Erin thrusts a steel coffee mug at me and nods toward the door. “We’d better get going or we’ll be late.”
“But you haven’t had breakfast!” Mom says.
I pour my cup of coffee into the travel mug.
“We’ll eat at Starbucks.” Erin fills her own mug from the coffeepot.
“You’re taking coffee to Starbucks?” Mom asks.
“It’s just enough to get us there,” Erin says, heading out the kitchen door. I follow her out of the house and into her Honda.
“Mom is such a job snob,” I remark.
“She was trying to be tactful,” she says as she backs out of the driveway. “She thought she’d alleviate the sting of Darla’s pregnancy by first pointing out how much better you’re doing than Doug professionally.”
“She didn’t know how to tell me,” I say. “Apparently you didn’t, either.”
“I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of Doug as a father.” She turns the car onto another street. “I mean, this is the guy who tried to tip a cow, but ended up with the cow falling on him and breaking his rib.”
I smile.
“And then there was the time he tried to roof surf on his friend’s car.”
“How about when he thought he was smoking pot but it was just oregano?” I add.
Erin laughs. “And he was convinced he was high anyway!”
“Yeah, he did some really dumb stuff,” I agree.
“It’s a wonder he survived his teen years.”
“And now he’s going to be a dad.” I try like hell to stop it, but my eyes fill with tears. I look out the window so Erin won’t see. “How’s Darla feeling?”
“Good. She’s hardly had any morning sickness. She’s excited.”
“And Doug?”
“He’s thrilled.” She turns onto a side street. “And actually, despite what Mom says or thinks, he’s making really good money.”
“That’s great.” I try to wipe my eyes surreptitiously. “So—were you going to tell me if Mom hadn’t brought it up?”
“Yeah. We’re not actually meeting Brett at Starbucks—I’m dropping you at his office in an hour. I’m taking you to my place for breakfast first.”
“I’m not all that fragile. I mean, I can be happy for Doug and Darla, even though I can’t have... I haven’t gotten... I can’t get...” My eyes fill up again. “Ah, hell.”
“It’s okay, Jessie.”
The use of the old childhood nickname makes the tears roll. She lets me sit in silence as she drives the two minutes it takes to get to her house.
“Hey—it’s understandable that this is hard for you,” she says as she parks in her driveway and hits the remote to open her garage door.
“It’s more than not being able to get pregnant.”
She frowns at me. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you,” I say. “But you have to promise not to tell Mom.”
“Since when do I tell her anything?” We climb out of the car and go through the garage into the mudroom. I follow her past a coatrack laden with windbreakers and sweaters into the kitchen, which smells of eggs and sausage.
