Page 76 of Salty Pickle

To be honest, it doesn’t feel too bad.

23

LUCY

Sneaking a goat down the stairs is much easier than going up the elevator. In my new tennis shoes, peachy cargo Capri pants, and the snug white shirt, I feel like a completely new person.

I use the collar and leash rather than the lead with the loop since there might be huge distractions to set Matilda off running. I have no idea what to expect, but I’m super excited.

The drive out to Syracuse is sunny and beautiful. The trees shimmer with vibrant green, and the highway is shiny, like a silver ribbon threading through the scenery.

Court is relaxed behind the wheel, his strong features in profile against the brightness of the window. I have to stop myself from squealing every time I think about what we’re doing together and everything he planned for me today.

Nobody since BeeBee has given me a day like this.

“You never said how your dilation gender prediction came out,” he says.

“Oh, hush. You’re making fun of me.”

“No, no. I find these old wives’ tales interesting. They have to come from something.”

“No dilation.”

“Does that mean girl or boy?”

“Girl, if you believe a store employee.”

“Uh oh.”

“What?” I turn to him.

He’s laughing. “That means you have a direct contradiction between your two forms of gender divination. The string says a boy. Dilation says a girl.”

“Maybe it’s twins.” I smirk in satisfaction when his face pales.

“You think?”

“No, no. I had a sonogram. There’s only one baby in there.”

“And they didn’t tell you the gender?”

“He was turned the wrong way. And it’s, you know, one of those freebie clinics for people who can’t pay. They don’t take much time.” I try to say it simply, because I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I made my choices.

“Will the sonogram you do next week be like that, short, with a side of humiliation?” His voice is harsh.

“I’m grateful I could get one. Grateful for the program. For my ability to get through the paperwork. To be approved. That’s more privilege than some expectant mothers have.”

His frown deepens. “But next week?”

I shrug. “It might be pricey. My program was for Colorado, so it doesn’t apply here.”

“It’ll be fine.” He waves off my concern. “I mainly want you to feel like you got the information you went in for. The reassurance.”

“The baby kicks, so I feel good about it. I’m healthy, and I haven’t had any complications other than these ligament pains. And being endlessly hungry and thirsty.”

“Are you now? Hungry and thirsty?”

“I can wait until we get there. I looked it up. They have tons of food booths. And a whole tent devoted to preserves and canning. You can buy almost anything in a jar. If they have bearberry jam, you’ll have to stand aside while I shove my paw in the jar and eat it straight off my fingers.”

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