“Hmm?”
“Get ready together, sharing a mirror. I miss it sometimes. I miss that old apartment a lot.”
I miss it too. I miss Marcie and my mom together, dancing in the kitchen and giggling like schoolgirls into their glasses of pinot grigio. I miss the chaos of four women trying to share one bathroom and one vehicle. I miss feeling young and carefree and naive. I wasted so much of that time wishing I was older. Waiting impatiently to get out and live my own life. But that never really happened. I just got older. And now look at me. Nothing to show for it.
“You stole all of my makeup,” I argue, avoiding the sinking nostalgia in my chest.
“Yeah, but I always braided your hair in exchange,” she quips, fiddling with a strand of my hair. Then she rubs her lips together, her eyes locking on my shoulder as she twists my hair, her mind far off. “I, uh, talked to June last night, actually.”
“Oh.” It’s not a complete surprise that my mother would call Sarah, since I haven’t returned her calls in over a month, but it is surprising that she waited until now to tell me they spoke. Usually, I get a text message from Sarah setting me straight right away. Telling me to knock it off and quit making her the middleman.
“She’s worried about you. Says you’ve gone quiet on her.”
“Right.”
“I know it’s hard, Win. I know what she’s like. But you’ve got to tell her. She misses you, and I don’t think she’ll react terribly. She’d be a hypocrite if she did.”
“I know. I-I’m going to. It’s just been really busy since finding out. And processing all of these changes. And then packing up and moving. But I promise I will. I’ll call her tonight.”
“Okay,” Sarah says, dropping the now tightly braided strand of hair next to my ear. “Good.”
We smile softly at each other, facing the mirror.
“We should probably go help Caleb,” she says, her mouth twitching into a grin.
I laugh, grimacing. “Oh, shit, right. I totally forgot about him out there.”
Then we sprint to the front yard.
CHAPTER 15
After hours of unloading, unpacking, and shuffling furniture around my bedroom, we decided to call it a day. Sarah and Caleb took off after I had pizza delivered, leaving me with an entire box to myself in an eerily quiet house.
It took me a few tries, but eventually, I got the record player going. Now Frank Sinatra is singing about riding high in April as I load my sheets into the dryer, singing along loud enough that the house no longer feels so sparse. With no neighbours sharing a wall to worry about, I belt out the lyrics with flair. Laughing toward the ceiling when dear old Frank refers to himself as having once been a pirate. Because that is exactly what landed me here.
And, dammit, I’m going to pick myself back up and get back in the race too. Just as Mr. Sinatra suggests.
I glide around the house, smoothly waltzing with a hand on the top of my wannabe baby bump and stopping along the way for many ice chip breaks. When my sheets finish in the dryer just as the last track on the B-side fades out, I make my bed and crawl into it.
Pulling out my phone, I immediately check my texts from Bo. He asks how I’m settling in, provides instructions for the faucet in the shower—which was apparently installed backward and can be temperamental—and lets me know he’ll be back tomorrow before lunch. I quickly respond before pulling up my texts with my mom. I type out a few apologies before I decide to just call her instead.
It rings only once before she picks up.
“She lives,” my mother declares as a form of greeting.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry. Things have been really busy lately. I’ve missed you.”
“Sarah said that too. She didn’t say much else, though. Keeping your secrets, as always. I assume that’s why you’re calling? She didn’t want to play middleman?”
“No! Well, yes, she did tell me you called. But things really have been busy. And yes—there is something I need to tell you.” I look up to the ceiling, willing the words to come. Or, alternatively, willing the well-timed beginning of an alien invasion or apocalyptic event. “I’m pregnant,” I say.
Two words. That’s it. Simple. Out there now. No taking it back.
The line goes quiet. Painfully quiet.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Did—did you hear me?”
“Hear what? Sorry, my show is on.”
“La Reina del Sur? Mom, it’s on Netflix—just pause it.” Some traditions, like Sunday night telenovelas, never die. That’s probably what Sarah is doing in bed right now too. That was always their thing, and sometimes Marcie and I were invited to join. Only if we didn’t ask too many questions like: Wasn’t he dead? Who is that? When did she have time for an affair between the murdering sprees? Isn’t that her stepfather?
She grumbles, her chair squeaking as she reaches for the remote. “Fine, fine, fine. Just, you caught me during a juicy bit. Teresa just called—”
“I’m pregnant,” I interrupt.
“You?” she says abruptly, accompanied by a stunned laugh.
I don’t know why her surprise offends me, but it does. “Yes, me.”
She makes a sound like sputtering. It’s half amusement, partial shock. “Well… who’s the guy?”
Of course. No how are you feeling? Or how far along? Or—okay, I suppose the next question might be who’s the guy, but the first two matter more. “His name is Bo. He’s a friend of mine. We got caught up at a party, and… you know the rest.” Not a complete fabrication. My mom doesn’t need to know I fucked the guy the same day I met him. Some things don’t need to be shared with the woman who began preaching abstinence-above-all to me when I was ten.
“Birth control zero; McNulty women two,” I joke flatly.
“And? Is he a loser or a decent man?”
I look around the nice bedroom in his house while sitting on my new bed that he provided and nod to myself. “A decent man. We’ve, uh, we’ve actually moved in together.”
I hear a whimper down the phone. A happy sort of relief mixed with a contented sigh. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Winnie. Truly, truly wonderful.”
I probably should have mentioned the context in which we are moving in together, but why bother now? I’m not going to set myself up for a more difficult conversation if I don’t have to. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier; it’s been a whirlwind. I’ve been really sick, and—”
“What’s he like?”
“Yikes,” I respond before I can help it.
“What?” she snips back.
“Mom,” I try to sound less agitated than I feel. “I was just telling you I’ve been throwing my guts up every day, and you interrupt to ask me about him. Bo is fine. He’s great. But your daughter could use some maternal advice.”
“Sorry, you’re right. I was so sick with you too, chickie. It’s awful, but someday soon, it’ll all be worth it.”
“Any tips?”
“The only thing that worked for me was consuming my weight in root beer and salted pretzels daily. Doctors would probably warn you against that method these days.”