Monica looks absolutely radiant. She's chatting amiably with a woman she works with as we wait for our table, and Ross. Pregnancy definitely becomes her. Her skin positively glows, and her smile, always beautiful, seems wider and brighter than I've ever known it. A baby certainly agrees with her. She's happy and I played an integral part in that.
I watch her chatter on with her coworker friend. I can tell the exact point in the conversation when the topic turns to the baby. Monica beams and rubs her swollen stomach. She looks down at her abdomen, as though she can see through the layers of clothing, skin, and tissue to catch a glimpse of Jack and then looks over at me. She smiles so happily. I return her grin as she continues to beam, answering her friend's questions without ever breaking eye contact with me.
This is what I live for: her smile and this feeling that everything in her life is perfect and I helped make it that way. It's a nice feeling to have in light of recent news. Her coworker says something to Monica and we finally break eye contact. I turn my attention back to the bar and the drink before me. We've been here for twenty minutes waiting not only for Ross but also for Rachel and Joey. Phoebe tosses back what must be her third drink and turns to me.
"What the hell is taking them so long?"
"Rachel and Joey?"
"Rachel, Joey, Ross. The waiter. Monica. The damned bartender and those bar nuts he promised a half an hour ago!" she yells, causing me to wince and several other patrons seated near us to scoot away.
"Uh, they'll all be here soon. We still have about ten minutes until they'll seat us at our table." Phoebe makes a face. I cast a frantic look at Monica but now she's by the coat check talking on her cell phone.
"So...what did Ross say?"
"Not much."
"Was he thrilled we all agreed to meet?"
"Grateful was more like it."
Phoebe nods in understanding. Truth was I didn't really give Ross an opportunity voice his feelings on the matter. About ten minutes to quitting time I had my secretary patch me through to his hotel room and told Ross we would meet him at eight for dinner, hoped that worked for him (it did, he was able to put in), said my goodbye and hung up. After the crappy night's sleep I had, and the emotional toll of dreading this meeting and of a busy day of putting together figures for an important upcoming presentation, I wasn't feeling real sympathetic to the source of at least two of those problems and a migraine. Not to mention Monica was tossing and turning all night, to the point of relegating me to the couch downstairs and some late-night infomercial TV. She claimed the pizza upset her stomach, and after watching her eat eight slices I am inclined to agree that had to be part of it, but I think the meeting with her brother was preying on her mind, too.
I rub my eyes tiredly and try not to drown my frustrations in another swig of my scotch on the rocks. Unlike Phoebe it's still my first, and actually, other than an initial sip, I've barely touched it. It's more Monica's brand of liquor than mine, but after the past two days I'm ready to try and relax. And I think being mellow would be a good idea after not seeing or hearing from Ross in five years. However, being flat out drunk is pretty much guaranteed to piss Monica off, so I hold off on ordering another drink. After all, I have to pace myself through the meal. I do take some of the peanuts the bartender sets in front of Phoebe.
"Okay, Rachel just called. She says the babysitter just arrived and she'll be here in about fifteen minutes," Monica says, setting her purse on the counter. She attempts to take a seat on the barstool and after a couple tries finally manages a stable perch on the stool with a steadying hand from me. I retake my seat and slide the bowl of nuts down the bar and Monica grabs a handful gratefully.
"Thank you, sweetie, I'm starving." I guessed as much. When she's not horny, she's hungry. Or both.
"What about Joey?" Phoebe asks.
"He'll be here as soon as they're done filming. He had to re-shoot a scene. But he should be here shortly," I reply.
We munch silently for a while, each of us lost in our own thoughts about a friend's response to changes we all claim to be unconcerned about.
I glance at Monica, taking in the way her black wrap dress hugs her curves; the swell of her swollen breasts and belly; the sleek shape of her hips and legs. She's never looked sexier. Or more worried.
Everybody is trying to maintain a poker face to seeing Ross again and we're all failing miserably. The sad fact is as much as we claim to be indifferent to any negative response--even after five years of absolutely nothing--Ross' opinion still means something to every person in this group.
Monica especially. She wants Ross to be as happy as she is about the baby, the house, her job...and me.
"Everything's going to be okay," I offer, leaning over to whisper in her ear. She flashes a wry smile and picks at her peanuts. Not satisfied with the lukewarm response, I try again.
"You look beautiful, by the way." I gently place a kiss on the hand I've risen tot my lips. She gives me a nervous smile, but I can tell she's pleased with my comment. I squeeze her hand and replace it next to her water.
She picks at her pile of nuts, twitching her hand as though she's arguing inside her head. She takes a deep breath and turns to me.
"Okay. I'm a little nervous about tonight," she admits, placing both hands on my forearm.
"We'll get through it," I promise. I place a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.
"All right, you guys, get a room," comes a disgusted voice behind me. I place another kiss solidly on Monica's lips before offering a rather insincere apology.
"Sorry, Pheebs."
"Yeah, sorry, honey," Monica offers.
"No. No. I'm sorry. I'm just so frustrated!"
"Still no luck, huh?"
"I don't understand it. I got pregnant with triplets—triplets! You'd think wanting to get pregnant with one would be easy."
"Honey, you've only been trying for a couple of months. Chandler and I tried for almost a year and a half before we finally got our baby." I munch a few peanuts and nod in agreement.
"You just have to be patient. I know it's hard, sweetie. You may have some...some disappointments," Monica's expressions darkens, and I know she's thinking of the two miscarriages and all the negative pregnancy tests," but then again you may get lucky soon."
"I know. I know. You're right. It's just Mike and I are ready to start a family and I think it would be just great if all our kids were around the same age. I mean, we could have picnics and play dates and birthday parties, and maybe they'll all be really close like us, you know? Then we'd always have a reason to keep in touch because our kids would be like, 'Hey mom, I want to go shopping with Emma' or 'Jack and I are going to the park to play baseball'."
"Yeah, that would be great," Monica replies dreamily. "And we can all compare horror stories of potty-training, and give advice on how best to treat a cold, or allergies, or how to make the best birthday cake."
"Uh-huh, exactly!" Phoebe exclaims.
"I know what you mean. It'll happen, you'll see. Just keep trying," Monica advises, "that's what we did."
Yeah, that and about half a dozen fertility tests and treatments, over a year's worth of ovulation calculations and perfecting the best sexual position for conceiving.
"So, anything you guys recommend to, you know, speed up the process?" Phoebe asks, throwing back what appears to be another tequila shot.
"Less alcohol in your diet?" I suggest.
"I don't know. It worked for Rachel," Phoebe points out.
"That's true," Monica concedes. "Actually, there's this one position," Monica lights up. "It kind of hurt Chandler's back a couple of times, but believe me, even if you don't wind up pregnant, it's totally worth it."
"Says you," I interject, "and are you really going to tell this story?" I stare at Mon incredulously. She pats my arm reassuringly and continues without missing a beat. "It's great for you, you know, deep penetration—"
"Oh my god," I moan. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the sound of my wife trading intimate secrets with our friend.
"—And it does help if you're a little limber," Monica rambles on, ignoring me.
"Oh, that's not a problem," Phoebe reassures. I squeeze my eyes tighter, and seriously consider putting my fingers in my ears to block the sound. And making a "Lalalalalala" noise to ensure I don't hear any snippets of this conversation.
"Anyway, you're sort of in this position and the guy—Chandler—is—"
"Mr. Bing, your table is ready," the maitre' d blessedly informs us.
"Yes! Thank you, oh, thank you!" I jump off my stool and just refrain from hugging him. Instead I pump his hand up and down in an enthusiastic handshake and turn to help Monica down from her perch. She smirks at my flustered behavior.
"If you weren't pregnant," I murmur half-threateningly as I guide her to our waiting host. She grins cheekily at my half-hearted glare.
"You still wouldn't do anything," she responds, nonplussed. She squeezes my arm affectionately and takes her proffered seat. Phoebe slides into the chair across from Monica and I wearily settle into the one next to Monica. The waiter and I exchange pleasantries and dinner party info, before we're left with our menus.
Phoebe takes a sip of her water as Monica and I peruse our dinner choices.
"So, anyway, you were saying?" she prompts after a long silence, grinning wickedly at my groan.
Monica looks at me fondly, pats my knee consolingly, and leans forward with a mischievous grin.
"Where was I? Oh, yes, the guy. So he's—"
I drop my head in resignation, glancing up when I think I hear a giggle come from my right.
Oh, well, at least I succeeded in putting a smile on Monica's face.
Fortunately after spending another ten minutes further embarrassing me, the topic turns to Phoebe's upcoming Halloween party. Phoebe and Mike are going as Sonny and Cher. Monica's worried about going, seeing as she can't think of anything good to dress as—other than a cow or beach ball. I make the mistake of jokingly suggesting she go as the Great Pumpkin and spend several minutes after polishing the bloodstains off the fork Monica rammed into my thigh.
By the time Joey arrives fifteen minutes later we've all decided what we're going to order, Phoebe's had what I'm sure is her fifth cocktail, and I've checked my wristwatch at least half a dozen times.
He's late.
Unbelievable.
Granted, so is Rachel, but after all the finagling I had to do to convince everyone to meet for this dinner, the jackass doesn't have the decency to be punctual.
I'm just about to interrupt Joey and Phoebe's discussion on the merits of prosthetics in a nude scene when I hear the quiet clearing of a throat. The sound is so quiet I almost miss it, but amazingly it manages to elicit the undivided attention of everyone at our table. All heads turn to the source. Ross regards us solemnly.
"Hi," he utters softly.
It's all anyone can do to for a reply.
"H-hi," Phoebe finally stutters. I nod dumbly in agreement.
"Is this seat taken?" Ross asks with a hollow laugh, pointing to an empty chair at the end of the table.
Somehow we all manage a weak smile in return and Ross takes a seat. Another silence descends. I can actually hear the ticking of the second hand as it winds its way around my watch. Monica's leg brushes up against mine as she jiggles her knee nervously. I wonder briefly if the baby is responding to the tension as well.
No one looks at anyone else. We all stare at our menus, silverware, and the tablecloth design as solemnity continues to engulf our table.
I desperately search for something witty to say, but when nothing comes to mind I resolve to stay silent.
Unfortunately, everyone else seems to have come to the resolution as well.
I'm very aware of the fact there seems to be no safe topic to broach. Every question that threatens to fall from my lips is loaded with accusation no matter how innocuous.
"So," Ross clears his throat, "have you guys already decided what to order?"
A seemingly safe question, but there's a long pause before anyone is brave enough to answer him.
"Y-yeah," Joey replies, meeting Ross' eyes. "We were just waiting on you and Rachel."
Ross' eyes immediately snap to the remaining chair at our table. Phoebe and I exchange glances, while Joey frowns, and Monica's leg stops bumping into mine.
"Rachel's...Rachel's not—"
"She'll be here shortly," Phoebe cuts in. "She had to wait on—"she stops abruptly, unsure of how to proceed with the information that Rachel now has a baby daughter with a delinquent baby-sitter.
"She should be here any minute," she finishes instead, exchanging looks with Monica and I.
Ross nods and goes back to perusing his menu. "So, um, anybody know what's good here? I've never eaten here before."
"Really, because it's been open for two years, but, oh, that's right, you haven't been here in a while, have you?" Monica snipes.
Ahh, so the tongue-lashing begins.
Ross glances warily out the corner of his eye at his sister. She smiles sweetly and continues in a slightly more congenial tone. "The roast duck is excellent."
"Thank you," Ross acknowledges. "I think I'll order that, then."
"Be careful, you know, not to choke on any bones," Phoebe adds ever so helpfully. Ross' wary glance slides to the other side to consider Phoebe.
"I'll try." His line of vision dips to inventory the amount of alcohol Phoebe's consumed before returning to its previous level. He takes a slow turn about the table, carefully studying faces he hasn't seen since Clinton was in office.
If any changes startle him he doesn't show it. My pulse skyrockets when he turns his attention to Monica. This is it, I think wildly. This is when we tell him. She doesn't return his look, but merely stares down determinedly at the plate she's leaning over, elbows crossed on the edge of the table. In fact, in her current position it's difficult to tell she's pregnant what with where the table edge falls on her abdomen and the tablecloth slightly covering her bump. It also probably helps that I'm in between the two, blocking any clear views of the obvious changes in Monica's body. I watch nervously as Ross takes in the shape of her face, waiting for the inevitable realization that something is drastically different with his only sister.
Nothing ever comes. After studying Monica for a few more seconds he focuses on me. I realize that Ross is looking to me to help him bridge the conversational divide. Great. By negotiating this meeting, I'm now expected to help play mediator in this mess.
"So..." I begin with a sigh and come to an abrupt halt, as I realize I have no idea what to say.
Ross looks on encouragingly.
"You made it."
"Yup."
I nod and smile tightly. Monica glances at me in annoyance but doesn't contribute anything to the fledgling conversation.
"H-how long have you been in New York?" Joey jumps in.
"Since Tuesday," Ross responds, carefully repositioning his napkin.
"What are you here for?" Phoebe asks and we all look at her before turning to Ross for the response.
"Sorry!" Five heads jerk at the cry.
"Sorry, oh, excuse me ma'am, sir, sorry. Hey guys. Sorry I'm late. Shannon can not be on time to save her life," Rachel chuckles, sliding into the empty chair opposite of Ross. Distantly, it registers in the back of my mind that all the girls are on one end and the guys on the other—almost like old times and its boys against girls in some game or challenge. But it's very clear when Rachel looks across the table and Ross meets her eye that there's nothing amusing about what's going on here.
"Hi," Rachel offers, the smile disappearing and a guarded expression taking its place.
Ross nods once. "Hello, Rachel."
Joey gives me a resigned look and I smile tightly in agreement.
Here we go.