“This should be a fun evening,” I grumbled to Andy. We were on our way to Park Slope to meet Matthew, my platonic childhood friend, and Courtney, his wife and my nemesis, for dinner.

Because Courtney and I were so close to our due dates, the four of us were all stuck in town over the holiday weekend. Because I’d bumped into Matthew in the ice cream section of our local supermarket – and because he was oblivious to the shared antipathy between his wife and me – we were now off to break bread with them at a French place they liked on Fifth Avenue.

“Come on, Evie,” Andy said. “We’ve had plenty of dinners with Matthew and Courtney. You’ve always managed to have a good time.”

“Not one-on-one dinners,” I pointed out. “We’ve only gone out two-on-two with them twice – and both times they were just dating.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

I gave him the upward palm/shaking head combo that said, “Do you really have to ask?” to which he said, “Seriously. What?”

“Back then, she was still auditioning. She had to at least act as if she liked me. Now they’re married, and she’s nine months pregnant. The woman no longer needs pretense.”

Andy nodded. After a pause he said, “Do you think Matthew knows how much you and Courtney dislike each other?”

I tilted my head, thinking. Were it anyone else, I would have said “yes.” But Matthew was sweet to the point of cluelessness. He was also completely without guile. If he knew how his wife and I really felt, he never would have proposed this dinner.

After exchanging hellos and kisses – only with Matthew, we’d told Courtney not to get up – Andy busted out some weather talk to break the ice. “Couldn’t pick a better weekend to have to stay in the city.” It turned out we had all spent at least part of the nice day walking on the Promenade.

“Courtney’s trying to walk as much as possible,” Matthew said. “Her OB said it might help start the labor.”

“Oh,” I said, confused. “I thought we were still a couple weeks before your due date.”

“We are,” she said. “But, honestly, at this point, I can’t wait to get this baby out of me.”

“Not me,” I said. “I’m not mentally prepared to deal with an actual baby. I’ve only just recently adjusted to the pregnancy.” Mathew and Andy let out little laughs, but to Courtney this was no joking matter.

“Well, you’d better get prepared, Eve,” she said. “Like it or not, you’re having a baby.”

Unsure how to respond, I shot a “where’d that come from?” look toward Andy. Then, trying my best to keep things light, I gripped my belly two-handedly and said, “I guess so!”

Matthew rushed in and moved the conversation forward. “Speaking of being prepared,” he said, playfully raising an eyebrow, “where are you guys on names?”

I must admit that my first thought was not really about his question, but about his smile and tone. Had Matthew not noticed his wife’s aggressive nastiness? Or had he noted it, decided to let it slide, and come up with this rejoinder to keep the tone of the dinner friendly and light? If it were anyone other than Matthew, I would have thought the latter. But since it was Matthew, I had no choice but to take him at face value and answer his question.

“We have a few favorites,” I said. “Our girl name is set, but the boy name still has a couple contenders. What about you guys?”

“We know ours,” Matthew said, unable to suppress a smile. I was struck with the thought of how cute a dad he would be.

“We decided it months ago,” Courtney said, unable to suppress her smugness. I was struck with the thought of the trouble the poor kid was going to face with such a type A mother.

“Well,” I said, “I guess it’s easier when you know the gender.”

Unlike us, Courtney and Matthew had chosen to find out the sex of their child. This was not surprising, since Courtney was so type A. But their circumstance was somewhat unconventional, because while Courtney wanted to find out the gender, Matthew didn’t. “It’s just not as fun to call people up and say, ‘We had the baby,’ as it is to call and say, ‘It’s a girl!’ or ‘It’s a boy!'” he’d told me months ago. So they’d come up with a compromise: They’d find out what they were having, but they wouldn’t tell anyone else. Which, in my opinion, added up to being totally annoying. And even though Matthew was half to blame for this nonsense, the “I’ve got a secret and I won’t tell you” self-importance of the thing suited Courtney perfectly.

“So,” Matthew said, widening his eyes devilishly. “Want to tell us your names?”

Matthew was my friend from childhood. Sometimes we regressed. “Want to tell us yours?”

“We can’t,” he said. “Then you’d know the gender.”

“Then we can’t either,” I said with a shrug. From the corner of my eye, I caught Andy’s bemused expression. He was slowly shaking his head.

“Well, I guess we’ll all have to wait a few weeks then,” Matthew said. It was as if we’d made a bet, or challenged each other to a dare.

Two – or, rather, four – could play at “I’ve got a secret and I won’t tell you” self-importance. “I guess we will,” I said.

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.