How did Meg know about Nico?

I glanced at Sandra who was wide-eyed and horrified.

“You didn’t. . .? Did you call Meg and tell her about Nico?”

“Hell no.” Sandra held her hands up. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“How did she find out?” My palms started to sweat. I glared at the phone. It felt suddenly dangerous. Tentatively, I brought the speaker to my mouth, and I interrupted Meg’s enthusiastic screeching. “Listen. Meg, listen to me. What are you talking about? What did you hear?”

“It’s all over the place. I saw the article on Yahoo Celebrity Stalker and watched the YouTube video just seconds ago.”

“What are you talking about? What YouTube video?” I stared at the sign for the World’s Largest Truck Stop. I had the abrupt sensation of being trapped within a Mel Brooks’s movie.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Elizabeth. It’s the YouTube video of you dancing with Nico Moretti then later yelling at the top of your lungs about having a child with the man—”

I choked. I actually choked on air.

Sandra pulled the phone from my hand and handed me a bottle of water. Between coughs I motioned for her to hang up the phone. When I caught my breath I set the bottle of water between my thighs and gripped the dashboard. I was in a Mel Brooks’s movie. I was certain of it. I couldn’t have been more confounded if someone jumped in front of my car wearing a giant pretzel and sang “Springtime for Hitler.”

“I couldn’t understand her. What did she say? How did she find out?” Sandra sounded as perplexed as I felt.

I shook my head. My voice now both nasally and raspy due to my recent coughing fit. “She said there was a video of Nico and me dancing then,” I swallowed another gulp of water, “then later the video shows me announcing to a room full of people that I—that he and I had a child together.”

Sandra covered her mouth, gasped, her green eyes as wide as tea cups; “Oh my god. Someone—someone must’ve been recording at the reunion.” She shook her head, stared unseeingly out the windshield. “Oh my god.”

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” I appealed to Sandra. “Maybe no one will care and it’ll be a little blip.”

She shook her head before I ended my thought; “No, Elizabeth. This is a big deal. Have you followed Nico at all? Have you followed his career or his personal life?”

“No.” I hadn’t followed him. In fact, I’d more or less purposefully avoided his personal life and stories about him in the news.

“Elizabeth.” She turned in her seat, unlatched her seatbelt. “He’s notoriously private. Like, never talks about his personal life or his family. He’s never been photographed off set with a woman who didn’t work on the show. It’s to the point where a lot of people assume he doesn’t like women.”

“He likes women.”

“I know. I saw him kiss you, remember?”

I tugged on my left eyebrow. I didn’t respond.

“This is not going to blow over. People are going to think you have a love child with Nico Moretti. And you’re a doctor, not a typical attention-seeking type profession if there is such a thing. You appear to be a credible person.”

Love child with Nico. That was a strange concept to think about. It made me feel all kinds of squirmy, warm things I couldn’t define.

We sat in stunned silence for an indeterminable period of time, the engine was still running. I abandoned plan A and wallowed in my memories, rewinding through the last twenty-four hours. I played back all my Nico interactions that could have been recorded.

Sandra placed her hand on my forearm, rousing me from my remembering; “Elizabeth, what are you going to do?”

My throat hurt. I shook my head. I couldn’t think so I answered honestly. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” And, because I really didn’t know, I said it again. “I don’t know.”

~*~

When I arrived home Saturday evening I decided to redouble my efforts to ignore all thoughts and feelings associated with the kiss under the mistletoe and resulting bathroom fiasco as well as the viral YouTube video.

Upon arriving to my apartment I flipped on the TV. This was a mistake. An entertainment TV show was airing the grainy clip of my chair confession. I continued watching just long enough to hear the commentators bad-mouth Nico’s alleged abandonment of our love child.

For a brief moment—despite the danger involved—I wished I’d yelled fire! instead of the child is yours.

I felt sick with remorse at what I’d done, especially since Nico was now paying the price in the court of public opinion. I wanted so badly to apologize for my ridiculous outburst, but felt fairly confident that he’d never want to see me again.

Disgusted, I flipped off the TV, and I listened to boy bands loudly. I organized Janie’s comic books. I ordered Marie a set of Addi Click knitting needles that she’d been lusting after for a just-because present. I alphabetized my records. I read FARK.com for an hour then searched Ask Metafilter for questions related to odd yarn materials and recycle crafts: plastic grocery bags = plarn; T-shirts = tarn.

I busied myself. I was getting more practice at avoiding.

However, even without turning on the TV, life post Nico-love-child apocalypse quickly became less than pleasant.

The fallout of the YouTube video began to take shape. My voicemail filled up first. After the fortieth text message I called my cell company to remove texting ability from my phone and change my number. The change would take twenty-four to forty-eight hours. After another twenty minutes of rejecting phone calls from unknown numbers I finally turned the damn thing off.

Then I made the mistake of checking my Gmail account. I had seven hundred new messages.

How did these people find my contact information so quickly?

Throughout all of this Nico was never far from my thoughts. I worried about him and the trouble I’d caused him. His security guards were absolute crap. Then there was the psycho stalker he’d mentioned. And now I had an email account full of obsessed crazy people. I wished I’d been successful talking him into switching security firms. I kicked myself for not giving him Quinn’s number when I had the chance.

With these concerns for his safety also came daydreams. More than once I caught myself immersed in a fantasy about him, about our brief time together over the weekend: dancing at the reunion; later in my room, him telling me he loved me; at the restaurant, his hands on me, his mouth on mine; the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

The daydreams were wonderful and awful and confusing. Every time it happened I wanted to cry again. I was officially a crying female.

I made a concerted effort to focus on the not-so-bad aspects of the whole situation, otherwise known as: it could have been worse or look on the bright side or at least you’re not a hobo.

I thanked my lucky stars that the quality of the video was spotty at best, though it was clearly me. The idiot who posted it on YouTube listed my name beneath the clip. However, on the bright side, he or she never got a full shot of my face. The amateur videographer seemed to be mostly preoccupied with capturing Nico.

I also thanked my lucky stars that I never felt the need to set up a Facebook or other social media account. My ambivalence to social media was another way that Janie had rubbed off on me. I didn’t have friends other than my small circle, and I didn’t much care for connecting with people. Therefore, the only picture of me linked to the video was my high school graduation photo.

I thanked my lucky stars a third time that I now looked almost entirely different. My teenage self could have passed for a picture of a younger brother.

The weird celebrity stalkers had my name, a dark video of me, my high school yearbook photo, and that was basically it. I felt some measure of relief for myself, but still struggled with how to make things right for Nico. I told myself that I’d overreacted and the likelihood of it all blowing over was almost certain.

I was wrong, but it took me until lunch on Sunday to understand the depth and breadth of the situation.

When I returned to work on Sunday I braced myself for. . . something. Meg had the day off. Everyone else appeared to be oblivious to the Nico-love-child-video apocalypse. That or they were too polite to mention it. I was able to go about my day with no disruption; I felt calmer, more relaxed about the kerfuffle.

Ashley and I had made a date the week prior to meet for lunch Sunday afternoon. Since the day was unseasonably nice for April in Chicago—at forty-nine degrees and sunny—we bundled up and decided to eat on the stone patio benches in the garden; it was situated in a small green space beside the hospital, presently the area was more brown than green.

“So,” She openly studied me as we settled on the cold bench. Ashley took a bite of her carrot. It snapped as it broke. “How was the reunion?”

My lids drifted shut as an unbidden image of Nico—at the restaurant, blocking my way, holding the bathroom door closed, his expression full of hurt—flashed before my eyes. I rubbed my forehead. My heart thudded painfully for three or four beats.

“Can we save this conversation for Tuesday? I know the ladies will want to hear all about it and I just don’t think I can tell the story twice.”