Page 50 of End Game
LAYLA
“I’m going to be the lamest party-goer of all time,” I lament, holding up two outfits. One is a coral-colored dress that I purchased as soon as I broke up with Callum. It’s sexy and fun and flirty . . . and so not becoming of a woman with child.
“You are not.” Poppy catches the dress as I toss it to her. “I love this. Are you not wearing it?”
Holding up a semi-fitted blue top that reminds me of the water surrounding a tropical island, I shake my head. “I can’t wear that. I bought it to pick up guys. It seems . . . immoral, considering the circumstances.”
“You’re having a baby, not joining a nunnery.”
“This whole thing is so confusing,” I sigh. Plopping down on the bed, my freshly curled hair bounces on my shoulders. “The doctor’s office gave me an appointment and a link to a website with information overload. It just . . . it still doesn’t feel real. How can a baby be inside me?”
“I have such a smartass response to that, but I’ll withhold because I see you’re stressing.” Brushing a lock of hair out of her face, she blows out a breath. “I’m not going to lie and say I get what you’re feeling because I don’t, thank God. I have no idea what this must be like.”
“It’s scary.”
She wraps an arm around my shoulder and leans her head against mine. We sit on the bed like this for a couple of minutes, my friend just being that—my friend. Sometimes you don’t need advice and you don’t need promises that it will all be okay. You just need someone beside you saying, “I’m here.”
“You know what the scariest part about this is?” I ask.
“No.”
“That website has all of these women smiling and glowing and skipping through fields of lavender.”
“Really?” she asks, lifting a brow.
“No, but you get the idea,” I sigh. “I’m just . . . not. I don’t feel like this swamp of love and excitement has hit me yet, and I’m worried it won’t.”
“Of course you will, but you gotta give yourself some time, Lay. You’ve only known this for a couple of days.”
“But I already feel like a mom failure.”
She laughs and stands, jerking the blouse out of my hands and shoving the dress back in them. “You are not a mom failure and you are not wearing . . . this,” she snarls, tossing the shirt in the bottom of my closet. “You’re wearing the dress and you’re gonna be hot and we’re gonna go party at Tiffany’s and have some fun.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I do. Get up, get dressed, and let’s get out of here.”
After saluting me, which makes me laugh, she leaves me alone to finish getting ready. I wear the dress and a pair of nude heels and even throw on a long necklace with a large, fake blue stone at the end. The color vaguely reminds me of Branch’s eyes. Standing still, I handle the stone and wonder what color eyes our baby will have.
“No,” I say, when the tears start to come again. “These are tears of fear. You won’t cry. You will handle this like the boss you are.”
Skipping the smoky eye in case I feel less like a boss later and want to avoid a charcoal river down my face, I put on minimal makeup and take myself in when complete. It’s not too bad. I can tell I’ve been crying, but I know me. I don’t think anyone else, besides Poppy and maybe Finn, will.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Poppy says, coming in the room. “I love that dress on you. So much better than the interview blouse.”
“I actually did buy that for an interview.”
“Yeah. I could tell.”
Before I can think twice, I whirl around on my heel. “Have you seen Branch?”
“Yes.”
I nod, not sure where to go with this now. I’m not even sure what I want to know or hope to hear, and she doesn’t volunteer anything, which both provides comfort and distress.
“He asked about you again,” she says quietly. “Nothing much, just if I had seen you.”
“What did you say?”
