Page 17 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
I pass her something that could be an E or a tax deduction and flop onto the couch with a graceless sigh I blame entirely on my center of gravity. My hand slides to my belly—round, high,currently doing a slow stretch like a cat waking from a sun nap. Seven months. How can time move this fast and this slow at once?
“Okay,” Amelia says, not looking up, “why did you tell Lucas the baby isn’t his?”
The question falls into the room like a bowling ball into a ball pit.
I pick at a thread on my maternity leggings. “Because he asked me if it wasn’t his like he needed me to say it. Because I panicked. Because I’m a disaster with a side of lightly salted denial.”
Amelia looks up, eyebrows in the stratosphere. “Mel.”
“I know!” I fling my hands. “But did you hearhowhe asked? ‘The baby’s not mine, right?’ like… he needed confirmation. Like he was bracing for impact.”
“Or like he didn’t want to blindside you in public?” she counters gently. “Like he was trying to make sure he understood?”
I make a face that is nine parts stubborn and one part… something else I don’t want to name. “He literally told me in Colorado he doesn’t do complicated. And you know what’s complicated? Humans. With diapers.”
“Lots of humans do diapers and complicated,” she says, sliding a dowel into the correct hole with maddening ease. “Charlotte and Asher are learning twelve dog personalities at oncewitha baby.”
“That’s different,” I say, even though I’m not sure how. “Lucas travels. He works weird hours. He… he’s really good at leaving. And I’m really good at wanting people to stay and then pretending it’s fine when they don’t.”
Amelia’s expression softens. She gets it. She was there for the college heartbreak, the almost-move to New York, the brand deal boy who loved the idea of me more than me. “You could have told him,” she says. “You still can. He has a right to know.”
I rest my palms on the roundness under my sweatshirt. The baby shifts, a soft roll that makes me catch my breath with something like awe. “I can do this,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it sounds. “I can raise this baby on my own. There are whole internet forums of people who do it. I have you. I have Charlotte. I have an army of aunties and a dog rescue in Denver waiting for cuddles.”
“And what if Lucas finds out there’s no Freddy?” Amelia asks, threading a bolt with the patience of a saint.
I snort, tossing my head like a very pregnant horse. “I’m sure he doesn’t care enough to try to find him. He asked, I answered, box checked, everyone gets to keep their uncomplicated lives.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, the universal sister noise forI’m not convinced, but okay.“Hold this rail while I attach the side.”
I waddle over, grip the rail, and we maneuver the crib into three-dimensional reality with the combined power of stubbornness and the promise of snacks. We fall back to admire our work: one pristine white crib, sunlight dusting it with gold like a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I swallow a lump. “Hi, tiny person’s bed. I’m your mom. I promise not to cry every time I look at you.”
Amelia squeezes my hand. “That’s a lie,” she says fondly, then glances at the time. “I have to get to work.” She pouts.
I give her a hug. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Listen, you need food. Make sure you eat.”
I give her a salute as she grabs her handbag and heads for the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m serious, Mel. Eat.”
“I will,” I declare. “The baby wants lo mein.”
She heads out after telling me once more to be sure to eat. I browse through tiny clothes folded on the coffee table—onesies with stars, a knit sweater that makes me want to knit actual feelings into it—and try not to replay the baby store like a greatest hits reel. Some moments insist on playing anyway.
The baby’s not mine, right?
I exhale, long and controlled, like my prenatal yoga video told me while a woman named Sonya did impossible things with her spine. “I’m fine,” I tell a plant. “We’re fine.”
I grab my phone, and place the order. The sky over Saint Pierce goes cotton-candy pink, and the day slips into that cozy hour where the neighborhood smells like dinner and the world tucks itself in. I slip on boots and my big cream coat, shove my hair into a messy bun that used to look cute and now looks like a nest for a small bird family, and waddle—walk—to Dragon Garden for takeout because the baby and I need fresh air and also lo mein in under fifteen minutes.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside. Warmth hits my face, and the place smells like soy sauce, orange peel, and heaven. The hostess smiles. “Order for Melanie?”
“That’s me,” I say, feeling cheerfully anonymous in my puffer and scarf. I pull out my wallet.
A voice behind me: “Hey.”
