Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My first thought Sunday morning is sex. Like, literally, right after I open my eyes and blink at the ceiling. The instant I move, my body comes alive. My skin, my breasts, my core, all aching to be touched so badly I have to bury my face in my pillow.
Oh my God. Why?
Anton has already gotten up, but after last night it’s not like I could turn to him and beg him to do something about it. Briefly, I run my own hands down over my body. Arching my breasts into my palms, toying with my very erect, aching nipples with a surprising sigh of relief. I keep one hand there, then let the other continue to explore, down between my thighs. Until I reach my already-moist center. I bite my lip, face flushing hot. This is... embarrassing. I have only ever felt this way after Anton has spent a lot of time getting me there. I don’t know what to do with spontaneous arousal. I glance at my husband’s pillow with chagrin, wondering if this is how he feels all the time.
Except he didn’t last night. He was turned on, but had no trouble setting it aside when I couldn’t.
Because he’s a good parent.
The thought flits through my mind like a taunt .
But damn if my clit isn’t nearly throbbing.
Softly, I close my eyes, slipping one finger between my folds. It doesn’t feel like it would take much, just to move the right way, bring my body some relief.
Except.
What if something happened? What if Anton came back into our room to find me cramping like I was before, and I had to tell him what I did? What if, in seeking my own pleasure, I did something to hurt...
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, forcing my feet to the floor. Trying to shift my focus to a different, urgent need. My bladder.
I can hear Anton banging around in the kitchen after I pee, and I’m about to yell down the hall asking if he’s already made our ration of coffee, when I hear my phone ring. It’s Sunday, so not likely a business call, but I will take any excuse to not think about what’s going on inside my body.
Until I see my sister’s name on the screen.
“Hi,” I say on a long exhale, wandering toward my closet in search of something that still fits.
“Hello,” Celia singsongs through the receiver. “Just checking in to make sure nothing has changed for Thanksgiving. I know you still had a few loose ends?—”
“How’s Gabriel?” I ask, trying to collect myself in the full-length mirror while she prattles off his latest milestones. The pajama pants and T-shirt I slept in are already snug. If my mom doesn’t guess I’m pregnant right away, she’ll hound me about my weight before I even step foot in the house.
“Anyway, we’re excited for you guys to come out! Gabey and I were just going over the menu, and?—”
“Wait. Why are you doing the menu? Isn’t Mom hosting?”
She clears her throat. “Well. Mom decided it was too much to ask her to baby proof her house now that Gabey’s crawling. And since ours is already safe, it made sense... but she said if we’re not eating off her china, she’s not cooking the food. So... you guys haven’t gone vegan or anything, have you?”
“No.” I pause for a beat, trying to decide if this is better or worse. Or maybe just as bad, in a different setting. “We can’t fly out until Thanksgiving morning. Sorry. But we’ll eat whatever you guys want to make once we get there.”
“Oh, I’m having it catered,” Celia says. “ Way too tired to cook with no help.”
Something in her voice makes my shoulders drop, and for a second I wonder if she’s actually dreading this as much as I am. But we’ve been adversaries so long, I can’t help myself. “What, Dr. Adam isn’t any good in the kitchen?”
She makes an impatient snort, and I can just imagine her pointing her nose in the air, getting ready to launch into some righteous speech about the demands of plastic surgery. But instead, she changes the subject. “Let me know if you two need a ride from the airport.”
“I’m sure we can handle it.” I don’t know what else to add— Can’t wait to see you. It’ll be great to catch up— I’ve never been a wonderful liar. So I just say, “Let me know if there’s anything we can bring.”
“Will do,” she says, and then actually adds, “I—I’m so glad you’re coming.”
I stare at my clothes long enough to decide nothing I own will fit comfortably, and I might have to either buy some larger sizes or break down and visit a maternity store. Only that thought is so unpleasant, I decide a shower is the best way to delay the decision longer.
But as soon as I shut myself in the bathroom, the doorbell rings and Heartthrob runs down the hall barking. For a second, still having had zero coffee, I can’t focus enough to think who it could possibly be. Until I realize it’s Sunday, and hurry to answer it.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Caprice says, standing on our front porch holding two cups of coffee from Pike’s Perk a few blocks over. “Why aren’t you answering my texts?”
“I—sorry, my sister called. What time is it?” I fumble for my phone, but I must’ve left it beside the bed.
“Almost ten. When you didn’t show at the park, I figured you must’ve forgotten.” She eyes the robe I covered up in with some suspicion. “Or... did I interrupt something? ”
My stomach knots so fast, I nearly gasp. “Ah, no—I just got sidetracked. I’ll get changed.”
“The weather’s not the greatest,” she says, handing me a coffee and shoving the door closed with one hip. “We don’t have to run.“
Heartthrob realizes we have a visitor and rushes over to greet her, but she holds up a palm at his approach. “Back off, fuzzy wuzzy. Your hair does not go with my outfit.” My dog looks at me, sneezes, then returns to his bed.
“Are you sure? We could still go,” I say, looking doubtfully out the window. We’re officially out of still-feels-like-summer-in-the-sunshine October and into the full cold bleak of November. The last thing I want to do this morning is go jogging.
“Nah, I’m not feeling it,” she says, tossing her ponytail. “Let’s just hang out and catch up.”
For a second, I consider doing just that. Bringing Caprice into the kitchen and spilling everything. It’s been one thing not telling my mother and employees about the pregnancy. About what’s coming. Keeping it from my best friend has been one of the hardest things ever.
But on some level, I’m still dreading what she’ll say. How she’ll react. Technically, I hit twelve weeks a couple days ago. But since we don’t have our next appointment until right before Thanksgiving, and Anton and I agreed to tell my family first, I tighten my robe and lead the way into the kitchen. “Sure. I’ve got bagels. Tell me what’s new.”
“Meh. Not a whole lot...” she says, settling into a chair at the table. Anton must’ve gone outside, or maybe he’s back in the second bedroom.
I set my coffee aside and reach for the bagels, grateful to have something to do with my hands. Until my eyes rest on the list of pregnancy yes-foods and no-foods still stuck to the fridge. I snatch the paper off, shoving it on top of the appliance before she notices it. Then I remember the prenatal vitamins sitting on the counter, and block her view with my body as I shove the bottle inside a cabinet.
“Are you still working on that new story?” I ask, making a big show of loading the toaster and finding cream cheese. “The one about public art installations?”
“Yeah, that one’s finished. It should run next week,” she says in an uncertain tone. “I... I actually have a really big opportunity. I’ve been asked to do a feature for Rolling Stone .”
I sputter, nearly dropping the cream cheese knife. “Are you serious? Rolling Stone? ”
She nods, and I grab her hand and start bouncing up and down.
“Caprice! Like, you’ve made it! I mean, okay, it hasn’t happened yet, but can we just take a sec to appreciate and enjoy this moment? This is your dream! You’ve worked hard, and your talent as a journalist is putting your work in Rolling Stone! ”
She looks over and smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I rest my feet flat on the floor again. “Why am I the only one excited?”
“Because they want me to do a deeper dive into cheating culture.” She sighs, wrapping her arms around herself. “Revisit some of the stuff from the first article, then dig up even more, and I just?—”
“Don’t feel safe,” I finish her sentence.
Her posture slumps. “I mean, it’s an amazing opportunity. Any story they run could propel my career to the next level. But I’m just kind of over it, you know? I’ve written stellar articles on health trends, musical movements, fitness... Not one person ever sent me a death threat for analyzing weight training versus cardio.”
“I read every one of them, and they were stellar.” I frown. “But... this is Rolling Stone .”
“I know.” She drops her face into her hands. “I should write them an article about how women always have to give something up in order to gain.”
I retrieve the bagels from the toaster with a nod of solidarity, spreading cream cheese and trying not to dwell on some of the trade-offs I’ve been making lately.
“Anyway, I’ve been dying to get that off my chest—to someone who gets it,” Caprice says, straightening as I bring the food to the table. “Now tell me again, why did you decide to spend Thanksgiving with your mother?”
I sink into a chair and massage my temples, sipping the last delicious drops of my coffee. “Um, I don’t remember anymore. ”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Her eyes sharpen, raking over me carefully. “Is everything okay? Is something going on?”
“No, why would there be?” I ask, stuffing bagel into my mouth.
“Because when you came home from your sister’s wedding last year, you swore you weren’t going back to Ohio for at least a decade, barring some emergency.”
I take my time chewing. I do remember saying that.
“Where’s Anton, by the way?” she asks, glancing around.
“Uh... he has a project he’s working on.” I set my bagel down. “Celia’s going to be moving, so my mom made a big stink, wanting us all to have one more holiday at home. It seemed easier to just go than argue with her about it.”
Despite there being some truth in that statement, Caprice raises a brow in a familiar, skeptical way. So, before she can really start peppering me with questions, I leap out of my chair. “Hey look, the sun sort of came out. We could still go for a run—let me just get changed.”
In my room, I smoosh my swollen chest into a too-snug sports bra and bury my figure in one of my husband’s old CU Boulder sweatshirts, debating whether it would seem suspicious if I beg her to power walk instead of run. But when I come back out with my sneakers on, I find Caprice leaning in the doorway of what’s quickly looking like my former home office, watching my husband paint the walls.
“Anton says you’re doing some redecorating.”
My gaze immediately flies to where he’s stirring paint across the room. He looks up, giving the tiniest shake of his head, letting me know he hasn’t let the cat out of the bag. Though, by the way he raises his brows, he seems to think I should.
“Just refreshing a little,” I say with a placid smile. “We haven’t painted since we moved in.”
“It’s already a lot brighter in here,” she says, peering closely at the swatches on the wall. “The colors are very... neutral.”
“You know me.” I turn up my palms. “Noncommittal.”
Caprice snorts, but allows me to usher her to the front door. Which we open, only to find the sun long gone and buckets of sleet dumping down from the sky.
“Guess the forecast changed,” I say, biting my lip.
“There’s definitely some sort of front,” she mutters. “Guess it’s time to go home and make career decisions.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” I say, grabbing my keys.
But when I let her out in front of her building and turn back toward home alone, my stomach crawls with guilty relief.