Out On a Limb(25)

“He’s probably travelling this weekend for the holidays. His dad lives in France.”

“See? You do know stuff about him!” She sweeps up the mess into a dustpan. “Just invite him. If he’s busy, he’s busy. But I doubt he’ll say no to an extra bit of time with his sexy baby mama.” She shimmies her shoulders at me, waggling her brows. “Maybe he’ll try to knock you up again.”

“There will be absolutely none of that.”

“What are you worried about? Twins? That’s not how it works.”

“We have to…” I say, trying to formulate words as Sarah dances against me suggestively. “We have to remain entirely professional. We’re colleagues now.”

She stops dancing, mid-pelvic thrust. “Colleagues?”

“Fine, not colleagues. But you get my point. We have to still like each other in nine months. Hell, we have to like each other for the next eighteen years. Minimum.”

Sarah nods, standing slowly and folding her arms across her chest. “But,” she says tentatively, “would it be so bad if maybe you were like co-parents with benefits? Obviously, you have chemistry. And the sex was good.”

“I never said the sex was good.”

She points to my face, barely stopping short of poking me with the tip of her acrylic nail. “But that does. Every time Bo has come up, you blush a little. You’re betrayed by those sweet, supple cheeks of yours yet again.”

“Don’t say weird shit like supple cheeks while you’re this close to me.” I swat her hand away. “Fine,” I give in, “the sex was good.” Possibly the best ever. Though I don’t add that aloud. “But it would still complicate things,” I argue.

“Or make things fun? From where I’m standing, Bo is a hottie with nice clothes, baby-news happy tears, a great sense of humour, a good job, and a house of his own. All your words; not mine.” She stands straighter and sticks her nose up, acting like a sit-com character from the fifties. “Oh golly, what trouble! I sure do hope you don’t fall in love with a man such as this!”

I resist the urge to flick her nose right out of the air. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re not thinking of all your options here, babe.” She hops up onto the counter and brushes off her hands. “Just, don’t close yourself off to getting to know him in more ways than one,” Sarah says, surprisingly earnest. “You deserve good things. Let’s see if he’s a good thing. That’s all I’m saying.”

“He is a good thing, Sar. For the kid.” I lift to sit next to her on the counter. “He’s going to stick around, and that’s all I need from him.”

“Okay, I hear you.” She lets a few seconds of weighted silence pass, but I know she’s not done. Sarah rarely backs down. “But…” There it is. “Stop me when I’m close to the size of his dick.” She places her palms together in front of her and slowly starts separating them. Her mouth continues to fall farther open as her hands drift farther apart.

“Yep. There,” I say with a satisfied smile.

“Seriously?” Sarah whispers, eyes playful.

“Seriously,” I answer, feeling awfully proud of myself for something that is certainly not an achievement. At least not my achievement.

“No wonder you got pregnant. The guy had a direct line of sight to your ovaries! A clean shot!”

“I’m buying you an anatomy book for Christmas.”

“I blame our health class teacher,” Sarah sighs.

“Do not bring Mrs. Forestein into this. She tried her best.” I look around the café, cleaned and prepped for the morning shift to take over. Still, I find myself not wanting to leave just yet. We do this sometimes, linger long past closed. Going home can be hard, admittedly. It’s a touch lonely there.

“I’ll invite him Friday.” I attempt—and fail—to gracefully lower myself off the counter and nearly roll an ankle. “But don’t pull anything. No shenanigans.”

“It will be purely an investigative mission on the behalf of my future niece,” Sarah says, hands clasped over her heart.

“Or nephew,” I add, reaching out my hand to help her down.

“Hey, uh…” Sarah gets uncharacteristically timid, looking at our hands pressed together. “Have you considered whether they’ll have a little hand too?”

“The baby?” I ask. “Oh, uh, no. I think it’s random. Not genetic.”

“Right, but, like, the theory was that it’s because of your mom’s uterus, right? Like your hand was pushed up against the side of it? Her uterus was a weird shape or something?”

“That’s what Mom always said, but… who knows?”

“So, like, are uteruses-eses genetic?” she fumbles.

“I don’t know,” I say, zoning out over her shoulder. “I’m not sure.”

Sarah’s smile is small but reassuring as she leans into view. “You’d have wicked secret handshakes.”

I take a deep breath, bringing myself back into the room. It is that simple, I suppose. Nothing to worry about, because we won’t know until we know, and even if that is the case, it’s not a bad thing… right? “We would,” I agree.