When I’m facing the mirror, I look a bit puffier all over, but mostly like myself. All of the throwing up during the first thirteen weeks actually caused me to drop ten pounds. Nothing hurts quite like having the doctor declare I had at least that much I could stand to lose. I sobbed and ate French fries for the entire hour-long drive home. Thankfully, Red hadn’t been available to join me forthatappointment.
It’s when I study myself from the side it becomes more obvious. Not too noticeable to anybody except me—mostly looks like I ate a big meal. With the weather getting cooler, I should be able to hide my growing stomach with sweatshirts and layers. Even still, the little bump is a reminder that I’m running on borrowed time before my being pregnant will be more than just a rumour… and everybody in town will know Red’s the father. Which is exactly why we need to be a united front. Two friends with a baby. Nothing more.Ever.
“You’re still coming down after Christmas, right?” Blair asks. “I don’t have the desire to spend a full two weeks with my parents.”
I finish meticulously coating my stomach in the moisturizer Red gave me. Doesn’t matter that Blair told me stretch marks are mostly determined by genetics—I’m doingeverythingin my power to prevent them.
“Duh. Now that I’m not constantly vomiting, I’m no longer completely housebound. It’ll be like a little babymoon.”
“Since you want to be difficult about Red, I’m making sure you get laid when you’re here. That’ll be my early push present.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m going to be massively pregnant by then. Go get laid, yourself.” A shock of cold air rushes across my body when I open the bathroom door and pad over to the closet.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m too busy for dating.”
I roll my eyes, sure she can sense it even though she can’t see me, and shove my legs into a pair of jeans. “Oh, for fuck sakes. I can’t button my favourite jeans—the ones that make my ass look amazing. I told you I’m a blimp.”
“You were going to wear amazing-ass jeans to have dinner—at your house—with a guy you have zero intentions of sleeping with? Seems a little suspect.”
“I’m hanging up now.” I chuck the jeans into the back of my closet with a groan and fall back onto the bed, listening to my best friend giggle maniacally on the other end.
“Good call. Better go get prettied up for your date. Wear leggings. They’re comfy, don’t make it seem like you’re trying too hard, and make your ass look great. Guyslovethem. Bye, babe. Love you.”
I genuinely thought he was kidding. But, arms loaded with cloth grocery bags, Red shuffles past me in the doorway and strides toward the kitchen, seemingly quite serious about his offer to cook me dinner. When he suggested it, I assumed he’d get the girls back at Wells Ranch to make something.
“I premade some of the stuff, but I need your kitchen to finish up.”
“Are you sure you’re capable of cooking?” I follow and start unbagging the groceries next to him. Thankfully, he seems to have brought everything he could ever possibly need, clearly anticipating that I’d lack even the most basic of ingredients. I squint to read the label on a fresh green herb I don’t recognize. “I refuse to believe you can even pronounce tarragon.”
“Pronounce it, cook with it. Hell, I canspell it, which I’m sure shocks you,” he says as he washes his hands and gets right to work. “I might’ve played hooky in high school more often than I should’ve. Definitely wasn’t a perfect, straight A student like you were, but I’m not a complete dumbass.”
“Didn’t say you were.” Thought it, maybe. Implied it, definitely. “I don’t have the faintest idea what to use tarragon in.” I hop onto the counter and settle in.
“Good thing you’re not the one cooking then.”
“Why areyoucooking? I heard the word potato and agreed instinctively, but you didn’t need to come over and actually cook dinner.”
“Whatever my baby wants, my baby gets.”
Thank God he doesn’t look up from cutting radishes, because his words send my heart into a fluttery overdrive, and my jaw hangs slack. Then it dawns on me. He’s talking about theliteral babyin my uterus, and I’m an idiot. An embarrassed warmth prickles up my chest and neck.
“Oh… um. Right. Of course.” I fumble my words, sliding off the counter to go bury my stupid, flushed face in the fridge while I pretend to search for something. Anything to keep him from noticing how weird I feel.
It’s the pregnancy.It is.If I weren’t teeming with hormones, there’s nothing Red could say to trigger a reaction like this.
Either oblivious to my humiliation or wanting to save me from myself, Red clears his throat. “Did you ever have cooking class with Mrs. Carr?”
“Every single year from grade eight through twelve.”
“Remember the way she pronounced oregano?”
Laughter bursts out of me. “Oh. My. God. I forgot all about or-ah-gah-no. She was trying to fancy up one of the most common herbs ever. And that’s not even the way Italians say it.”
“School couldn’t afford any nicer ingredients, so just make up your own, I guess.” He pauses his chopping to beam at me.
“She loved making up pronunciations, period,” I say. “I feel bad for anyone who might’ve ordered a tiramisu at a restaurant after taking her class.”
The way we laugh together feels like we’ve been friends our entire lives, not two people who have barely interacted while existing insidethe same small town bubble for all these years. My cheeks ache, and my heart could burst as I lean against the counter next to him, giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.
