Her shoulders lift a fraction.
“I’m… not really in the mood for cheese.”
“Not in the mood for cheese?” I ask. “You love cheese.”
She shrugs. “Just not feeling it today,” she says. Then she grabs an olive and eats it like it’s her job.
After a while, David appears again, clears the first course, and sets down the second.
Caesar salad.
Perfectly plated. Crisp romaine. Shaved parmesan. Croutons.
Already tossed in Caesar dressing.
Which pregnant women shouldn’t eat.
Erica’s eyes widen a fraction. Then she looks at me like she’s about to confess to a crime.
“Eat,” I say, because I can see her gearing up to talk her way out of it.
She picks up her fork.
Spears a crouton.
Then sets it back down.
“I’m not really hungry,” she says.
I lean back in my chair.
“But you were starving a little while ago,” I say. “Are you feeling all right?”
Her face heats, but she nods.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She stares at the salad as if it offended her personally.
Then she finds the one piece of dry lettuce on there and takes a skimpy bite. Then goes back for more bread.
I watch her chew. Watch her swallow. Watch her try to look like this is normal.
My thumb taps once against the stem of my wine glass. I pick it up and drink. She picks up her water and drinks again.
Once again, David clears the plates. Erica’s fork hasn’t touched anything except lettuce and one crouton she didn’t even eat.
I keep my face neutral.
Not yet.
Then the entrée arrives.
Steak tartare. Carbonara. Red wine poured into our glasses.
The kind of dinner most people would consider an event.
None of which a pregnant woman can eat.
Erica goes very still. So still, I can almost hear her brain racing.
