Noooo, I have to see you.” And right then I knew what she was going to tell me.

We met at Saint-Ex on Fourteenth Street, and when I got there, she was already at a table outside, waving at me like a little kid and smiling widely. I’d barely sat down before she said, “I’m pregnant,” and I tried my best to look both excited and surprised.

“Oh my God,” I said, “when did you find out?”

It turned out that Ash was barely pregnant, had basically peed on a stick and then decided to announce it to me. “Are you worried about telling people so early?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I probably won’t tell anyone else, but I had to tell you or I was going to burst. You’re my best friend! I almost called you right after I took the test, but then I wanted to see your face when I told you in person.”

When the waiter came to our table, Ash ordered a club soda with lime and then looked up at him pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m pregnant,” she said. I wanted to tell her that it was 1:00 in the afternoon and she didn’t have to explain to the waiter why she wasn’t drinking, that really he probably didn’t even notice. But I just ordered a Bloody Mary for myself and kept smiling.

The next Tuesday, Colleen and I had planned to go for an early evening walk through Rock Creek Park (which was our way of pretending to exercise when really we just wanted to talk), but when she came to my door that night, she looked exhausted and said, “Do you mind if we just order dinner instead?”

“Sure,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Not really. I’m pregnant. And so fucking tired.”

She told me they’d been trying for a few months. “I mean, I would’ve waited another year or two, but time is marching on. For Bruce I mean,” she said quickly. “He’s already going to be an old dad, but I’d rather people don’t think he’s the baby’s grandpa.”

—

I tried to figure out why I didn’t take this news so well. I should’ve been thrilled, two of my best friends having babies. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want to talk to them about how they’d tracked their ovulation schedules or how often they had to go to the bathroom. I knew how awful I was being. Maybe it was all the pressure of the election, knowing that so many things might change. Maybe I just wanted things to stay the same for a little while longer. But mostly, I think, sometimes it’s just really hard to be happy for other people.

—

When I talked to Matt about it, he said, “Are you jealous?” He looked hopeful, like I was going to get caught up in some pregnancy pact with Ash and Colleen, decide that we should have a baby immediately.

“No, it’s not that. I just — I know what it will be like. This is all they’re going to talk about.” Matt was silent, and then I said, “Just so you know, I realize how shitty I sound. I can’t help it. I’m a bad friend, I guess.”

“You’re not a bad friend,” he said. “But I think maybe you think this is worse than it is.”

“I mean, I’m happy for them,” I said. “I just wish it wasn’t happening right now.”

“They’re not going to stop being your friends just because they’re having babies.”

“They won’t be able to drink.”

“I’m sure you can work around that,” he said, all of a sudden speaking slowly, like I was a brain-damaged giraffe.

“You don’t get it. It’s different for guys.”

Matt looked at me, like he was trying to decide if he should continue this conversation. Lately, there had been a different tone when we talked about babies. It was a subtle shift, but I felt it. Now when Matt showed me pregnancy announcements on Facebook, I felt like he was really saying, What d’ya think? Are you ready? It was stressing me out. I started to blame Facebook and everyone’s need to announce their impending babies in creative ways, like they were all involved in some giant Pinterest competition. If I saw one more tiny pumpkin with a date on it, one more Big Brother Promotion sign, one more picture of an actual bun in an oven, I thought I might lose it. Or vomit.