52. Promise You the Moon
Promise You the Moon
“Oh my gosh, this fit last week!” I shift and suck in once again, hoping I can convince the waistband of my favorite floral maxi skirt to stretch over my ever-growing belly.
I could hem it and wear it under my bump, but once the baby’s born, the skirt would be left at an awkward length.
I love this skirt too much to sacrifice it.
Frustrated, I pull it off and toss it on my parents’ bed.
I’m staying in their house while they are gone for the next eight months, while my dad is a visiting professor at the University of Florida .
I’m using their downstairs bedroom, because at this point in my pregnancy, I’m not terribly excited about having to climb a flight of stairs every night to my old bedroom.
Or, let’s be real, each time I want to lie down.
I study myself in my mom’s full-length mirror.
How much bigger could I possibly get? I have well over three months left until my due date, and this past week has taken me from “able to hide in oversized clothes” to “full-on blue whale.” I’ve let out the waist and added panels in several pairs of pants, brought out all my big winter sweaters earlier than I usually would, and fully embraced all the billowing fabrics my whimsical wardrobe has to offer.
But I think I’ve made it to the inevitable: maternity clothes.
The problem with maternity clothes is … you look obviously pregnant.
Am I pregnant? Yes. Am I ashamed? No. But I don’t want everyone in this tiny town talking about me, my divorce, and the fact that I’m now carrying a baby who will have parents who aren’t together.
I wish they knew who Dylan really is. It would make things so much easier if they didn’t think I was insane for leaving a successful businessman who loves the town. A man who they think can do no wrong.
And honestly, it’s not that I really care what they think. It’s only that no one in Starlight Valley can mind their own business and I don’t want to hear everyone’s thoughts or solutions to my problems. Though, to be clear, Sweetpea is not a problem.
I work as the receptionist at a dentist’s office, and wear scrubs at work.
How does one hide a pregnancy in scrubs, you might ask?
The answer is that you don’t. But that’s not a problem because the office is in a town half an hour north of here.
It is, unfortunately, the place where probably everyone in Starlight Valley goes to the dentist —or goes to eat at a different restaurant or shop for a larger variety of foods our general store doesn’t carry, and so on and et cetera.
Despite this, I have yet to run into anyone I know, unless they have come into the office.
And in that case, I just stay seated and no one’s the wiser.
I come home from work tonight to change before running an errand, but instead I slide my scrubs back on and pull my dad’s biggest coat out of the hall closet. I run back to the bedroom mirror to check for pregnancy and find that I look like a small woman who has become tangled in a tent.
Great.
It doesn’t stop me though. I only have one stop to make—and Mr. Stephens, the one-hundred-year-old owner of the world’s tiniest thrift store—isn’t likely to notice.
***
I was right. When I walked in, Mr. Stephens barely glanced from the television.
When I left, he focused on his arthritic fingers as he wrapped my treasure.
The secret’s safe with Mr. Stephens. I’ve been on the hunt for a birthday present for my mom and had to buy something today for it to ship in time.
I’ve learned over the years that Mom gets sad if her birthday isn’t thoroughly celebrated, and since I’m obviously not flying to Florida, an awesome gift and a FaceTime call are the best I can do.
I had a feeling I would find something great at the thrift store. My feeling lied to me—I did not find an awesome gift. At least, I assume Mom won’t think it’s awesome. I like it, though. And she … might. So it’s probably the best I can do.
She and I are just so incredibly different.
I’m florals and patterns. She’s neutrals and clean lines.
I’m a bit messy—okay, maybe more than a bit.
She’s more than tidy. It all boils down to us having a hard time understanding each other, and, as a result, not being able to buy gifts the other will like.
I got her an antique picture frame, and I’m going to say it’s to put a picture of her and Sweetpea in. It might be a little ornate for her, but I hope she likes it.
The trouble I’m having now is, Sweetpea is demanding lemon cookies. I haven’t had a craving this bad since last month. I needed rotisserie chicken so much that I ran to the store during a break at work, then proceeded to eat it at my desk, hunched over like a wild animal.
The smell wasn’t terribly strong, but I don’t think they were exactly thrilled with me that day.
I’m sitting outside the general store, where I know without any doubt, there sit several delicious packs of lemon cookies.
But I also know Mrs. Truman will be sitting behind the register and she will ask why I’m dressed like a camping abode.
She’s a black woman in her, I’m guessing, late fifties.
She was running the store by the time she was thirty and now she owns it.
She sees everything. She knows everything. And nothing thrills her more than having information to lovingly share with others. Her tendency to gossip aside, everyone loves Mrs. Truman.
It starts to rain while I’m sitting debating with myself, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Ah, who cares? And I’m mostly waterproof. “Let’s go, Sweetpea!”
I run from the car, and as I crash inside, as expected, Mrs. Truman’s big brown eyes lock onto me, taking in my attire. I pick up a basket and move to walk past with only a brief hello.
“Hi, Mrs. Truman.”
“Hello, Ellie.” She takes off her glasses and shakes her head. “We’ve got to get you some maternity clothes.”
I stop in my tracks.
“I’m not pregnant.” Why would I say that? She clearly knows. And what did I think I was gonna do when the baby’s born? Sure, I’ve been irrational, but …
I’m suddenly very hot in this tent/coat.
“Oh honey. Everyone knows. We’ve known for quite some time.” She gets up off the stool behind the register, and I glance around to see if we have an audience. Mrs. Truman isn’t known for having a quiet speaking voice. She envelops me in a hug and man, if it doesn’t feel just right.
“But I’ve been so careful,” I whisper into her shoulder.
“Someone as short as you can only hide it for so long.” She leans back and gently grasps my shoulders.
“So everyone knows I’ve been hiding it?”
“Bless your heart, yes. But we love you, so we weren’t going to say anything until you did. But, honey”—she pauses, stepping back to look me up and down—“you needed a wake-up call.”
Well, this was certainly that. And now I’m overwhelmed by the thought of the whole town knowing my secret and undoubtedly talking about it behind my back.
“It's such a shame you couldn't work it out with Dylan, he's such a sweet man.”
Yeah, sweet as a snake bite.
She continues “He saved the town—“
“He didn’t save the town, Mrs. Truman.”
“Well, he certainly saved my store! He tackled that robber.”
“He tripped him,” I say. “Accidentally.” And the group of old men on the sidewalk eating boiled peanuts and shooting the breeze made sure the whole town knew what a hero we had in our midst. Dylan only stopped the man after he saw them watching.
But I’d seen how he really felt before he changed his mind.
“I saw them both on the ground, honey.”
I cannot have this argument again. “I need some cookies,” I blurt, then shuffle to aisle three, wishing I didn’t have to pay Mrs. Truman on the way out.
Thank you for reading the first chapter of Promise You the Moon!