Chapter 9
By the time I pull into the parking lot outside the little boutique baby store in town, I already know today is going to be a disaster.
Not because of the store. Not because I don’t love the women I’m with.
And not even because I’m trapped in an SUV with three pregnant women, one of whom has cried twice in the last hour, one of whom has threatened violence over a breakfast sandwich, and one of whom is one passive-aggressive sigh away from making someone disappear.
No.
Today is going to be a disaster because I agreed to go to “a quick girls day,” and in Deathstalkers language that apparently translates to: be held hostage for six hours while everybody shops, eats, complains about men, and eventually finds a way to make your love life the center of the conversation.
And I should’ve known better.
I really should’ve.
“Park closer,” Kya says from the back seat for the third time in under a minute.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and glance at her in the rearview mirror. “There are literally no closer spots.”
“There is one right there.”
“That’s handicapped.”
She stares back at me like she thinks I’m being intentionally difficult. “I’m six months pregnant and emotionally unstable. I feel like that should qualify me for something.”
Beside her, Brooke lets out a soft laugh while adjusting the oversized cardigan stretched over her bump. “Honestly, she’s kind of right.”
“No, she’s not,” Mac says from the passenger seat, not even looking up from her phone. “And if either of you start crying before we get inside, I’m leaving you here.”
Kya gasps like she’s been personally betrayed. “That’s so mean.”
Mac finally looks over at her, one dark brow arching. “You threatened to throw a bagel at Dom’s head because he got you plain cream cheese instead of strawberry.”
“It was an important distinction.”
“It was breakfast.”
“It was my breakfast.”
Brooke snorts.
I can’t help it. I laugh too.
This is what my life looks like now, apparently. I spend half my time around women who are growing human beings and using that fact to terrorize the men who love them, and the other half trying not to laugh so hard I make it worse.
I park two rows back from the entrance, because I enjoy following the law and also because I’m not trying to get arrested with this group in the car, then shut off the engine and turn around to face them.
“Okay,” I say. “Ground rules.”
Mac slowly lifts her gaze from her phone.
Kya narrows her eyes suspiciously.
Brooke looks genuinely curious.
“Aren’t we too old for ground rules?” Shaina asks from the third row.
“No,” I tell her. “Because last time we went out, Kya cried in Target because they were out of sour gummy worms, Brooke got emotional in the baby aisle over a pair of socks, and Mac nearly got us kicked out of the coffee shop because the barista asked if she was due ‘any day now.’”
Mac’s expression doesn’t change. “And I stand by that.”
The corner of Ana’s mouth twitches from the seat beside Shaina. “She did kind of deserve it.”
“She absolutely deserved it,” Mac says.
Kya leans forward as far as her seatbelt allows. “Also, in my defense, those gummy worms were medicinal.”
I stare at her.
She stares back. Then she says, “I was having a hard day.”
Brooke nods solemnly. “That’s fair.”
I close my eyes for one brief second, because I already know I’m outnumbered.
When I open them again, all six of us are looking at each other in the cramped SUV, and I can already feel the laughter building in my chest.
That’s the thing about us.
About this club. About being raised in the middle of all this chaos and somehow ending up with women who feel more like sisters than just friends.
No matter how ridiculous any of them get, no matter how much they complain or cry or threaten bodily harm over dipping sauces and swollen ankles and husbands who breathe too loud, there’s always this undercurrent of safety under it. Familiarity. Belonging.
I’ve known Ana my whole life. Same with Shaina.
Mac and Brooke slid into the women’s side of the club so naturally it feels like they’ve always been here, and Kya sharp edges, sarcasm, and all fits just as hard, even if she’d probably rather die than admit it out loud.
And me?
I fit too.
That should feel comforting. Most of the time it does. Except when it makes certain things harder to escape.
“Everybody good?” I ask.
Kya raises a hand. “No.”
“Why?”
“I’m hungry again.”
“We just ate.”
“That was forty minutes ago.”
Mac lets out a slow breath through her nose. “I’m going to start hitting people.”
Brooke pats Kya’s knee. “I brought snacks.”
Kya immediately lights up. “I love you.”
“Don’t say that like you weren’t threatening to fight me over a granola bar this morning.”
“That was before. I’ve grown since then.”
Shaina laughs from the back. “You are so dramatic.”
Kya points at her without hesitation. “And if you keep talking, I’m naming this baby after your worst ex.”
That sends all of us into laughter so hard I have to lean my forehead against the steering wheel for a second.
This is ridiculous.
I love them so much.
We finally make it inside the store after another ten minutes of everyone getting out, readjusting, grabbing bags, and listening to Logan call Mac twice in the span of four minutes to make sure she made it inside safely.
Mac is over it before she even gets through the door. “If he asks me one more time if I need to sit down,” she mutters, shoving her phone into her purse, “I’m going to tell him yes and then make him stand next to me while I ignore him for an hour.”
“That’s evil,” Brooke says, smiling.
“It’s deserved.”
“Logan means well,” I say.
Mac turns her head and gives me a look so flat I almost laugh again. “That’s the problem. He’s trying so hard to mean well that he’s becoming intolerable.”
Ana snorts.
Kya is already drifting toward a display of baby blankets by the front windows, running her fingers over one of the soft folded stacks with this weird mixture of irritation and tenderness she’s had more and more lately.
Pregnancy softened exactly zero percent of her personality, but it did give her this occasional look that sneaks up on all of us, one where she seems almost startled by how much she loves the tiny person she hasn’t even met yet.
It’s kind of devastating.
Brooke, on the other hand, doesn’t even try to hide it. She’s been soft since the second she found out she was pregnant, all glowy smiles and watery eyes and hand-on-her-belly moments that would probably make Carter cry if he saw half of them.
Mac is just…Mac.
Composed. Sharp. Deadly. And somehow the calmest of all of us even while carrying a baby and actively contemplating murder every time Logan oversteps.
The store itself is cute in an aggressively expensive kind of way.
Everything is white and cream and pale wood, all tiny baby clothes and bassinets and hand-knit blankets that cost more than some of my monthly bills.
There’s a little coffee bar tucked near the front and a soft instrumental playlist humming through hidden speakers, like the whole place was designed specifically to make hormonal women cry and their husbands spend too much money.
So naturally, it’s working.
Brooke is emotional over the newborn socks within six minutes. “I just…” she says, holding up a pair no bigger than her palm. “Look at them.”
“They’re socks,” Mac says.
“They’re tiny socks.”
“They’re still socks.”
Brooke’s bottom lip trembles. “You’re so cold.”
Mac sighs. “I’m literally pregnant too.”
“Yes, but you’re scary while doing it.”
Ana doubles over laughing.
Shaina leans against a rack of little onesies and says, “Honestly, if I got pregnant right now, I think I’d just fake my own death.”
Mac glances at her. “That’s because you’re twenty-two and stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did I stutter?”
I laugh and move around them, grabbing a shopping basket before Brooke can start trying to carry things herself and Carter somehow senses it from three miles away and crashes through the storefront windows in a panic.
We make it through the clothes first, then bottles, then baby monitors, and somewhere between the stroller section and a heated debate over whether wipe warmers are a scam, we end up at the little coffee counter in the front with drinks and pastries spread across one of the tiny café tables.
And that’s where the men get brought up again.
“Dom has been googling symptoms,” Kya says, looking like she’s personally offended by the concept. “He woke me up at two in the morning two nights ago because he read something online about foot swelling.”
Brooke immediately laughs. “No, he did not.”
“He absolutely did. This man shook me awake to ask if my ankles felt ‘puffier than normal.’”
Shaina loses it.
Ana presses both hands over her mouth and still can’t hold it in.
I’m laughing too hard to speak, which means Kya has to keep going through my wheezing.
“And then,” she says, one hand over her chest like she’s reliving a trauma, “he tried to elevate my feet with decorative pillows.”
That does it.
Even Mac laughs at that, a short, surprised sound that makes all of us laugh harder because she doesn’t give those out easily.
Brooke wipes at her eyes. “That is so Dom.”
“He’s become WebMD with tattoos,” Kya says darkly. “I can’t live like this.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” Ana says. “Didn’t you make him drive to three different gas stations because the first two didn’t have the right sour candy?”
Kya lifts her chin. “That was a legitimate need.”
“It was ten-thirty at night.”
“And?”
“It was raining.”
“Then he drove in the rain. Love is sacrifice.”
Mac stirs her iced coffee with enough force to show exactly how she feels about every man currently in her life. “Logan asked me this morning if I needed help putting on my shoes.”
Shaina blinks. “Did you?”
“No.”
Brooke smiles around her straw. “That’s kind of sweet.”
“It’s patronizing.”
“He’s just trying to help.”