When You Least Expect It by Whitney Gaskell

Author:Whitney Gaskell [Gaskell, Whitney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-553-90762-9
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-06-22T04:00:00+00:00

I wandered outside. Before I even saw him, the rhythmic thud of a basketball on pavement told me Kelly was out shooting hoops. He was wearing a sleeveless gray T-shirt and long baggy shorts, and was dribbling the ball with a practiced ease.

“Hey,” I said, walking up his driveway.

“Hey,” Kelly replied. He bounced the ball to me. I dribbled a few times, then took a shot. The basketball rolled around the rim and then fell out.

“Great,” I said flatly.

Kelly crowed with laughter. He retrieved the ball, bounced it back and forth between his legs, and then took a shot. The ball swished through the net.

“And that’s how it’s done. Nothing but net,” Kelly said, throwing me the ball.

I bounced the ball twice and took another shot. This time it rattled on the frame, but eventually fell in. This gave me a ridiculous rush of pleasure.

I knew why Kelly annoyed India so much. With his expensive toys, young girlfriends, and gobs of disposable income, it was hard not to resent how easily everything came to him. Even his job, managing his hip downtown bar, was glamorous. But although I wouldn’t admit it to India upon pain of scrotum waxing, a small part of me envied Kelly. His success, his money, even the women. His life seemed so easy. And so unlike mine.

“Who’s the hot chick I keep seeing coming and going from your place?” Kelly asked.

It took me a minute to think of who he was talking about. “You mean Lainey?”

Kelly shrugged. “I’ve just seen her from a distance. Dark hair, long legs, nice ass.”

“Lainey,” I confirmed.

“What’s the story with her?”

“She’s pregnant. We’re adopting her baby.”

Kelly whistled and shook his head. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to go into detail about our infertility. And, if I did, I wondered how I could make it clear that it was an issue with India, and not me, without violating India’s privacy. Ever since one of India’s book club friends had, after too many glasses of wine, laid a sympathetic hand on my arm and asked if my sperm count was low, I now worried that everyone immediately assumed the fault lay with me.

“She’s pretty hot for someone who’s knocked up,” Kelly said. “Is she single?”

“Dude,” I said. “Do not hit on our birth mother.”

“Why not? Pregnant sex is hot. At least, it is until they get huge. But there’s that period right in the middle, when their tits get really big and they’re up for it, like, all the time,” Kelly said. “In fact, it was the only time my ex-wife was ever up for it.”

I caught the basketball Kelly tossed to me. “That is way too much information.”

Kelly laughed. “There she is now,” he said, looking across the street toward our house. Lainey was leaving, the infamous Coach handbag slung over one shoulder. She glanced over in our direction and nodded once. I raised my hand in a listless wave. Kelly lifted his chin and called out, “Hey there.

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