Making His Baby(3)

By: Lulu Pratt

“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I did.”

Chapter 2


The only thing worse than attending a high-school reunion           is having to work at one. As I walk among the tables and chairs and dodge the increasingly drunken attendees, I thank the gods that it isn’t my reunion          . That drama is still waiting for me.

What makes the reunion           that I’m working at right now even worse than it would usually be, is the fact that it’s at the school I graduated from. Because of this, a number of the faces in the crowd are ones that I recognize. Luckily, they’re all at least five years older than I am, so none of them recognize me. Thank God. I’d hate for anyone I knew to see me catering for them. That’s an encounter that would be too much to recover from.

Unfortunately, I have no choice but to work at the event. I’ve been trying to do it as little as possible lately, but I have bills to pay and my other job doesn’t cover them. My other job barely covers the cup of coffee I buy in the morning.

I took this job purely as a means to pay my bills so I can pursue my passion, but as my expenses grow, so do my hours. Now, I can barely find an hour in the week to work on what I want. I actually managed to squeeze a few hours in last night, but that comes with a price. I’m tired now because of it, and it’s really starting to wear on me.

“Are you finished with this?” I ask a very drunken lady as she leans against a table for support, an empty wine glass in her hand.

“Sure am,” she slurs as she hands me the glass.

Just as I’m about to take it, she lets go. I’m fast and manage to snatch it out of the air before it shatters all over the gym floor. I shake my head, walking on before I snap and say something that might get me fired.

I can’t afford to be fired. I need this job, as much as I hate it. I’m a writer, or at least, I try to be. When I’m not catering, I’m hunched over my laptop. I’m currently deep in a book that I have been working on for some time. I want to say that it’s coming along nicely, but even I can’t lie to myself that convincingly.

“Do you mind if I just grab these?” I ask a group of men standing by an empty table.

None of them pay attention to me, which is mildly annoying, but it’s probably for the best. Drunken people are no fun when you’re sober. They’re not nearly as entertaining as they think they are.

The table is laden with half-empty glasses. I start piling them onto the tray that I’m carrying with me.

My mind is only half on the task at hand. The other half is on the presentation that was shown earlier. There have been about five different presentations tonight, most of them mindless fluff about the success of the graduates.

But one video in particular hit me pretty hard. It was a memorial to students who had gone here and have since passed away. Even though this graduating class is five years ahead of my own, there is one student who I knew very well. One who had passed away only a few months ago. Seeing her on that screen is like a punch to the heart.

“Miss! Waiter!” I hear the voice call out behind me, but I ignore it. It’s more than a little demeaning to be called waiter, especially by someone who can barely stand. “Hello? Waiter.”

A hand suddenly falls on my shoulder, pulling me back. As it does, I lose my balance and stumble backwards. The tray in my hand, full of empty glasses, smashes to the floor around my feet.

“Oh no!” The owner of the voice wails.

He’s an overweight man, with a red face and beady eyes. His glassy look and the way he sways dangerously as he stares at the mess he has made suggests to me that he has had a few too many.

“It’s okay,” I assure him as I drop to my knees to pick up the pieces. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Here, let me help,” a deep voice says.

“No, it’s fine…” I trail off as my eyes fall on the man speaking.

It isn’t the drunk who was responsible for my stumble who is helping me. No, this man is about as far a cry from him as possible.

He has dark, slicked-back hair and a chiseled jawline. His eyes, looking down at the broken glass, are a piercing blue. And even though he wears an expensive suit and is currently on his knees, I can tell that he has an impressive frame. This is a man who most certainly didn’t peak in high school. I don’t recognize him, but I sure wish that I did.

For a moment I’m frozen, and all I can do is stare.

“Sorry about my friend,” he says with a grimace as he scoops up a handful of glass shards. “It’s his first night away from the kids in a while. I guess he got a little over excited.”

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