She’s here in thirty minutes.
“It’s Charly,” she calls through the door. “Open up.”
I unlock the door, let her in, then close and lock it behind her and take the white plastic bag out of her hand. “Are you going to watch me pee?” I ask as she perches herself on the edge of the tub.
“I did the first time,” she reminds me with a shrug. “Might as well this time too.”
“It’s weird to have you watch me pee.”
“Sugar, I’ve seen everything on you there is to see. Just pee on the fucking stick.”
I open the box and smirk. “You got the fancy kind that actually says pregnant or not pregnant.”
“I don’t want there to be any doubt of the outcome,” she replies and crosses her legs, as though we’re talking about the weather.
When I’m finished, I snap the cap back on the end and set it on the countertop to let it do its thing.
“Now talk to me,” Charly says. “We have, like, three minutes to waste.”
“My boobs hurt, I threw up this morning, and when I did the math, I haven’t had a period in about six weeks.”
Her jaw drops. “Gabby, you know how this happens.”
“Clearly,” I reply dryly. “This isn’t planned.”
“You know, you’ve always been a planner. Why didn’t that flow over into the pregnancy arena as well?”
“I guess I like to keep things interesting,” I reply and pick the stick up, stunned when I see Pregnant.
“Charlotte Boudreaux!” I exclaim and throw the stick in the sink, as if it’s a snake and it’s going to bite me any second.
“I guess that means it’s positive? And I’d just like to clarify, I’m not the one who got you pregnant, despite the way you just yelled my name, as though it’s all my fault.”
“What in the hell am I going to do?” I sit on the toilet and hang my head in my hands, and I’m suddenly nauseous again, but I don’t even have time to turn around and get it in the toilet. I grab the trash can and heave in it for what seems like forever. “I’m dying.”
“Not today,” Charly replies with too much cheer in her voice. “But you are going to be a mommy again.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Tell me you’ve been using protection.”
“Of course we do,” I reply and wrinkle my forehead as I try to remember back. “I’m not an idiot. There was one time that we forgot, but he pulled out.”
“Well, you didn’t forget to ovulate.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Van and I really failed you when it came to sex education, sugar. I knew we should have had that talk with you.”
“This isn’t funny,” I reply softly. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to tell the man you’ve been having an intimate relationship with that you’re pregnant and go from there. You’re not in this alone, Gabby.”
“I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to trap him.”
“He’d be an idiot to think that.”
I nod, but I’m not convinced. “I need some time to think. I just need to get my own head on straight before I dump this on him.”
“The longer you wait to tell him, the more it’ll feel like a betrayal when you finally do.”
“How about if you tell him and I go to Tahiti?”
She laughs, then rubs her hand over my back in a big circle. “It doesn’t work like that. If anyone’s going to Tahiti, it’s me.”
“Killjoy.”
***
“Mom, I don’t want to go to bed.”
I sigh and look up toward heaven, already exhausted and not in the mood to play the bedtime game with Sam.
“You were supposed to be in bed an hour and a half ago, Samuel Beauregard Boudreaux. I don’t want to have this argument.”
“But I didn’t tell you yet that I love you.”
I narrow my eyes on his angelic face. Angelic my ass. “Yes you did.”
“But I didn’t whisper it so the ghost couldn’t hear me.”
We are in the sitting room. I’m setting out fresh brownies for the guests to have with their wine. Only a few have come down for the wine hour. Rhys is sitting with them.
“There are no ghosts,” I inform Sam with a shake of my head.
“You don’t know that.”
I bite my lip. I have never yelled at Sam over bedtime, and I refuse to start now, but I’m reaching my limit.
“I do know, Sam. I love you, too. Now, go to bed.”
“But I’m not sleepy.”
Rhys and the two guests are watching us like it’s a tennis match.
“Count sheep.”
“But I don’t like to count sheep. They make me puke.”
The guests chuckle. Rhys smiles, the traitor. And I simply hang my head.
“Sheep don’t make you puke.”
“Yep, they do.”
“I don’t care what you count, Sam. Just go to bed.”
“But I—”
“Come on, buddy.” Rhys stands and takes Sam’s hand, then winks at me. “Let’s go find something to count that doesn’t make you sick.”
He leads Sam to his bedroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say to the kind couple who are enjoying brownies and wine. “He’s fought me over bedtime since he was small.”