Page 83 of Salty Pickle

“You were driving a car, and I was driving my parents nuts with my dietary demands. I spent summers with BeeBee. Grandpa had died the year before, and she liked the company.”

“Did you have a lot of cousins competing for her?”

“No, my dad is an only child. My brother and I were the only grandchildren.”

“Your brother didn’t have the same attachment?”

“No. Jasper was a video game playing thrill seeker. Spending hours weeding radishes wasn’t his idea of a good time. He hated Taylor Swift.”

I can picture her, young, kneeling in a garden next to the older version of her, carefully tending plants.

“But you never outgrew her music.”

She switches out her milkshakes. “Nope. When 1989 came out, my top song switched to Wildest Dreams. That might still be my favorite.”

“You like romantic yearning.”

She smiles around her straw. “That’s Taylor Swift in a nutshell.”

Lucy doesn’t strike me as a dreamer. She’s so practical with her knapsack and bare essentials.

“Do you do art yourself?” I ask. “Paint? Write? Sing? Dance?”

“Not really. BeeBee always felt art was in nature. A new seedling unfurling from the ground. The perfect curl of a yellow squash.”

“I like that.”

Headlights flash around us. We’re approaching the island again. The car is so cozy, and the conversation so easy, I’m tempted to find a circuitous route so we can stay on the highway longer. It won’t be the same once we’re dodging taxis and waiting on pedestrians in the city.

Lucy settles against the headrest. She must be exhausted. Everything I’ve understood about pregnancy is how tiring it can be. It must take a lot of energy, growing a human.

Will it be mine? She keeps insisting it’s true. And the more I get to know her, the more it seems like she wouldn’t come all this way if it weren’t.

In the end, the route doesn’t matter. She’s asleep by the time we get back to the building. I sit in the parked car, wondering if there’s an easier way to get the goat up to the apartment.

I touch her shoulder. “We’re here.”

She startles awake. “Oh, time to be stealthy.”

But we encounter no one in the halls or the stairs, and this time, there are no wild dashes. Lucy leads Matilda into the elevator while I carry the bags. The goat is more docile when she’s tired.

When we make it inside my apartment, I tell her I’ll fetch the bales of hay.

“Just get the one,” she says. “We might be gone before we even get to the second one.”

Right. Devin is supposedly booking her a farm again.

When I return a second time with the hay, the goat is asleep under the mist. I take the bale out and spread part of it around in case she wants to use it as bedding.

I slow down as I pass the guest room. The door is open, and I half-expect to see Lucy asleep already. But the shower is running in the adjoining bathroom.

I head to the kitchen and find she’s already put away the jams and fudge and other items we’ve bought. The recycled bags are folded and placed on a shelf in the pantry.

My footsteps are slow as I pass her room again. She’s still showering.

Not a bad idea. The sun and dust and general wandering outdoors have made me feel gritty.

I take a quick shower and change into cotton shorts and a T-shirt. When I return to the kitchen, Lucy is there, pouring a glass of milk.

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