Page 6 of Pucking the Grump

“It’s awful,” Stephanie agrees, setting the bag on one of the tables beneath an open umbrella. “But I have to confess, it’s my fault we’re late. We were giving Piggie a bath after he rolled in something nasty in the park, and then…we got distracted.”

The look they exchange makes me both happy for them and vaguely nauseated. My best friend and his yoga instructor girlfriend are sickeningly in love, the kind that makes single people develop spontaneous lactose intolerance from the sheer cheesiness of it all.

I haul myself out of the pool, water cascading off my body as I grab my towel from the lounger nearby. “Distracted, huh?” I tease as I join them in the shade. “Is that what you horny bastards are calling it these days?”

Tank grunts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I plead the fifth. Here, have a beer. It’s a coffee porter. Maybe it’ll put some hair on your chest.”

I accept the peace offering with a grin. “Aw, thanks. But sadly, I think I’m doomed to remain relatively hairless. Too much Swedish on my mother’s side.”

While I crack open a cold one, Stephanie arranges a spread of vegan delights—hummus with veggies, some kind of quinoa salad that looks way more appetizing than quinoa has any right to, and a plate of cookies that I know from experience are simultaneously healthy and delicious, a magic trick I appreciate now that camp is underway and good nutrition is more important than ever.

“So, what have you been up to this weekend?” she asks, shooting me one of those knowing looks she specializes in. The woman sees far too much. I blame all the meditating. It can’t be good for a person to meditate that much.

I take a long pull of my beer before answering. “Oh, you know. The usual. I lifted. Brunched. Hit a decoupage class at the craft co-op.” I don’t mention spending most of last night staring at my phone, drowning my sorrows in pricey dirty vodka martinis while forcing myself not to text Remy. “Living the bachelor dream.”

Tank settles into a chair, a subtle frown creasing his forehead. “Yeah? Then why do you look like shit?”

“Wow, thanks, pumpkin.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“He just means you look more tired than usual,” Stephanie translates, her voice gentle as she hands me a plate. “Everything okay?”

I shrug and pretend to find the patio tile suddenly fascinating. “Yeah. Good. Just first week of training camp hangover, I guess. It’s hard being old.”

Tank grunts again, a co-sign grunt this time. “It is. The rookies are hyper as fuck this year. I have to pound an energy shake with extra espresso before afternoon practice just to keep up.”

“Same,” I agree. “I’d think they were juicing if they weren’t all so fucking wholesome. Grammercy is on that organic grind, and Bellamy doesn’t drink anything fun. Alcohol or caffeine.”

“Yeah, they suck, but that doesn’t explain the sad,” Tank says, motioning to my face. “Behind the eyes.”

Thankfully, I’m saved from further interrogation by Stephanie surging from her chair with a fretful groan. “Oh no, I think I’m going to—” She slaps a hand to her mouth before bolting toward the bathroom near the stairwell.

Tank and I exchange a concerned glance before he hurries after her, leaving me alone with my beer and my thoughts, neither of which is particularly good company at the moment. Coffee porter isn’t my favorite. Neither is being called out on my less-than-immaculate vibes.

I tell myself that my eyes aren’t sad—they’re just a little hungover—but I’ve never been great at lying to anyone, least of all myself.

A few minutes later, my guests return, Stephanie looking a little unsteady but no longer green beneath her golden-brown skin. Tank has his arm around her waist, supporting her like she might float away if he lets go. For a guy who spent most of his life avoiding emotional entanglements, he’s transformed into the most devoted partner I know.

“You okay, Steph?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, a smile quirking her lips as she glances up at Tank. “I’m just a little…off. But it’s nothing a few crackers won’t cure.”

There’s a moment of silent communication between them, the kind that makes my chest ache with a longing I’m not ready to examine too closely.

It also sets my “something’s up” detector to beeping.

“What’s going on with you two?” I ask, glancing between them. “I smell secrets.”

“I think that’s the vegan feta cheese,” Tank says. “I told her to leave it out of the salad. It smells like feet.”

“It does not,” she says, swatting his chest with a laugh. “It’s fantastic. Especially with fresh tomatoes. You’ll see.” To me, she adds, “And yeah, we do have a secret. We weren’t planning on telling anyone just yet, but…”

“But you’re special,” Tank says with a teasing roll of his eyes. “And we won’t be able to keep it a secret for long, anyway. I’m sure someone as tiny as Steph will start showing sooner rather than later.”

My eyes dart between them, landing on Stephanie’s still-flat stomach, my heart skipping a beat as I connect the dots.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “You’re pregnant?”

Steph nods, her eyes bright. “Yes, but just barely. We just found out on Friday.”

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