The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Em! It’s official!” Peyton cries as she suddenly bursts into my hospital room, causing me to nearly jump clear out of my skin as I lounge in the middle of the bed, devouring my fifth chocolate pudding cup in a span of an hour as I watch one of Maury Povich’s infamous ‘Who’s the Daddy’ episodes on television.

I’d been poked and prodded awake by a well meaning nurse trying to check my vitals shortly before ten in the morning and I’ve been eating ever since; I’d gulped down the stereotypical bland hospital breakfast as if it had been the most delicious gourmet meal I’d ever experienced and I’d sent my husband to the nearest grocery store to pick up all of my favourite goodies. If I was going to be stuck in this room for a prolonged period of time, I was going to damn well do it in style; my own pillow, blanket and an assortment of pyjamas, my lap top and all of my favourite treats.

Hopefully my parents and my uncle will refrain from causing me any more drama and stress -my blood pressure is still extremely unsettled and the spotting and cramping I’m experiencing on a relatively routine basis is frightening- and will remain absent and leave for Sault Ste Marie without insisting on seeing me.

“What‘s official?” I ask. “The fact you just gave me a heart attack and freaked the babies right out?” I lay a hand over my navel as a flurry of activity erupts inside of my stomach -nothing more than feathery fluttering that the doctor has told me is the first real signs of life and that the next step is legitimate kicks or a distinct rolling sensation as the babies move around inside of me- and the fetal monitor strapped around my waist under my pyjamas records every second.

“The sky is falling!” my best friend exclaims, as she tosses her purse and her cable knit sweater coat into the nearby chair and then holds aloft a manila enveloped clutched in her right hand. “It’s the end of the world as we know it! Look what someone did to my Kristopher!”

“These aren’t naked pictures are they?” I frown, as she drops the envelope into my lap. “’Cause although Lepretty is as hot as all shit and I’m sure he looks fantastic with no clothes on, I don’t know if my blood pressure could take seeing him with his Johnson swinging in the breeze. I don’t need visual evidence. If you just want to tell me if he’s like this…” I hold my hands a few inches apart. “…or like this…” I move them to a good foot away from each other. “…I’ll take your word for it and form my own fantasies.”

“They’re not naked pictures,” she says, and runs a hand over my hair and drops a kiss onto the top of my head before plopping down on the edge of the bed and placing a palm on the side of my stomach. She’s a full month ahead of me yet barely boosts a bump of her own; I look like I’m already approaching at least the six month mark. My rapid weight gain and my quickly expanding uterus is just another reason why the doctor wants to do the operation ASAP. As in tomorrow afternoon. “Babies…” she sing-songs. “…it’s Auntie P…”

“Are we having our daily feeling each other up moment?” I tease, as I give her belly a pat and then rub it in slow, smooth circles. “Don’t we usually save this for the evening? And if they’re not naked pictures what are they? Are they…wait a second…” my eyes narrow and I tap the corner of the envelope against my thigh. “…these aren’t sex pictures are they? Someone didn’t send you photos of Lepretty caught in the act, did they? Or did you hire a private eye that caught him in some compromising positions and…”

“It’s nothing like that,” she assures me, and climbs onto the bed completely, settles herself beside me and stretches out her legs. “Nothing scandalous or marriage destroying. Why? Do you think I have a reason to think he’s doing things that lead him into being in compromising positions?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” I scold. “I was just teasing. Do you really think he’d ever cheat on a Goddess like you? Not only would he be the biggest idiot on the planet, but he knows that I’d hunt him down and rip his balls off with my bare hands. And then feed them to him for dinner. Trust me, he fears me. All men do. But you wouldn’t come in here all freaked out if there wasn’t something up.”

“This is just something you have to see to believe,” Peyton declares, and plucks the pudding cup from my hand and helps herself to remains. “So where’s your baby daddy? He actually left your side for five minutes?”

“He left for home a couple of hours ago,” I tear into the envelope and dump the contents -a stack of eight by ten coloured photographs- onto my thighs. “His parents’ flight gets here at three and the guest room that we’d designated for them is a complete disaster area. The floor needs vacuumed, there’s no sheets on the bed, the closet doors needs to be put back ‘cause we took them off to paint.”

“So he’s making himself useful,” she concludes.

“Or at least pretending that he’s doing something useful,” I grin. “He’s probably actually taking a nap. Or he’s gone to visit one of his mistresses.”

“Because there’s just soooo many,” my best friend teases around a spoonful of chocolate and then playfully nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. “You seriously don’t believe that, do you? That he still makes use of his little black book? Because trust me, Lee-Lee; he’s a bonafide one woman man.”

“He knows I’d castrate him if he even dared touch another bitch,” I mutter. “If he so as much thinks about sticking his junk in another woman, I will tear him apart. And I think he prefers all his parts in working order and that he…” my eyes widen and my words trail off as I flip through the images in my possession; obvious photographs taken of Kris during a modelling gig he’d done as a favour last summer for friends of his -and my husband’s- that owned the clothing line/boutique Kasual in Montreal.

Max had mentioned it to me during our time together in November when he’d taken me to the shop and had introduced me to the owners. Yet I’d never actually seen the pictures from the event. Interesting doesn’t accurately begin to describe them; Lepretty with his hair done up in a rather quirky beehive-esque style and his body clad in clothing I’d never certainly want any man in my life to ever own and a few of him posing with fellow models and a couple with his shirt wide open as he ‘struts his stuff’. And while they certainly aren’t my cup of tea and it’s a side of Kris I don’t prefer, there’s still something rather appealing and attractive about both him and the photos.

“My…my…my…” I drawl, as I hold a loft a picture of my best friend’s hubby with his shirt hanging open and the belt on his cargo pants loosely done up. “Kristopher Letang…what a lovely twelve pack you have…”

“Em…” Peyton sighs in exasperation and snatches the photo from my hand. “…this is serious!”

“So are his ab muscles!” I cry, snagging the picture back and then shaking it in her face. “Look at his stomach, P! Look at it! That is a fucking twelve pack on top of a six pack! You never told me he looked like this! You never told me that your husband is such a sexy beast!”

“How can you find this amusing? How can you not take this serious? How can you…?”

“There is nothing at all amusing about your old man’s body! It’s as serious as a heart attack, Peyton! Look at him!” I shove the picture in her face. “Look at what you’re sharing a bed with every night! I can overlook the hideous clothes and the fact that whatever hairstylist was used made an atrocity of his sex hair! Look at that body!”

“I know what his body looks like!” she huffs. “I know how sexy he is! It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?! Who cares about the horrific hair do or the questionable clothes? It was a one time thing! He’s beautiful, Peyton! Legit fucking beautiful! What’s his secret? How’d he get his stomach like that? How many crunches does he have to do? Do you think he’d tell Max? ‘Cause my hubby’s got a pretty smoking body of his own but it’s nothing like this!”

“You are totally missing the entire concept of my sheer and utter horror,” she grumbles.

“All I know is that you…” I tap her on the head with the stack of photos. “…are the envy of women every where. Stop being so damn serious all the time! So he took on some modelling gig as a favour! So what if the clothes and the hair are ridiculous and he’s got this totally metrosexual vibe going on!”

******

“Who’s got a totally metrosexual vibe going on?” Max inquires, catching the tail end of my sentence as he wanders into the room. Now this is exactly how I like my man to look like; couple days worth of stubble gracing his cheeks, glasses perched upon his face and clad in a pair of faded and tattered jeans and his red and black ‘lumberjack’ coat over a simple black t-shirt. To me sexiness isn’t about the clothing itself, it’s about the personality and the confidence of who’s filling those clothes out. And he fills them out just perfect in my book.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s in possession of a carry out tray of drinks and two paper bags all from McDonalds. Food is the best possible gift any man could present me with.

“Peyton’s in a mood over Lepretty unleashing his inner Zoolander,” I explain, waiting for him to place the food and drinks on the window ledge and then turning my face up towards him for a kiss as he leans over the side of the bed. “Have you seen these pictures before?” I inquire, affectionately ruffling his hair as he nuzzles his nose against my belly and gives it two pecks -one for each baby- before peering down at the photos in my hands.

“I haven’t seen the actual pictures but I saw what he looked like that night,” Max replies. “Flower and I went with him to the fashion show.”

“You never told me that,” I frown, as he shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it into the nearby chair. “You told me you knew about the fashion show.”

“I knew because I was there,” he says, and snags a straw from the carry tray and tears open the paper covering with his teeth before piercing the lid of one of the drinks with the plastic tube. “I didn’t think I needed to clarify that at the time.”

“I’m not going to be stumbling upon any pictures like this am I?” I inquire, as he passes me a take out cup of chocolate milkshake and then drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m not going to see photos of you looking like this am I?”

“Hell no,” Max replies. “I don’t get in touch with my girlie side like Tanger does. I’m not as comfortable making myself look like a total flamer.”

“Neither of you are helping,” Peyton mumbles.

“I personally don’t see what the big deal is.” I say with a shrug. “It was just a one time thing, right? Now if he starts disregarding hockey for a modelling career, then I’d worry. But these…” I nod down at the pics. “…these are just damn good examples of why you should never agree to help out a friend before you know what it’s going to entail. I doubt he knew before hand that he’d find up looking like that. Although…” I tilt my head to the left and then to the right as I study one of the shirtless pictures. “…there’s something incredibly sexy about these in a strange and obscure way. I wonder if he got to keep the clothes and is hiding them somewhere. I wouldn’t mind that pretty little blue granny sweater he’s wearing in that one photo.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him if he has it kicking around,” my best friend sighs in exasperation and snatches the photos from my hand.

“I’d be more freaked out over the fact that his ex girlfriend is in some of those photos than the clothes he’s wearing,” Max casually comments, as he takes a pull from the straw sticking out of the lid of his cup of Coke.

“Ex girlfriend?” my eyebrows shoot up and I grab the pictures back. “Which one of these anorexic bitches is his ex girlfriend?”

“The one that’s standing to his left in that pic there,” my husband nods down at the item in question in my hand. “Her name’s Cathy. She’s got a twin sister that Sid went out with before he got mixed up with you. Or should I say that he banged before he got mixed up with you.”

“Yeah? And which one did you bang, Maxime?” I ask. “Which one of these did you knock boots with?”

“Come on…give me some credit…I have better taste than that. I mean, I married you didn’t I?” he gives me a wink and reaches out to pat my stomach. “And Tanger’s taste has obviously improved a fuck of a lot if he married Peyton.”

“That was one hell of a save on your part,” Peyton grins, as she neatly shuffles the pictures together and stuffs them back into their envelope. “And I don’t really care if he’s in pictures with his ex and I don’t even really care that he looks like a total fool in them. I just…”

“Differences of opinion P,” I argue. “I personally think he looks just fine regardless of his hair and horrible wardrobe. He only wore what the stylist told him to and he didn’t have much of a say in what the hairdresser did either. A beautiful man is a beautiful man regardless of the wrapping.”

“I am going to remember those words and throw them in your face the next time you complain about my Ed Hardy hoodies and my plaid shirts,” Max says, as he busies himself with emptying the McDonalds bags. “Next time you even say something bad about my clothes I will remind you of what you said on this day. And you better not even think about bitching when I decide to grow my hair long and bring back my Fu-man Chu.”

“Do you really want to spend the rest of your life on the couch?” I inquire, as he pulls over the tray that stretches across the bed and places a wide assortment of food on it. “Because I am not above making you sleep there for the rest of your existence. There’s a big difference between you and Kristopher. You’re very rugged and sexy; you ooze masculinity. And Lepretty is just…well he’s pretty. You are not pretty Max. And I don’t want you to be pretty. “

“Which is why you shouldn’t care about my plaid shirts and my Fu-Man Chu,” he points out, and then holds his hands up in surrender when I glare at him. “I am just saying…”

“I can’t believe you came all the way over here from work to bitch and moan about Lepretty’s disastrous modelling gig,” I address Peyton. “Did they really upset you that bad?”

“I actually happened to be in the neighbourhood,” she admits. “I had stopped off at home to grab some things I’d forgotten for a meeting this afternoon and then I met up with Garret for lunch just across the street here and…”

“Whoa…whoa…hold the phone!” I cry. “Garret? As in Garret Jones? As in ‘Mister Tall, Dark and extremely handsome, chicks dig my long ball’? If there was ever a reason for a woman to become a baseball fan, he’s it. What were you doing with him? What were you doing with your ex boyfriend?”

“First off, he is not my ex boyfriend,” Peyton corrects. “He’s my ex…”

“Fling?” I tease, and jab her in the ribs with my elbow. “Romp in the hay? Booty call?”

“Friend with benefits,” she stresses. “Second of all, we had some business to discuss involving some charity events he’s planning on hosting. There was nothing remotely scandalous about it, Em. It was just lunch. Besides, even if he was interested…”

“Oh he’s interested alright,” I mutter, and pop a fry into my mouth.

“…I’m married and pregnant,” she reminds me.

“So? Doesn’t mean you’re any less smoking hot or insanely gorgeous! And besides…” I pop the lid of my shake and dip my fry into it. “…some guys are totally turned on by pregnant chicks. Take Max for example…”

“I don’t want to get dragged into this,” my husband says, as he perches on the edge of my bed.

“At the risk of embarrassing the shit out of him, Max finds pregnant women incredibly sexy,” I continue, as I affectionately stroke the space between his shoulders. “He can’t even glimpse at a pregnant belly without getting all hot and bothered and pitching a tent.”

“I do not find pregnant women incredibly sexy,” he argues. “I find you incredibly sexy. The mother of my babies. Not random pregnant women. It’s your belly that gets me all hot and bothered. Although there are a couple guys on the team that do find random knocked up women sexy. There was this one stripper at the club we used to go to all the time that got pregnant and she made more tips when she was in her last trimester than she did before she even got into a delicate condition.”

“Ewwww…” I grimace. “…now that’s just gross. And did you seriously just say ‘delicate condition’? How old are you? Eighty?”

“Sometimes I feel it,” he laments with a heavy sigh.

“Pregnant strippers aside, maybe Garret’s one of those guys turned on by baby bumps,” I reason with a shrug. “I’ve heard stranger more disgusting things.”

“I think you have way too much time on your hands to think about things like that,” Peyton declares, and then wraps an arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to my cheek. “It was just lunch,” she insists, and slips off the bed. “And I was just on my way back to the park and I thought I’d stop in and check up on you and the babies. Ultrasound today still?”

“Four o’clock,” I confirm. “One of those fancy 4D ones. The doctor said we may even get a chance to see what we’re exactly having.”

“No need,” Max says around a mouthful of Big Mac. “Two boys. I already know.”

I roll my eyes and turn my face up towards Peyton as she plants a kiss on my lips.

“Kris and I will stop by later and you guys can share the news,” she says, and then tugs playfully on my ponytails and cuffs Max lightly upside the head before heading for the door.

“Tell Lepretty I said nice twelve pack and that I expect him to let me bounce quarters off it one day!” I call after her. “And don’t forget! Mister Rogers sweater! I want it!”

“Alright!” she laughs. “Love you!”

“Love you too!” I holler, and then cock a quizzical eyebrow at my husband when I find him looking down at me in amusement. “What?” I ask.

“I wish you two loved each other in a non best friend way,” he grins. “And I wish you’d let me either take pictures of it or join in. Or both.”

“You’re disturbed!” I give a derisive snort. “Dream on, Max. You keep holding on to your perverted little fantasizes and your…”

He silences me with a kiss; long and slow and soft and ultimately breath taking.

Isn’t love grand?