Page 69 of Floored

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LIA

Isabel and I made it three days of blissful sister coexistence after she arrived.

At Heathrow, there was screaming and crying and hugging and soul-deep happiness that one of my people was finally here with me.

There was the requisite touristy stuff and jet lag recovery the first few days. We ate the bangers and mash and did bus tours, and she drank beer (I only snuck one sip because I really, really missed the occasional beer).

"Can we go in there? I think I need a Union Jack T-shirt."

"You do know that we'll pass about a hundred different stores exactly like this one."

She grinned. "Indulge the tourist, please. If this is what will keep me awake until tonight, then you're going to help me find a T-shirt."

I held up my hands. "Fair enough."

She was quicker than me, partially because her legs were longer, but also... not pregnant people were faster than pregnant people.

"Your bump is adorable," she commented, flicking me a quick glance as she slid hangers down the rack.

I ran my hand over it. "I feel good. My energy picked back up around eleven weeks, but I swear, if I keep eating this many scones, I'm going to gain a thousand pounds."

Isabel smiled as she held a shirt up to look at it. I could tell in her face she wasn't sure what to say next.

"What is it?"

She carefully hung the shirt back up. "Nothing."

I held up a white T-shirt covered in a black and white rendering of Queen Elizabeth with a red and blue lightning slash running down her face ala David Bowie.

Isabel grinned and motioned for it. "Perfect."

We wandered a little bit after she got the shirt. Since Isabel wasn't a student, I couldn't take her inside the Rad Cam (the Radcliffe Camera, also known as one of Oxford's most famous buildings), but I could show her my favorite place to sit and work. We worked our way through Oxford that way during the first couple of days, finding small nooks to sit where she could caffeinate, I could eat, and I'd get tiny snippets of what I was missing back home.

"What about Emmett?" I asked. "How's he doing? He's never around when I talk to anyone."

Isabel smiled. "The little prince is fine. I already told him he's going to be dethroned as the favorite when you give birth."

"You did not."

"Hell yeah, I did. Kid needs to be prepared."

I rolled my eyes. "You have the tact of a semi-truck, Isabel. He's nine. No one will be replacing anyone."

She glanced at me over the rim of her cappuccino. "You'll be living there, though, right? When you go home?"

My fingers plucked at the scone, and I took my time slathering cream and jam on it. It wasn't the first probing question I'd gotten from my big sister, but it was just the most obvious.

"I guess," I said. "I hadn't really thought about it."

Isabel hummed. The subject dropped. For another day at least.

On day four of her trip, we made our way into London where she'd booked another hotel for a few nights, and at her insistence, I packed a bag to stay with her, working on my paper while she slept in until late morning. We were just around the corner from Hyde Park, a beautiful tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood, and when she stopped to take some pictures of an overflowing flower cart on a street corner, she poked me again.

"Have you thought of any names?"

My hand went straight to my belly. I found myself doing that more in the past few weeks. It was an interesting sort of reassurance. Yup, the bump was still there, as if I couldn't tell from the aching back and ravenous appetite and massive boobs.

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