Page 40 of Salty Pickle

“Gina will be in soon,” the nurse says. “Go ahead and undress all the way, gown open to the front.”

“Okay.” When she leaves, I turn to the neatly stacked gown and paper cover on a small bench in the back corner.

I hate this part, always feeling like I’m racing to change before someone might come in.

My belly hinders me a hundred ways as I slip out of the new shoes and pull the yellow dress over my head. I got a maternity bra at a thrift store before I left Colorado, but it has far more hooks than my old ones. It takes more bendiness than I currently possess to reach them all. So much for all that yoga. I’m losing my flexibility.

Lightning pains dart through me as I reach. Seriously?

I’ll have to do it another way. I pull my arms out of the straps and turn the bra to move the hooks to the front.

I’m tussling with it when the door opens without a knock.

No! My worst nightmare!

But it gets worse.

As I turn, standing in nothing but panties, my belly as big as the moon, my boobs hanging out over the back of the still-hooked bra, the person standing in the doorway isn’t the nurse. Or Gina, the PA.

It’s Court Armstrong.

12

COURT

This is an unexpected sight.

Lucy halts in whatever she was doing, nearly every inch of her glowing, smooth skin on display as she changes.

Her long, toned legs lead to the round belly, topped by breasts that are wholly different from the ones I encountered in Colorado eight months ago.

They’re soft and full, tipped in rosy nipples that have already brought about a reaction in my groin.

She’s fighting a bra that she probably can’t see beneath that ample chest. Do I stay or go?

I’ve already seen everything. She looks like she needs help.

I quickly click the door closed. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t say anything, just turns around. The bra comes off, and my groin tightens further. Her fingers lock on her panties, and I’m frozen in place, unable to take my eyes off her.

“Can you please turn around?” she asks. “I’m big and bloated, and this is too much.”

“But you’re beautiful,” I stammer, then frown at my discomposure. I shouldn’t say those things. That’s not who we are.

“Right. Stretch marks and all.” She picks up the gown and drags it on, and only when she’s covered, does she step out of the panties.

I’m staring. I force myself to turn my back to her and examine a poster illustrating how an infant’s head descends through the birth canal. That cools my jets.

Lucy glides past me to the exam table, unfolding a paper sheet.

A change of subject might be best. “How is the goat farm?”

Her whole face lights up. “It’s wonderful. Matilda and I watch the goat yoga. I’ve been making soap for the spa we went to. They paid me in advance, so I have money for groceries.”

“Oh. Food.” I should have thought of that. She’ll need money for other things. “Should I provide an account for you?”

“You’re doing more than enough. I’ll manage.”

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