I turned toward Adrian. “Isn’t this great?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Adrian?”

No movement. I leaned toward him slowly, like a big-game hunter approaching a lion. He didn’t stir. I edged closer still. “Adrian?” I whispered. No murmured endearments, no inquiries as to the subject of my screenplay, or the nature of my life in Philadelphia. Instead, I heard snoring. Adrian Stadt had fallen asleep.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. It was a classic Cannie Shapiro moment: out on the beach with a gorgeous movie star, with the wind whipping the waves and the moonlight gleaming on the water and a million stars in the sky, and he’s passed out.

Meanwhile, I was stranded. And getting cold, too, with the wind blowing off the water. I looked in the car in vain for a blanket or a stray sweatshirt. Nothing doing. It was four in the morning, according to the glowing green hands of my watch. I decided I’d give him half an hour, and if he didn’t wake up and start moving I’d… well, I’d figure something out.

I turned the engine on so I’d have heat, and music from the Chris Isaak CD he had in the CD player. Then I sat back, wishing I’d worn a jacket, keeping one eye on Adrian, who was snoring to beat the band, the other on my watch. It was… well, pathetic, really, but also a little bit funny. My big trip to Hollywood, I thought ruefully. My romance. Maybe I was the kind of girl who deserved to be mocked in magazines, I thought… then I shook my head. I knew how to take care of myself. I knew how to write. And I had one of the things that I wanted most in the world – I’d sold my screenplay. I’d have money, comfort, some measure of fame. And I was in Hollywood! With a movie star!

I glanced to my right. Said movie star was still not moving. I leaned closer. He was breathing harshly, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

“Adrian?” I whispered. Nothing. “Adrian?” I said in a normal voice. I didn’t see as much as an eyelid twitch. I bent over and shook his shoulders lightly. Nothing happened. When I let him go he flopped bonelessly back into the bucket seat. Now I was getting worried.

I slipped one hand into his pocket, trying not to think of the potential tabloid headlines (“Saturday Night! Star Molested by Wannabe Screenwriter!”) and found his cell phone. After a little fumbling, I produced a dial tone. Great. So now what?

Then it hit me. I reached into my purse and pulled Dr. K’s business card out of my wallet. He’d told us in one Fat Class session that he didn’t sleep much, and was usually in the office by 7 A.M., and it was later than that on the East Coast by now.

I held my breath and punched his numbers. “Hello?” said his deep voice.

“Hey, Dr. K. It’s Cannie Shapiro.”

“Cannie!” he said, sounding happy to hear from me, and not at all alarmed by the fact that I was calling long-distance in what was, for me, the wee hours of the morning. “How was your trip?”

“Just fine,” I said. “Well, so far so good. Except now I seem to have a problem.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“Well, I, um…” I paused, thinking. “I made a new friend,” I said.

“That’s good,” he said encouragingly.

“And we’re at the beach, in his car, and he’s kind of passed out, and I can’t get him to wake up.”

“That’s bad,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “and it’s not even the worst date I’ve been on. So normally I’d just let him sleep, except he told me before he’d been drinking and also taking Ecstasy…”

I paused, and heard nothing. “It’s not what you think,” I said weakly, even though I had no real idea what he was thinking, except that it was probably some combination of my name and words like “flaky.”

“So he’s passed out?” asked Dr. K.

“Well, yeah. Basically.” I sighed. “And I thought I was being fairly amusing.”

“But he’s breathing?”

“Breathing, but sweating,” I elaborated. “And not waking up.”

“Touch his face, and tell me how his skin feels.”

I did. “Hot,” I reported. “Sweaty.”

“Better than cool and clammy. We don’t want that,” he told me. “Try this. I want you to make a fist…”

“Done,” I reported.

“Now rub your knuckles along his sternum. His breastbone. Do it pretty hard… we’re trying to see if he reacts.”

I leaned over and did as he instructed, pressing hard. Adrian flinched and said a word that might have been “mother.” I re-settled myself in my seat and told Dr. K. what had happened.

“Very good,” he said. “I think your gentleman caller is going to be just fine. But I think you should do two things.”

“Go ahead,” I said, tucking the phone under my chin and turning back to Adrian.

“First, turn him on his side, so in case he does vomit, he won’t be in danger of aspirating any.”

I nudged Adrian until he was semi-sideways. “Done,” I said.

“The other thing is just to stay with him,” he said. “Check on him every half hour or so. If he turns cool or starts shaking, or if his pulse becomes irregular, I’d dial 911. Otherwise, he should be fine in the morning. He might feel nauseous, or achy,” he cautioned, “but there won’t be any permanent damage done.”

“Great,” I said, cringing inwardly as I imagined what the morning would be like, when Adrian woke up with the mother of all hangovers and found himself beside me.

“You might want to take a washcloth, dip it in cool water, wring it out, and put it on his forehead,” said the doctor. “That is, if you’re feeling merciful.”

I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Thank you,” I said. “Really. Thanks a lot.”

“I hope things improve,” he said cheerfully. “But it sounds like you’ve got this situation in hand. Will you call me and let me know how it turns out?”

“Absolutely. Thank you again,” I said.

“Take care of yourself, Cannie,” he said. “Call if you need anything else.”

We hung up, and I considered. Washcloth? I looked in the glove compartment and found only a car lease agreement, a few CD jewel boxes, and two pens. I looked in my own purse: lipstick that Garth had given me, wallet, keys, address book, a panty liner that What to Expect When You’re Expecting told me to carry.

I looked at Adrian. I looked at the panty liner. I figured that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, so I got out of the car, made my way carefully to the water, dipped the panty liner, walked back up, and laid it tenderly upon his forehead, trying not to giggle while I did it.

Adrian opened his eyes. “You’re so sweet,” he slurred.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” I said. “You’re awake! I was getting worried…”

Adrian appeared not to hear me. “I bet you’ll be a terrific mother,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

I smiled, settling myself back in my seat. A terrific mother. It was the first time I’d really thought about it – the actual act of mothering. I’d thought about giving birth, sure, about the logistics of caring for a newborn, too. But I’d never given much consideration to what kind of mother I, Cannie Shapiro, age almost twenty-nine, would be.

I cupped my hands around my belly as Adrian snored softly beside me. A good mother, I thought, bemused. But what kind? Would I be one of those cool mothers that all the kids in the neighborhood liked, the ones who served sweetened fruit punch and cookies instead of skim milk and fruit, who wore jeans and funky shoes and could actually talk to her kids, instead of just lecture them? Would I be funny? Would I be the kind of mom they’d want to be the room mother, or show up on Career Day? Or would I be one of those worried mothers, always hovering by the door, waiting for my child to come home, always running after it, clutching a sweater, a raincoat, a handful of tissues?

You’ll be you, said a voice in my head. My own mother’s voice. I recognized it instantly. I would be me. I had no other choice. And that wouldn’t be so bad. I’d done all right by Nifkin, I reasoned. That was something.