I make it to the sidewalk and almost to the corner before the first tear rolls down my cheek.
“What an awful person.” Niki clucks.
“Accusing my daughter of puking on him in public.” Mom sniffs.
“I meant Abby Nora. Who in their right mind would accuse someone of getting pregnant just to copy them?”
That would mean something if I didn’t know Niki was likely to be hitting a text chain to spill the beans to all of their friends as soon as she’s alone.
Did you hear? Deedee’s daughter left her job on the cruise ship because she was fired because she got pregnant. I wonder who the father is. If she even knows.
“You realize your commission depends on your discretion?” Mom murmurs.
Niki makes an offended noise. “Deedee. I wouldnever.”
“I certainly hope not. Ziggy’s had enough of an ordeal with having her entire friend group turn their backs on her out of jealousy of her life. It would be a shame if that carried over to our generation.”
I hate this.
Hateit.
I’m gulping for air as we make our way down the sidewalk.
“We should have lunch at that hockey bar,” Mom says. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a sports bar, and we’re just a block or two away.”
“I’m not hungry,” I force out between my attempts to control my emotions. “I think I want a nap.”
I want to go home.
I want to pet Jessica and cry on Holt’s shoulder and be safe.
Be somewhere that might not ultimately prove to be my home, but somewhere that I at least won’t have to brace myself for the next slap in the face.
“Of course, sweetheart. Pregnancy is hard on the body. You need extra sleep. You can rest at my house. You shouldn’t drive yourself while you’re tired. I’ll make you soup. The kind I used to make when you were sick.”
I don’t want soup.
I want my heart to not hurt over a friend who clearly doesn’t want me anymore. I want to only have the happiness of what’s blossoming with Holt and with the joy of knowing I’m growing my own little wee one in my belly.
I want to be over the hurt.
That’s what I truly want.
But I have this feeling it’s going to take a while.
A very long while.
Dammit.
27
Holt
Ziggy’s late.
I’m at the right Cod Pieces. I have her fries. Fish too—she texted that she was in the mood for something greasy after living on crackers and soda water for a month—but there’s no Ziggy.
“Do you think her mom found out?” Goldie murmurs as we huddle at a booth with as little view of the outside windows as you can get at a fast-food fish restaurant shaped like a fishbowl in a strip mall parking lot.
