Page 17 of Salty Pickle

He turns his cell over in his hands. “Are you suggesting that it applies to our situation?”

“I was thinking about Matilda stealing your desk. But, sure. Maybe it does.”

He won’t look me in the eye. And I get it. My appearance is life changing. He hasn’t come to terms with it yet. And he won’t for a while. I was in shock for a week.

But then Court surprises me by leaving the table and dropping into the chair next to mine.

Matilda stares down at us from her perch like a great goat goddess.

He tucks his cell phone in his shirt pocket. “Why didn’t you let me know before you got this far along?”

Now he has questions. “Summer and April were going to raise him with me. We didn’t need you.”

He shifts in his chair, elbow propped on the leather arm, looking like the cover of a men’s magazine. Well, other than the chewed-up bit of the cushion. Dang it, Matilda!

“So in that scenario where you raised the baby with your girlfriends, I never needed to know.”

“Nope.”

“And what about the child? Wouldn’t there eventually be questions about a father?”

“Nah. Lots of kids have two moms. This one would have had three.”

“Were you in a… relationship with these women?”

“I’ve known them since we were kids. We were best friends.”

Or so I thought. I didn’t expect the sudden abandonment. My throat feels thick. I hate crying, but I’ve been doing it constantly lately. The emotions go too deep, like stepping off your porch after a long, hard snow and sinking in straight to your armpits.

Court observes me sniveling and wiping my nose like a toddler who dropped her ice cream. “You never struck me as someone who cries a lot.”

“You knew me for two hours, tops.”

“Fair enough. You were just so fervent in your beliefs. You didn’t leave any room for debate.”

The hard chair is making my back ache. I shift sideways. “I don’t allow for debate on my beliefs.”

“And what are your beliefs?”

That’s a question. “I don’t know where to start.”

He sits back, his hands steepled together. “Who influenced you?”

I get a sneaking suspicion he’s preparing to pick me apart. If I talk about the environment, he’ll talk about industry. If I talk about being vegetarian, he’ll bring up all the ranchers.

I’m not interested in getting into a fight with him.

“Was it your parents?” He won’t let it go.

I stall, making fairy braids in my hair, the kind that don’t need bands at the bottom to stop them from unraveling.

He watches my fingers deftly work the strands. The unanswered question looms between us, growing like a balloon about to pop. He’s good at silent pressure.

Thankfully, Devin returns with a load of brown paper bags. “I got four entrees, a sandwich, two salads, and two kinds of fresh-squeezed juice.” He stops short when he spots Matilda on the desk. “What’s happening?”

Court waves him to the corner. “Put it all on the table. I’m sure Lucy is starving.”

I give him my most stern look. “That’s it?”

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