Page 73 of Babies for the Big Shot
From the gala.
Fromthatnight.
My stomach flips, and not in the morning sickness way.
Is it him?
It has to be him. Right?
Unless it’s not…
Unless it’s someone else. Someone who saw us. Someone who knows.
I reread the message three more times, willing it to come with a follow-up. A name. A punctuation mark. A damn carrier pigeon with context.
Nothing.
I chuck my phone onto the couch, betrayed by it.
Which is apparently the exact moment Meatball chooses to launch into full-blown Gremlin Mode.
Without warning, he rockets off the armchair, muscles coiled and eyes blazing. He barrels across the apartment, a storm ofcream-colored fury and betrayal, then crashes into my shins, stumbling awkwardly to the floor.
“Ah! What the hell, Meatball?”
He lets out a sharp, indignant honk-snort, then collapses onto his side as if his entire world just shattered.
I look down at him, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “You good, buddy? Or pissed I threw the phone instead of a snack?”
He rolls onto his back and starts dramatically air pedaling his legs, letting out the kind of wheezy, high-pitched whine normally reserved for haunted toys and ghosts with asthma.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, crouching beside him. “Are you… sulking? Are you seriously staging a protest over… what? My vibe?”
He kicks one paw against my leg and lets out a long, guttural groan like an emotional accordion falling down a flight of stairs.
“Okay, chill, tiny Daniel Day Lewis. I moved your toy basketonetime, and suddenly you’re an art house film about grief.”
Meatball grunts, then pulls himself upright, every movement heavy with stubborn resolve. He snorts loudly, full of judgment, and jumps onto the couch, curling up on his throw pillow with all the flair of a tiny drama king. Once settled, he slaps a paw down on my phone, as if staking his claim.
I blink. “Seriously? Now you’reguardingit?”
He meets my gaze, unblinking, ears at full disappointed-parent tilt.
“Wow,” I say. “Mystery textsanda canine coup. I’m so glad I got pregnant at the exact same time my emotional support animal decided to become a sentient ball of petty.”
He lets out another nasal groan, louder this time, more Shakespeare in the Park, and slowly turns his back to me, nose in the air.
Classic Meatball. Zero empathy. Maximum performance art.
I sigh and sink back into the couch, pressing both hands to my stomach.
Is ithim?
Ithasto be. Who else would remember the green dress?
But if it is Nick… why now? Why this? Why send a cryptic compliment that’s pulled from the shadows of a black and white French detective film?
And if it’s not him…
