Page 17 of Implode

“Did I wake you up?”

“No,” I say softly, although a nap does sound amazing. Maybe I can go to sleep and wake up with all of my reality being just a bad dream. “I took the scenic route home and”—I examine the fruit and feel my stomach start to rumble with hunger—“I’m starving. Let’s dig into this yumminess.” I start pulling off the cellophane wrapping and pluck the first fruit skewer from the bunch. I bite off a watermelon ball and moan over the taste. “This tastes so amazingly fresh. Try some,” I persuade. I continue eating my stick of fruit until it is all gone. Then I grab another one, this time containing a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

I can’t stop eating. It’s a binge I haven’t experienced in years. I just keep plucking skewers and stuffing more fruit into my mouth. I listen to Angie talk about how nice my place is while I eat every one of my feelings.

My attention moves to the front door at the sound of a series of knocks. I glance over to Angie and start to move.

“I may have organized a thing.”

“A thing?” I ask, raising my brow.

“Just a little gathering with some friends,” she answers innocently. “A housewarming thing.”

I shake my head at her for keeping this a secret and answer the door to Blake and a few of my gym coworkers. “Hey, guys,” I greet, hugging each and welcoming them inside.

It doesn’t take long for the entire place to feel claustrophobic. Every cushiony surface is taken up, and it makes my apartment feel like it is smaller than a bento box. However, it is cozy. We can all see and hear each other. I just never had this many people relaxing on my bed before. It’s not like there are many other choices on where to gather in a studio.

“Time for gifts, my favorite part,” Blake announces, about to burst out of his seat.

I watch with fascination as he gallops—yes, gallops—over to the front door and then grabs the huge gift box that he must have left out in the hallway. Just looking at the size, I wonder if he got me a large appliance. I secretly hope not, because my counter space is very limited.

“You didn’t have to get me a gift,” I say shyly. I hope my confidence isn’t gone forever. It feels weird to be vulnerable.

“Only the best for you, Claire Bear.”

I rip through the gift wrap and lift the lid of the box to reveal an obscene amount of tissue paper. I laugh as I pull out wads and wads, until I am able to see inside to the bottom. Digging into the box, I pull out a beautiful stone pot that contains a bonsai tree.

“It is a ficus, which can handle a lot of abuse,” Blake explains. “But let’s not test its limits.”

I turn the pot in my hand, examining the beauty of a seemingly simple plant. “Thank you.”

I read the little card that shares the care instructions and some fun facts about this type of plant. Blake knows how much I love nature and the feeling of being outside.

“When I saw it, I had to get it for you,” Blake says cheerfully.

“How did you know I needed something like this?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I was really wanting to bring some life into this place. This is perfect.”

“I just knew. Plus, you can’t help but look at it without feeling content.”

“Fact,” Angie says, helping me clean up the tissue paper.

I move it over to my window seat, which is taken up by a couple of gym friends.

“There’s one more thing at the bottom of the box,” Blake says, reaching in and handing me a card. “But there is a stipulation on the gift.”

“Okay…” I open up the envelope and reveal a certificate for a clean-meals food delivery service.

“That certificate qualifies you for fifteen meals. However, the gym crew all pitched in and got you more. You basically can get one meal a week delivered to you at home if you space it out that way.”

“Wow,” I say, looking at my name on the slip of paper. “This is so generous.” Tears fill my eyes at everyone’s kindness. I really could use easy right now, and having meals sent here is as good as it gets for someone flying solo on a meager budget. “Thank you.”

Champagne bottles get popped, and I carefully pretend to sip mine without actually consuming any. I am presented with constant reminders that I need to think about the life growing inside of me. Despite not having much hope for myself as a parent, I know at least to not drink during pregnancy.

The gang clears out of the apartment, going their separate ways—except for Angie who hangs around a little longer.

“That was fun,” I say softly, tying up the trash bag that is full from the disposable cups and napkins.

“You deserve to be celebrated, Claire. You know that, right?”

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