“We should stop.” She’s panting, but doesn’t move back. “In just a second.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sw?—”
“Can I help you two find something?” The clerk’s chipper voice breaks Hazel’s trance.
We spring apart like teenagers caught with their hands down each other’s pants. Tugging her shirt into place, Hazel looks flushed and disheveled. “No, thank you. We’re just—um?—”
“Relieving some pregnancy tension,” I offer.
“Right.” Hazel’s blue eyes are blissed out and guilty.
The clerk looks between us and offers a stiff little smile. “Understandable. Just try to keep it down. There are other customers trying to enjoy their experience at Baby Emporium.”
“Of course,” Hazel says. “I’m sorry.”
I wait for the clerk to vanish. “The other customers are just jealous they’re not enjoying their Baby Emporium experience like you are.”
“Nobody should enjoy a Baby Emporium experience that much,” she hisses. “It should be criminal.”
Flexing my fingers, I catch her sharp intake of breath. “In that case,” I tell her, “you’re with the right guy.”
Smoothing her hair back, Hazel huffs. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Must be the pregnancy hormones.”
“Celeste,” I offer. “Wait, no—Aurora. I like that one better if we’re going with something tied to the cosmos.”
“Dammit,” she mutters. “I never realized how much I say ‘sorry’ until you started doing that.”
“Well now you know.” Part of me hopes she won’t stop right away. I’ve come up with some great names lately.
Gripping the cart, Hazel continues to the next aisle. With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, she throws in a set of baby bath towels and three different kinds of shampoo.
“Don’t people buy you this stuff at a shower?”
Hazel looks horrified. “I’d never ask people to buy me things.”
“I don’t think you ask. I think friends and family just throw you one.”
“I couldn’t accept. It’s appalling to think the people I love would feel pressured to spend money on me.”
“Some people make gifts by hand. It’s not about spending tons of money.”
“Homemade gifts take time and energy.”
I recall her dad’s words that day at the prison.
You know my Hazel—always so sure she can do everything all by herself.
Is that at the root of this?
“It’s not a burden to people who love you,” I point out. “Has it ever occurred to you that people might want to help?”
She swivels her ocean-blue gaze to meet mine. It’s clear from her face that this never dawned on her. “I still don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“Well, I think your family’s gonna want to throw you a damn shower, so get used to it, toots.” Just to goad her, I toss a box of something called Butt Paste into the cart.
“Don’t call me toots,” she mutters, but she doesn’t put back the Butt Paste.
