Ishouldn’t have come.
I seem to think that a lot when I’m forced to meet with my birth family.
Maggie called and insisted we meet somewhere appropriate, which apparently translates to Le Diplomate—white tablecloths, perfect croissants, and enough political regulars to make my skin crawl.
She said it was important, and I don’t have the energy to keep dodging her.
I’m now sixteen weeks pregnant, and I can’t hide my belly any longer, which means my sister is going to take one look at me and know I’m knocked up. Plus, she’s going to guess the man who knocked me up is Dominic Delacour. Now that he’s not some random NSA agent but a man with a high-profile family, I’m sure both she and my father will approve.
She’s already seated when I arrive, back straight, blazer crisp, lips pursed as if she’s pissed with someone…probably me.
“You’re late,” she says.
“In more ways than one,” I quip, taking a seat across from her.
Her eyes narrow. “So, it’s true.”
I pick up the glass of water in front of me and take a sip.
“You’re pregnant.”
I look down at my belly and then at my sister. “Or I’ve seriously put on a hell of a lot of weight in the front.”
She doesn’t raise her voice, but I can tell she wants to. “Enya, do you have any idea what this looks like? An unmarried pregnant daughter? People will talk.”
“In which century? Because it’s 2026 and it’s no one’s business if I’m married, unmarried, or having a baby with an alien…and by that I mean someone from outer space.”
Maggie couldn’t look more surprised if I’d taken all my clothes off, and began to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the top of my lungs.
I’m the amicable sister, the soft one, but my hormones are going nuts, I need to pee like every five seconds, and my back hurts fiercely.
To top it all, I’m starving.
All the time.
I open the menu and look through it.
“Is he marrying you?”
I bark out a laugh. “No, Maggie, I’m going to wear a scarlet A for the rest of my life and change my name to Hester.”
Before she can say anything, I wave to a server who is walking by our table. “Excuse me. Can you take our order?”
The server looks at Maggie for a beat.
“I ordered for us,” she says. “The salad nicoise.”
“More power to you. I don’t want a salad.” I smile at the server. “I’ll have the gougères and the pâté de Campagne…and”—I pause to look through the entrees—“the steak frites, medium rare. And mayonnaise with the fries, please.”
I set the menu aside. “Oh, and some fresh orange juice, please,” I request, patting my belly.
The server’s smile broadens. “Right away, madam.”
“What?” I demand when Maggie stares at me. “I’m eating for two.”
“The second person is really small, and that’s an enormous amount of food,” she protests.
“Did you ask me to lunch to comment on my eating habits, Maggie, or do you have something to say? Maybe something Daddy asked you to pass on because he can’t talk to me like a regular father?”
