Page 238 of Wait for Him

There are three half-empty glasses on the table, discarded crusts piled across two plates, and Blaire is sitting at the head with her phone timer in one hand, presiding over the whole thing with far more authority than the situation warrants. Meanwhile, Michael, James, and I look like overstuffed chipmunks.

Nobody answers Jackson because none of us physically can.

His eyes move slowly around the table, taking in Michael, then James, then me, then the pizza slices still clutched in our hands before finally landing on Blaire.

“What did you do?”

Her jaw drops. “Why are you assuming I did something?”

Jackson gestures broadly at the table. “Because I know these idiots, and somehow you’re the one holding a stopwatch.”

Blaire looks down at her phone, then back at him. “I’m the official.”

“You mean accomplice.”

James makes a strangled noise beside me that might be a laugh, but considering the amount of pizza currently stuffed into his cheeks, it could also be a medical emergency.

“Don’t make him laugh,” Michael manages around his mouthful.

That, naturally, makes James laugh harder.

Blaire slaps the table. “No! No laughing. That’s not my problem. Clock’s still running.”

Jackson stares at her, then at us, then back at her. “I was gone for ten fucking minutes.”

I finally manage to swallow enough to speak. “A lot can happen in ten minutes.”

“I can see that.”

“Thirty seconds!” Blaire announces.

“You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

I point at Michael. He immediately shakes his head and points at James. James, still unable to speak, points at Blaire, who looks personally offended by the accusation.

“Don’t drag me into this. I’m impartial.”

“You’re timing it,” Jackson says.

“Exactly. Impartial.”

He stares at her for another second before pulling out his chair. “Move over.”

Blaire narrows her eyes. “Why?”

Jackson reaches for the pizza box. “If you assholes are doing this, you’re not doing it without me.”

“That’s rud... oh God. Oh my God.”

Blaire drops her phone onto the table and both hands immediately go to her belly. Her face pinches as she shifts in her chair.

“That didn’t feel nice.”

Every single one of us freezes.

There’s no discussion about why. Blaire and Jenn are both less than two weeks from their due dates, which means we’ve entered the terrifying period where either woman can make one slightly unusual facial expression and everyone around her immediately wonders if we’re about to have a goddamn baby on the floor.

It doesn’t help that Michael has been living on the edge of panic for the past month. The man is prepared for every possible scenario. Bags packed. Car seat installed. Routes to the hospital mapped out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has contingency plans for road closures, flash flooding, earthquakes, and spontaneous civil unrest. Blaire could go into labor during the fucking apocalypse and Michael would probably pull a laminated evacuation route out of the glove compartment.