Page 68 of Books and Hookups

“Yeah, yeah.” My stomach tensed. But it wasn’t my stomach. It was lower, and when I touched it, my belly felt as hard as stone. Maybe I should read that damned book.

“Looks like Lucie’s hungry,” Tessa said.

“Darn it, I was supposed to bring dinner, wasn’t I?” Savannah said. “I forgot with everything going on.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tessa said. “I’ll order delivery. How does pasta sound?”

“Carbs won’t solve anything,” Savannah said, “but they’ll make me feel better.”

“With a salad, please,” Carly said.

“And garlic breadsticks. I don’t care about the indigestion,” I added. “Carly, in the meantime, it’s time to make us gorgeous.”

“We’re already gorgeous,” she said. “But this is going to be fun.”

And it was. Getting support from my besties, and giving it right back, was just what I needed to convince myself everything was going to be okay.

24

It’s My Party, and I’ll Ditch if I Want To

Wright: I don’t want to talk about my legacy.

Interviewer: Carly and Savannah talked to me. I even got Andrew’s mother.

Wright: Well, I won’t.

Interviewer: Come on, Tessa. I know you’re sitting on a pile of cash from god-knows-what. And you’ve given some significant donations to women’s health organizations. I want to hear what you have to say.

Wright: I have two words for you: Fuck. Off. Go enjoy your party.

Transcript from interview with Tessa Wright, mysteriously wealthy person

LUCIE

Ionly realized it was a fucking terrible idea to have my fortieth birthday party in a bar when I walked in the door and saw Tad sitting on a barstool. I needed a whiskey to dull the sharp edges of my irritation. But, sadly, being a responsible forty-year-old mom-to-be meant no whiskey for me. But then an evil idea fluttered into my sober brain.

I marched up to him. “Hey, Tad, what’s going on?”

He kept his gaze on the television. “Enjoying some late-season baseball and an after-work drink.” He tapped his martini glass. “Hey, Nico, can I get another?”

“You must have missed the sign on the door,” I said. “The bar closes at seven for a private party. And it’s five to seven, so you missed your last call.”

“Private party?” He looked away from the game. “I practically own the…whoa.”

His gaze settled on my seven-months-pregnant belly, which no longer looked like weight gain but like I’d strapped on a soccer ball. Instantly, I recognized I’d screwed this up. Tad would go running to Mario on Monday morning and spring the news on him. The news I’d hidden by (truthfully) claiming a sore back as an excuse to work from home.Shit.

“So that’s why you haven’t been in the office,” he said unnecessarily.

“My personal health conditions are none of your business,” I said through clenched teeth. I guessed now I’d be forced to reveal that I planned to take leave in a couple of months. Leave that federal and state law entitled me to.

“Sure they are,” he said, “when I’ll be forced to pick up the slack at the office. When are you due, anyway? It’s got to be soon.”

“November.”

“Really? With that belly, it must be fucking twins at least. Fertility treatments?”

I sucked in air through my nose. If I said what I wanted to say, he’d probably get so angry he wouldn’t wait for Monday to tell Mario. “I’m going to call you a rideshare, Tad. You can go drink somewhere else or go home. You can’t stay here.”

---