The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo Page B

clung to the life raft for days, watching him out of the corner of her eye: the bounce in his step, the energy in his voice.

    “You nervous?” he asked her now, and she shook her head.
    “Why would I be?”
    He was quiet, possibly wounded.
    “I mean I’m excited, ” she said, squeezing his hand, approximating enthusiasm. “You going to be okay tonight, do you think?”
    She often wondered if this was what it was like to have an alcoholic as a partner, or a Republican: she and Ryan had grown used to their routine, the psyching up during the car ride over, assurances that they wouldn’t stay late. They even had a signal, like spies, where Ryan would massage his Adam’s apple between his left thumb and forefinger, which meant time to go. Because he got tired, or paranoid, or started spacing out.
    Of course now, after the post-baby-news honeymoon respite, everything was beginning to get bad again. But she couldn’t impart this news to her parents without him; her powers of invention that got him out of family dinners were only so strong.
    “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”
    “You’ll let me know if you—”
    “I said I’m fine.”
    Alternate-universe Ryan would never snap at her; alternate-universe Ryan would say, “The real question is how are you feeling, darling?” to his anxious pregnant girlfriend. They might be married, in the alternate universe, she considered, pulling into the driveway. She would definitely be less nauseated.
    Her parents were sitting on the porch and the dog came running down the front steps and her mother called after him, halfheartedly, “Loomis, stay up here.” Liza bent to pet him. In the alternate universe, as well, this news wouldn’t be competing with that of her sister’s secret adoption scandal—not a new baby but a teenage boy who’d wriggled out of the woodwork.
    “Can you believe this gorgeous evening?” her mother said, rising to hug them both.
    “Your mother’s officially entered porch mode,” her dad said. “She won’t set foot indoors again until October.”

    Liza clung to him when he hugged her, for just an extra desperate second, hoping both that he would notice and that he wouldn’t.
    “Wendy enrolled us in a wine of the month club, ” Marilyn said. “This month is something white. I know nothing about it beyond the fact that it was dropped on the doorstep this morning like a bomb and probably cost more than our gas bill. Can I interest you?”
    Liza paused too long, then said, “Actually,” and her voice cracked on the ack-, and this wasn’t how she’d meant to do it at all, but she’d drawn attention to herself, and she felt blood rush to her face and tears to her eyes.
    “Sweetheart?” Marilyn asked.
    “We have—some news,” she said. She saw her parents exchange split-second eye contact before her mother affectionately took her by the wrist.
    “Lize?”
    She turned to look at Ryan, but he seemed mortified, toeing one Converse into the other.
    “I’m pregnant,” she said, for the first time ever, no turning back, and her mother pulled her into another hug—Marilyn’s hugs were one of a kind, tight and electric and full of kinetic energy, radiating love—and said, “Oh, gosh, honey, what wonderful news.”
    And then Marilyn moved on to Ryan and Liza again faced her father, who wrapped her in a second hug as well, which immediately activated her tear ducts, and she felt his absorbent polo soaking in her crying, and he pulled away to look at her.
    “Liza?” he said softly.
    “I’m sorry; they’re happy tears,” she lied, and she pressed herself against him again.
    “Liza-lee,” he said after a minute, and the catch in his voice made her wonder if he was shedding some happy tears of his own. “I’m very happy for you,” he said, finally releasing the embrace. He offered his hand to Ryan. “Congratulations,” he said.
    “Thanks, Dr. Sorenson,” Ryan said, like a fifteen-year-old who’d impregnated her