Baby first, I remind myself.
No, myself first.
Don’t make friends with people who will betray you.
My phone dings.
I pull it out of my pocket and glance at it, and my stomach sinks to the floor.
Mom:Ziggy!! Why didn’t you tell us Abby Nora had her baby?!
Mom hasn’t just sent the question.
She’s also sent a picture of Abby Nora in a hospital room, beaming as she holds a little bundle with a pink cap, with Josh, her handsome trophy husband, behind her.
They look exhausted.
And so, so happy.
While I’m the bitter former friend calling her husband hertrophy husband.
I don’t like breaking up with friends.
And I don’t like the person I am when I’m mad at her either.
Tears sting my eyes.
I turn away so Holt won’t see, mumble a quick, “You’re welcome,” and then head to the bathroom.
Because I’m going to be sick.
Again.
10
Holt
I shouldn’t wantZiggy to stay.
Bad idea, having a woman—a pregnant woman at that—in my house while I’m here.
Especially when I already spent the past three weeks being as brief as possible over text, lest I give away that I can’t get her out of my head.
A camp buddy ordered a glass of wine at dinner—I thought of Ziggy.
I passed a pregnant woman in the offices—I thought of Ziggy.
I lay in my bed alone at night—I thought of Ziggy.
I should offer to put her up in a hotel. Find a short-term rental for her. Find a teammate who can move in with me and put her in his place instead.
But fuck me, if that’s what she cooks for breakfast forsomeone who doesn’t deserve the honor of eating dog shit, what would she cook if I was nice to her?
And she was right—the pain meds have kicked in, and it’s helping.
My mood anyway.
Not my panic.
