Page 89 of Bar Down, Baby

“Are you alone?” Bee asks, and there’s a fragile bend to her voice that tells me exactly what she thinks about that.

“It’s broad daylight,” I say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to, you know.”

“I’m just walking into a Freddy’s.”

“What’s a Freddy’s?”

“It’s like a Target. Or a really nice Walmart. But local… sort of.”

The crosswalk signal changes and I walk with the man across Cesar Chavez Boulevard. I hear her sigh in the background, and then there’s a tension.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Bee…”

“Promise you won’t get mad?” she says, her tone hesitant.

“No.”

“Megan!”

“Bee!”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

“How can I promise I won’t get mad when I—” I stop where I am, stop talking, stop moving. Derek is standing at Hawthorne entrance to Freddy’s, hands in his pockets, serious look on his face.

“I’ll call you back.”

“You promised not to—”

I end the call and stuff my phone in my purse.

“Bee called you?”

He nods.

“You gonna try to stop me?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Would you let me?”

I shake my head.

“Probably not.”

He shrugs. Then he opens the door for me. Something squeezes my chest, tight and secure, and it’s as if it’s like a domino effect. It tightens my throat and activates my pregnancy hormones, and as I walk through the door he’s holding for me, I have to wipe at the tears running down my cheeks.

Fred Meyer is a bustling madhouse, like always. But his hand on the small of my back is like a steady, solid presence that roots me. I slow down and let him apply just a little more pressure.

We approach the Western Union counter and I locate the correct form.

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