Page 14 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Saint Pierce is small,” I hiss. “But notthissmall!”
“Okay,” Amelia says, adaptor-brain snapping into action. “Options: one, tell him. Two, flee. Three, camouflage.”
“I’m seven months pregnant,” I stage-whisper. “My camouflage options are ‘refrigerator’ or ‘parade float.’”
Across the street, Lucas turns in profile. He laughs at something the barista says. It does that thing to his mouth where one side lifts first. My chest aches. The baby does amore info pleaseflounder.
“Mel,” Amelia says gently. “Do you want to talk to him?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Later. Not like this. Not under fluorescent lighting with a donut in each hand.”
“Do not drop the donuts,” Amelia says. “They’re your cover.”
Lucas checks his phone. Panic tap dances up my spine. I pivot, full waddle, and hide behind a pyramid of stuffed llamas wearing scarves.
“Smooth,” Amelia whispers, joining me. “Very covert.”
Brinley materializes, concerned. “Are you… stuck?”
“Just trying to… see how the llamas photograph,” I say, crouching. Do llamas come crashing down? They do. I am a baby-store Godzilla. Two llamas tumble, then four, then twelve—soft whoomps of alpaca mutiny. Amelia lunges, catches one by the scarf, spins it like a champion lasso artist. A mobile of tiny clouds twirls off-kilter. Cinnamon sugar puffs into a halo around my head.
Across the street, Lucas glances up, gaze skimming windows. My soul leaves my body and stands in the parking lot yellinggo home.
“Everything okay?” Brinley asks, voice at the pitch people use with both toddlers and very pregnant women who have done a chaos.
“So great,” I say brightly, cheeks on fire. “Just testing load-bearing plush. For science.”
Amelia smiles, saying, “You’re doing amazing,” she says between giggles. “Deep breaths. Either way you choose—talk or don’t—you’re allowed to choose.”
I peek through the llama army. Lucas takes his coffee, says thank you, and—of course—steps out to the sidewalk facingdirectlyat Baby Bungalow. He does a slow scan like he’s doing recon. Heisdoing recon. That’s literally his job.
“Mel,” Amelia says, squeezing my hand. “What do you want?”
A thousand tiny answers bloom: Not to be ambushed. To look cute. To not cry. To time-travel to the deck with stars and sayI’m scared, but stay.
What I say is, “I want to not run.”
Amelia nods. “Okay. Then let’s stand.”
We stand. I re-stack two rebellious llamas, swipe cinnamon off my sweater, and square my shoulders the way my yoga teacher says is “heart forward.” The baby rolls, settling. Brinley silently hands me a tissue.
Lucas lifts his coffee. Looks both ways, and starts across the street.
A minivan honks. He pauses. My heart jumps. He steps off the curb again, head tipping marginally—like he’s clocked movement in a window. Like he’s clocked me.
“Do you want me to stay?” Amelia whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “But also—maybe—hover by the onesies so I feel in control.”
She gives me a thumb-up and moves three feet, which is the exact distance at which a sister can still body-check a man if needed and also hand you lip balm.
The bell over the door jingles. I keep my eyes on a shelf of pacifiers like they contain ancient wisdom.
“Melanie?”
My name in his voice hits every molecule like sunlight through a magnifying glass. I turn.
He’s the same and not. The jacket. The unreadable eyes that are actually more readable than he thinks. The steadying presence, like when he looked at a map and somehow also saw the weather and your mood and the way the dog was going to zig when you said zag. The new thing is a deeper crease between his brows. Or maybe that’s just me noticing different details.
