Page 39 of Spicy Nick

“With me? Really?” Lucy asks, quickly assuming an innocent expression that wouldn’t have fooled a toddler. “Well, this is exciting. What is it? I can’t wait to hear!”

“I’m not pregnant,” Scout tells her—or tries to. Because, yet again…

“Pregnant! How wonderfu— Wait. Not?”

Scout slants an exasperated glance in my direction. “I swear I’m going to get that printed on a T-shirt. Or do you think we oughta put up a billboard, instead?”

“I think shirts will be fine,” I tell her. “Order one for me too, while you’re at it.”

I turn back to Lucy, who’s also grinning smugly. “See?” she says in an unwarrantedly superior tone. “And you were so worried. I told you it would all work out, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” I reply dryly. “I think I musta missed that part. Also, for the record, if Iwasworried—which I’m not saying was the case?—”

“It so was.”

“Then it was mostly because of all the imaginary scenarios thatyoudreamed up.”

Lucy pats me on the arm. “Okay cuz, if that’s how you want to remember it; you do you.”

“We still need to stop the rumors from spreading,” Scout points out. “Lucy, why don’t you take care of that?”

“Rumors?” Lucy asks, looking honestly confused. “What rumors?”

“Apparently, someone’s been spreading the story that we’re expecting,” I tell her. “Any idea how that may have happened?”

Lucy’s cheeks flush, but she holds her ground. In fact, she might even lean into her insulted innocence a little bit more. “I certainly hope you’re not suggesting that that’s my fault,” she grouses. “I can’t help it if a few people jumped to conclusions just because I was a little excited at the prospect of being an aunt again.”

“Except that itisyour fault,” I tell her. “Same as it was last time. And look, that was bad enough, but at least there actually was a baby for people to get excited about. Now, if we can’t get the word out quickly enough, people are gonna start doing what they did last time—dropping off baby clothes and buying us diapers and asking if we’ve picked out names yet. And then where will we be?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Lucy agrees. “And I’ll take care of it. But oh, my Lord. Dan’s going to be twice as insufferable now.”

“Why’s that?” Scout asks.

“Because he called it,” Lucy replies. “That’s why. Ever since he ran into you out at the nursery, he’s been insisting that you didn’t look pregnant to him.”

“Well, tell him thanks for me,” Scout says, shooting a pointed, and totally unfair, look in my direction. “That’s nice to hear. From someone.”

“And tell him I said he oughta keep his eyes to himself,” I grumble, feeling suddenly very hard put upon. I’mnotthe one who started the pregnancy rumor. And at absolutely no point had I ever suggested to Scout that she was putting on weight—or whatever she’s pissed about. Not this time—I learn from my mistakes. But somehow, I just know it, this will all get twisted around into being my fault.

Both women slant me identical, pitying looks. “Dan’s here, you know. He’s just in the other room. Why don’t you tell him yourself?” my cousin suggests, once again patting me on the arm condescendingly. “That’ll be fun.”

While Lucy goesoff to do damage control, Scout and I take a minute to check in with Cole who’s being so spoiled and loved on by his older relatives—my aunt and uncle in particular—that he doesn’t even notice when we step away. Next, we spend a few moments greeting latecomers, and the friends who we hadn’t already seen the night before at Lucy’s. Eventually, we reconvene in the kitchen.

While I get the coffee started—something that’slongoverdue—and pour us each a glass of eggnog (straight up, this time; no chasers.) Scout feeds the cats and starts assembling all the pots and pans we’ll be using, along with some miscellaneous bowls and plates and chafing dishes.

At one point, there’s a pause in the rattling of cookware and crockery. In the resultant silence, Scout’s soft gasp is conspicuous enough to catch my attention. Turning, I find her staring at a bowl she’s just taken from one of the cabinets where we keep some of the more rarely used items.

It's one of Sara’s bowls that I didn’t have the heart to throw out. I should probably put that on my list of New Year’s resolutions.

“Oh, Nick,” Scout says when I cross the room to join her. “It’s our first Christmas here without her,”

“You miss her,” I say, proving yet again that I’m Captain Obvious pre-caffeine. “I do, too.”

We’re both silent for a moment, remembering Sara in her younger, happier days—not that she wasn’t already pretty old when we met her. Her ashes are buried in our backyard now. Yet another reason to be glad we’ve decided to stay where we are.

Finally, Scout heaves a sigh. She slides the bowl back into the cabinet, I extend a hand to help her to her feet, then we drift back over to the center island where I hand her one of the glasses of eggnog. “Merry Christmas,” I say as I touch my glass to hers.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Scout replies. “So, what’s the plan here?”

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