Page 60 of My Pucking Enemy
“Oh,” Astrid turns to me as we walk into the kitchen, brushing a lock of dark hair from her face, “the party hasn’t started yet.”
The space is filled with light from the backyard, the snow just starting to melt, dripping off the trees. But with the weather here, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got another ten inches dumped on us overnight.
Ruby and a few other women I don’t recognize sit and stand around the kitchen island, stuffing and wrapping little cellophane bags, then tying them with ribbons.
“Wren, hi,” Ruby says coolly.
“Hi,” I say, nodding to her, always feeling a little out of my depth in her presence. I’m used to being the coolest one in the room. Ruby makes that impossible. Then, to Astrid, I ask, “What do you mean, the party hasn’t started yet?”
Astrid waves her hand, sliding onto a stool. “It’s just us girls to start. Finish setting stuff up, hang out.”
I blink at her.Just us girls.
My body feels like it’s vibrating—I’m one of the girls? I’m invited to the baby shower pre-game? I don’t know how to feel about it, but I don’t have any more time to think it over, because Sloane comes walking through the doorway, wobbling a bit with the weight of her belly.
She’s wearing a floor-length, soft green maternity gown with fluttering sleeves and a slit up the leg. Her golden hair—the exact color of Luca’s—is curled and laying over her shoulders. She could be in a commercial for a maternity boutique—the picture of ethereal motherhood.
That is, until she sees me and immediately starts to cry.
“Wren!” Sloane gets my name out in a warbled sob, walking forward and throwing her arms around me so her stomach presses firmly against mine. “It’s so good to see y-you!”
“Oh, uh…” I rub her back when I realize she’s sniffling, my heart—which was already stressed—doing cartwheels to try and figure out what I did to upset her. “I-It’s good to see you, too? I’m sorry, are you—?”
“Don’t mind her,” Astrid says, laughing and pulling Sloane back and offering her a square box of tissues. “She was a cry-er even before the baby. This has been the greeting for every person to walk through that door.”
“She got snot on my dress,” Ruby deadpans. “I’ll forgive it because she’s pregnant.”
Sloane laughs, folding her tissue carefully and glancing up at me. “After I have the baby, I’m going to be stoic. You won’t even recognize me, I’ll be so stone-faced.”
“Sure,” Astrid says, patting her friend’s arm. “Come on, Wren, we’re just trying to finish up the party favors.”
So I sit with them at the kitchen island, helping to fill the bags with mints, candy, and gift cards to local Milwaukee establishments. When each bag is finished, I pass it along to Astrid who ties it up, then it goes to Ruby who has a perfect move to curl the ribbon and make it look cute.
By the time the rest of the party guests show up—including Luca and his parents—I actually do feel like I’m part of the girls.
The only problem is that, just like with Luca and Mandy, this thing between us isn’t real.
And I really have to stop letting myself believe that.
***
“Hey, Gran,” I say, breezing into the room still full of conflicting emotions from the baby shower. The nursing home is a little slower today, fewer people out visiting because of the weather. With the holidays over, many of the residents are bored—wandering around the halls, looking for something to distract them.
“Wren!” she says, twisting around in her chair to look up at me as I walk into her little living area. “I have a surprise for you today.”
I stop, glancing around the small room, eyes narrowing. There’s not much space in here for her to hide a surprise. And, besides, I helped her move in, so I would have packed and unpacked something if she had it before.
“You aren’t online shopping again, are you?” I ask, raising my eyebrows and sitting down on her bed to face. A few weeks ago, she almost got caught up in an online scheme, and I had to take her credit cards from her.
“Ha,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “That wasn’t my fault. Anyone would have thought that site was legitimate.”
“Whatever you say. What’s my surprise?”
As though waiting for the cue, someone knocks on the door, and I look up to see one of the nursing aids in a set of heart scrubs from Valentine’s Day standing in the doorway, a large box beside her.
“Gran,” I say, not taking my eyes off the box. “What is this?”
“You can bring it in!” she says, and I watch as they wheel it inside the room.
