Page 34 of Salty Pickle

There are pictures of them, heads together, hiking outside of Denver. I recognize the trail.

A heaviness settles in my belly. What the hell is that? Jealousy of some five-year-old relationship that must have ended? Wishing he’d hung on to her, and I wouldn’t be here?

I don’t know.

The driver turns back to me for the first time since we got in. “We’re about ten minutes out.” He sniffs. “Smelly dog?”

Anything I say might be incriminating, so I just grunt.

I should wake Lucy before we get there. I reach over the seat to touch her knee.

She startles awake, looking disoriented. Only meeting the gaze of her goat settles her. “Are we there?”

“Almost.” I realize once we separate, I have no way to contact her. That won’t work. I make a quick decision. “Tomorrow, I’ll have a cell phone delivered to you so you can search for an obstetrician that suits you. I’ll have Uber installed with an account attached so that you can attend appointments.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“I’ll cover the rides. And the doctor. Forward me the information once you determine who it is, and I’ll arrange payment.”

She stares out the window as she nods. “Will you come to any of the appointments?”

“That seems rather intrusive.”

“They do sonograms. You can see the baby.”

“You can forward those to me. Do you have an email address?”

She sighs. “Somewhere. I’ll track it down. Or make a new one.”

“My contact information will be in the phone.” I consider asking her about the finance degree but don’t want to admit to online stalking.

We’re quiet as we travel down a small two-lane highway lined with trees. Sometimes I forget how close we are to expansive places when I’m deep in the city.

“It looks nice out here,” Lucy says. “Lots of open space.”

The driver slows as we approach a sign that says, “Goat Yoga at Halson Family Farm!”

Lucy touches the glass as if it’s a fond memory. “Maybe I can do a few stretches with them. If I’m not teaching, I can do only the moves that don’t strain my belly.”

“Is that allowed?”

She shrugs. “I mean, getting around at all is already causing a lot of discomfort.”

“You shouldn’t be on bed rest?”

“There’s no threat to the baby. Just pain for me. Pregnant joints get loose, and tendons can be overtaxed. Probably it’s hereditary.”

“Did it happen to your mom?”

“I have no idea.” She keeps her gaze on the window as we turn through an open gate onto a long, winding road.

“Do your parents know about the baby?”

“No.”

“Do you plan on telling them?”

“Maybe.”

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