Page 35 of Maid of Dishonor

“Just stop, okay?” she says. The words explode out of her, but they’re a contrast to how exhausted she looks. “I know you don’t like him.”

I stare at her, disbelieving. “Are you serious? You really don’t believe me?”

Maya pulls her stubbornness around her like a regal cloak, tilting her chin up. “I think you’re so against him that you honestly believe you’re doing the right thing by trying to break us up.” She sniffs before going on. “And anyway,” she says, and now I catch a hint of uncertainty in her voice, “we’re in an open relationship, remember? And he’s promised to stop drinking so much. He knows that’s not good for raising a child.”

Unbelievable. Just…unbelievable. Lost in thought, I reach up absently to rub Sam’s back again, even though she’s no longer vomiting. However, I stop after only a few seconds; Maya’s eyes have narrowed in on the action, and now she’s glancing back and forth between Sam and me with what looks like a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“I’m just worried, Maya,” I say, my voice louder than it needs to be as I grasp desperately for a change in subject.

But as Maya wraps her arms around herself, I find my irritation falling away. Because I can see it in her eyes—she’s not being stubborn on purpose. She’s not even being blind to the situation on purpose. She’s just desperate. Desperate and scared and lonely.

So I just sigh, dropping it. Pushing this conversation is only going to make things worse. “If you say everything’s fine…”

She folds her arms over her chest. “I do say so.”

I guess it’s time for Plan B: signs from the universe.

Nine

Sam

After we leaveMaya in the almost-certainly-incompetent care of Chad, we head to the grocery store. Despite her clear inability to keep anything down, Maya told us before we left that fresh pineapple actually sounded appetizing. I’m not sure the pineapple is going to stay in her stomach better than anything else she’s eating, but since neither Carter nor I have ever been pregnant, we figured we’d defer to her judgment. Especially since Chad probably can’t be bothered to spend money on her, and also because Maya wasn’t very happy with us by the time we left.

The grocery store is absolutely normal and mundane, but weirdly it’s one of my favorite places to go with Carter. I’m not sure why; maybe it’s preciselybecauseit’s so mundane that I enjoy it. I like spending the everyday parts of my life with him. I like knowing that he buys wheat bread even though he prefers white. I like knowing that he staunchly refuses to buy single-ply toilet paper, because, as he says, “My butt deserves better.”

Having taken notice of his rear end on multiple occasions, I can confirm that his butt does, indeed, deserve better.

Is it weird that I know what kind of toilet paper he uses? Maybe. But I like knowing the little details of his life. You can know someone’s birthday or favorite color or celebrity crush, but that stuff doesn’t matter. Not really. Youtrulyget to know someone in the little details of their lives—that they prefer a specific brand of laundry detergent because the others make them itchy, or that they drink the milk after they finish a bowl of cereal because they want to get the extra nutrients. I know those things about Carter, and I love it.

The two of us mosey into ShopMart like it’s our job, moving in a practiced rhythm that we’ve all but perfected. Carter grabs the shopping cart while I check out the discount items always displayed just inside the entrance. There’s nothing there that we need today, so we skip it and turn immediately to the right, emerging into the produce section. The store’s lights are harsh overhead, and we’re surrounded by rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables. The bakery and the deli are both nearby, and I catch a whiff of what smells like fresh bread and maybe pastrami. Even though I’m tempted to go straight to the bakery and find some good cookies, I follow Carter instead.

“So should we just get her an actual pineapple?” Carter says once we reach the correct bin. He holds up one of the spiky fruits, looking at it skeptically.

I rub my hands up and down my arms, feeling the goosebumps on my skin. The produce section is always absurdly cold.

I bet the bakery is nice and warm.

But I just shake my head. “No,” I say. I jerk my chin toward the refrigerated wall of fruit trays, bagged salads, and salad dressings. “Let’s get some that’s already cut. Unless you want to take the time to slice that baby,” I add, pointing to the pineapple in his hand.

“Nope,” he says, tossing it back into the bin and heading immediately to the fruit trays. His eyes scan the wall for a second before he says, “Ah-ha!” He grabs three small containers of pineapple chunks, holding them up to show me. “Do you think this is enough?”

I nod, rubbing my arms some more. “I think that will probably end up being too much. Let’s get it, though.” I’m eager to hurry him along—yes, to the bakery, because I want some of those big, gooey cookies they make fresh—but also because it’s freezing over here. My denim cutoffs are cute, but they were not designed with produce sections in mind.

They’re not the only part of my wardrobe I’m worried about, either. Discreetly I glance down to my chest, just to make sure…you know. To make sure everyone is behaving. But thankfully no cold weather friends have come out to play, and I want to keep things that way.

“Come on,” I say, looking at Carter. I take a second to give thanks that he hasn’t noticed me looking at my own chest—because how onearthwould I explain that?—before heading away from the chill of the fresh produce and over to the blissful warmth of the bakery.

Mmm. Carbs. I smile happily and bag some cookies—some snickerdoodles and some double chocolate chip.

I amallabout that chocolate.

Carter catches up a couple seconds later, and we make our way through the food portion of the store before heading over to the pharmacy section so that Carter can grab—what else?—yet another bottle of eyedrops.

“You know why your eyes are irritated, don’t you?” I say conversationally.

“I’m not talking about this with you,” he says without looking at me.

I press on as we stroll, pushing our cart past row after row of thermometers, pain relievers, and multivitamins. “It’s because you never remove your contacts,” I say.

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