When I walk into the living room, I find everyone seated on the floor around a fierce game of Go Fish.
“You’re getting trounced,” I say.
Maemie has a long row of pairs, and Josh only has two matches.
“Do you have a whale?” asks Maemie.
I set down the tray on the coffee table and peek at Josh’s hand. I watch as he plays, and I realize quickly that he’s purposely throwing the game. He looks over at me and winks.
I let out a small, surprised huff. The game ends and everyone climbs onto the long, plush couch in front of the TV.
Somehow, it ends up that Colin and Maemie are on one side, then Josh and I next to each other, and Sasha and Mary are on my other side. It’s so crowded with six people on the couch that Josh and I are squeezed tight. I’m practically on his lap. My thigh is plastered against his and the edge of my breast brushes against his arm. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. My breast is sensitive and heavy. I take a quick look at him and then turn away.
He stares straight ahead at the movie, seemingly unaware of how close we’re sitting, or the fact that our legs are pressed together and my breast is against his arm. He laughs at the movie, throws popcorn at the screen with the kids, and then apologizes and promises to clean it up. The entire movie he seems engrossed in the storyline, the popcorn and the kiddos. Me, on the other hand, I can’t concentrate on anything except for the fact that after the kids are in bed and my sister and her husband Oliver are back, Josh and I will be going out, alone.
It’s nearly ten o’clock when Josh and I finally leave Leah’s. I thought we’d go to a quiet bar or restaurant, but Josh said he needed to swing by his dad’s.
He unlocks the front door with his key and holds the door open for me.
I step into the entry. The lights are low, but I can hear the TV on in the living room.
The layout of the house is nearly identical to the house I grew up in. The only thing that’s different is Josh’s dad hasn’t updated the décor since the early nineties. Hunter green carpet, burgundy walls, track lighting and big, bulky furniture. It makes me sort of nostalgic for what my house looked like when I was a kid. My mom went on a decorating frenzy a few years ago and updated everything, so my childhood home is almost unrecognizable.
Josh walks toward the living room and I follow. His dad is sitting in a plush recliner, nodding off, with a tank of oxygen next to his chair. He looks a lot like Josh, just older and thinner, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hey Dad,” Josh says.
His dad jerks fully awake then coughs into his hand. “Josh, you home?” Then he sees me. “Well I’ll be,” he says with a smile. “If it isn’t little Gemma Jacobs. I haven’t seen you since Josh’s high school graduation.”
“Hi, Mr. Lewenthal, I hope it’s okay that I came by with Josh?” I try not to blush. Clearly Josh’s dad doesn’t know what happened at his son’s graduation party.
“Sure it is. I was just watching some medical drama garbage and doing my sudoku.”
“Did you get dinner yet?” asks Josh.
His dad looks up at the ceiling and frowns. “Huh, guess I forgot.”
Josh starts to walk to the kitchen. “I’ll get you something. Be right back, Gemma.”
He disappears down the hallway. I stand at the entry to the living room and shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I wonder if Josh told his dad anything about us.
“You may as well sit down,” he says. Then he covers his mouth and lets out a phlegmy cough. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”
“Oh, no. I wasn’t worried.” I move to the overstuffed couch next to him and sink into the cushion.
He tilts his wire-framed glasses and gives me a searching look. “So, Gemma. What are you up to these days? Your reprobate brother never talks about you.”
I fold my hands and picture how this conversation could go… “Well,” I’d say, “your son agreed to donate his sperm so I can have a baby. He had a few problems producing it, so I sent him sexy photos. In a few weeks, I’m going to get my eggs sucked out, and your son is going to have to donate a fresh sperm sample. He might need some help then too. I haven’t ruled out sending more photos, but I’m not sure.”
I imagine nice, calm, Mr. Lewenthal choking on a cough and wheezing, “You did what? He did what?” Before whacking me over the head with his sudoku book or clubbing me with the TV remote.
I clear my throat and smile at him. Does he know? Has Josh told him?