Page 5 of Salty Pickle

What was her name?

Linda?

Loretta?

No, it was cuter.

Lucy. That’s it. Lucy… something.

Me: Ask her if her name is Lucy.

I wait, wondering why she’s here. I met her in the hotel bar, a funny cantina with a haunted theme. She’d been pushed toward me by two of her friends.

I ended up in her room for an hour or two. Yeah, we did shit. All consensual. Condoms in accordance with the laws of first-name hookups.

Now she’s in New York?

Devin finally replies,Yes. She seems relieved you remember.

I guess I’ll see her. Send her in.

The smell hits before the door is fully open.

Livestock. Earth.

The goat comes in first, looking around like he owns the place. Or, maybe it’s a she. I think Lucy mentioned her goat’s milk supply. Now that’s pillow talk.

But when Lucy enters, belly first, I jump out of my chair.

She’s pregnant. Like, really pregnant. Her colorful skirt covers a huge ball of belly. How many months ago were we together? It was New Year’s Eve, and now it’s August.

Eight months.

Is that eight months pregnant?

My gut tightens. This has to be why she’s here. Did she smell money and decide to pawn the kid on me?

Not without DNA testing.

But what if it is mine?

I’m hosed.

Thoroughly hosed.

Lucy walks into my office with an uncertain smile. She tucks her golden-brown hair behind one ear.

Her feet are… bare.

Is she really showing up here barefoot and pregnant? With a goat?

“Hello, Court,” she says.

I can’t find my voice for a second. She’s mostly as I remember—pretty and friendly, with farm-girl vibes.

But that belly.

I gesture to a chair and clear my throat. “Hello, Lucy. Sit down, of course. Is the goat okay?”

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