Page 52 of Merciful Lies

“I know, but he died so horribly,” I say, remembering the way he’d crawled to the curb, beaten and bloody the first night I was back from Florida.

“Yes, he did. And I am sorry for that. For him and you, but Anna, there was nothing you could do. I mean, I know you are happy now. I can see it on your face. But I can’t pretend to not know how you got here. Sammy sold you to pay his debt. And that’s fucked up. Mourn your brother, but don’t fool yourself into thinking he was some kind of saint,” she says, and I know she’s right.

Her words sound cold, but she’s just practical. And it is exactly what I needed to hear. I’m still carrying so much guilt for Sammy’s death, it’s like an invisible weight pressing down on me.

This talk helps. The weight is still there, but not like before. I thank Giselle and I hug her, and we both wind up crying in our tea.

We spend the rest of the afternoon swimming in the pool. Then we shower and paint our toenails. I show her the guest room and she teases me about moving in.

I’m having so much fun. Being with Giselle is both nostalgic and refreshing. It feels like the sleepovers we used to have when we were younger.

“Wow, this is amazing,” she says, entering the huge walk-in closet that’s actually bigger than my old bedroom.

I bite my lip as Giselle takes in the racks of designer clothes. Not all of them are maternity, and we spend some time playing an adult version of dress up.

“Are you sure I can borrow this?” she says, eying the price tag on the sexy little black dress she’s tried on.

We’re both curvy girls, though she’s taller and her breasts are bigger than mine. But we basically wear the same size.

The dress is shorter on her than it would be on me, but she fills out to perfection.

“Um, yeah. You look hot,” I tell her, and do a spin in the short chocolate brown swing dress I slipped on.

It’s made of six layers of thin, almost sheer material. Each layer is completely see-through when separated, but together, they are opaque.

“Holy fuck, Anna, who knew pregnant chicks could be that sexy?”

“Shut up,” I say and roll my eyes.

“I am serious. That dress is really beautiful, and it looks fantastic on you,” Giselle replies, and her eyes are wide as she looks me over.

The dress has a deep v that ends just above my swollen belly, showcasing my cleavage and bringing attention to the fact I’m pregnant without making me feel ridiculously unattractive.

In fact, I feel the opposite. She’s right. I feel sexy.

“I really love the color,” I confess.

“It looks great,” she says again.

I’m not someone who needs a lot of compliments to feel good, and I sure as shit am not conceited. But I appreciate my bestie telling me I look good.

I turn and see myself in the mirror, and I’m floored. I am glowing. It’s like what they say about pregnant women looking radiant is actually true.

My skin is golden from all my time swimming in the rooftop pool and the brown color of the dress compliments my tan.

I applied a shimmery moisturizer that makes me feel and smell good. Like vanilla orchids and cocoa butter.

There are tiny glass beads sewn on the neckline and the edges of the cap sleeves, as well as on the bottom of the skirt. The dress falls in flirty little layers around mid-thigh, and I am so glad I can still shave by myself.

When I get bigger, I will probably need help. I bite my lip, wondering if husbands do that for their pregnant wives.

Do they help them shave?

I picture Nico in the shower with me, we’ve taken them together before. But this time I picture him lathering my thighs and calves with thick shave butter and using my razor to take the hair off and, damn, I feel moisture gather between my legs.

Why does that sound so erotic?

I never had a man shave me. But if Nico says yes, I just might let him.

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