Page 167 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Hope shifts again. “I need my own personal porta-potty. I feel like a human water fountain with no off switch.”
I hear the ice jangle in the jug and glance over to see my sister pouring sweet tea into her tumbler.
“Well, you did choose to grow a human inside you.” I pound on the side of the machine with the heel of my hand. “I guess it comes with free frequent flyer miles to the bathroom.”
“Don’t make me laugh. I’ll pee right here.” I hear her gulp back a mouthful of sweet tea.
“Hope, you’re gonna wet your pants on the way to the bathroom.” I shake the machine.
Nothing.
“I’ll just say my water broke.”
I bite back a laugh as I duck under the table. My knees brush grass, and my fingers feel around for the power bar hidden in the mess of cords. The tablecloth drapes over my back as I lean in further to unplug and plug the machine back in—no sounds above me.
Dammit.
“I’m glad I came, too.” I crawl back out and stare at Hope. “Because I see you’re more of a sit-and-watch kind of help, cheering from the sidelines with snacks and sweet tea, so the girls needed an extra hand.”
She throws a chip at me, and it lands on the ground beside my hand.
“Good aim.” I stand, dusting off my hands and knees.
She tucks the bag of chips between her and the chair, and I see her reaching for the pickles.
“Do not dip that in—”
Hope dips the chip into the pickle juice.
“Disgusting.” I flick the on-off button.
Nothing.
I flick the four beside it—on, off, on, off—in rapid-fire, but still nothing. It seems more like an extension cord issue. Or the power bar.
“I can’t help the cravings. Give me all the salt.”
“Just get dill pickle chips. No soggy, dilly, whatever that is.”
I turn in time to see the chip come up dry, and the horror on my sister’s face makes me smile. She tips the jar to look inside, and then she looks up at me.
“It’s empty.”
Good Lord, not another prank. Please, not another prank. These have gotten carried away today.
“You were very aggressive with it on the ride up here,” I suggest, hoping—praying—she consumed it all.
“This is a new jar.” I see the pregnancy hormones building behind my sister’s eyes.
“What about a slushie? I’ll add a pinch of salt.” I toss the lid on the table and look for the salt.
“It’s not the same.” Her eyes well up with tears.
I swear her hormones are worse than Hannah’s ever were.
“I have four flavors to choose from.” I lift the lid off another one. “Blueberry Breeze.”
Tears slip down her cheeks.
