Happy Place(93)

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say.

She lifts the drink carrier. “Coffee?”

“Then you’d only have three left,” I say.

She cracks a half-hearted smile. “The salted-caramel latte is for you.”

I look down at the carrier. Three very average-sized drinks, and one that’s the coffee shop equivalent of a Big Gulp. “So they were out of 5-Hour Energies and Adderall, I see.”

Her smile widens. “I couldn’t carry five drinks. So I got one big-ass Americano for Sabrina and Parth to split, a black coffee for Wyn, and a matcha for Kim.”

My chest stings. “You have our drink orders memorized.”

She lifts one shoulder. “I know you.”

Another beat of silence.

“You want to walk for a minute?” she asks.

I nod.

“Here.” She balances the carrier on the bench and pries my paper cup out of it.

“I’ll Venmo you,” I say.

She winces a little. “Please don’t.”

We meander down toward the water, the brine in the air thickening.

After a second, I tell her, “I never learned how to fight.”

She glances sidelong at me.

“Especially not with people I care about,” I say. “I mean, not with anyone. But especially not with the people I love. In fact, I specifically only know how to avoid fights. Or, usually I do.”

She watches me with a divot between her eyebrows.

“I don’t know how fights are supposed to end when you love the person you’re fighting with,” I go on. “In my family, everyone always left when things got bad. Eloise would storm out, or my parents would send her to her room and then go shut themselves in opposite sides of the house, and things never got better afterward. They always felt a little worse.

“And I guess I thought . . . if I kept us from ever fighting, then everyone would stay. I was never trying to cut anyone out. It was the exact opposite. I haven’t been fun to be around in a long time, Cleo.”

Her brows knit tighter, an air of utter mystification to her expression. I wonder if I accidentally said the whole sentence backward.

“The point is,” I say, “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Wyn and me. I should’ve called more.”

After a moment, she looks back over the water. “I wasn’t totally fair last night,” she says. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell us.”

“You do?” I say.

She looks back at me, nods once.

“Lucky,” I say. “Can you explain it to me like I’m five years old?”

She doesn’t crack a smile this time. “You were in denial,” she says. “And telling us would’ve made it all feel real. And even if it is real, even if it’s what you chose, you still know it’s going to change everything, and that’s scary. Because you need us. We’re your family.”

I stare at her. “Damn.”

“Was I close?” she asks.

I set my drink down on one of the posts that line the water here, thick rope strung between them. “More like, are you psychic?” I say.

She lets out a little breathless laugh and looks back to the water sloshing against the bank. Tears glint in the corners of her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she says.

I know there must be sounds all around me—the water, the low horn of boats leaving the harbor, the lobstermen across the bay shouting back and forth, ribbing one another as they load and unload traps.

But it’s like someone’s clipped the wires to my ears.

When it rushes back in, I hear myself burst into tears, which makes Cleo burst into tears.

I grab the drink carrier from her hands and deposit it on the next post over. Then I pull her into a hug.

“Why are you crying?” she asks wetly, arms twining around me. “You’re not the one who’s going to have to push a squash out of her body.”

“I know!” I say. “I’m just so happy.”

Cleo laughs. “Me too. And fucking terrified. I mean, I chose this. I knew what it meant—it’s not like I tripped through the door of a sperm bank. We spent months choosing the right donor. But . . . I think I expected it to take longer. To have longer to wrap my head around the idea of being a mom.

“But that’s not how it happened. And I . . . I’m so scared I’ll be bad at it.”

I pull back to look into her eyes as she wipes away her tears. “Are you kidding?” I say. “You’re going to be a perfect mom. You’re going to be your mom 2.0, and—wait a second! How far along are you? How long have you known you were doing this?”

She ducks her head. “Like I said,” she murmurs, “it wasn’t entirely fair to be so upset about your secret.”

“Apparently,” I say.

“And that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have Sabrina and Parth visit the farm,” she goes on. “We already have a ton of baby shit. Kimmy’s dad mails us something new every day, and I haven’t felt ready to explain why we have four separate bassinets.”

“Because Kimmy’s dad is a baby-obsessed hoarder?” I say.

“He’s going to be an amazing grandpa,” she says wistfully. “I didn’t even want to tell him yet, but Kimmy accidentally blurted it out. I’m only a couple months along. So many things could still go wrong.”