Chapter 6
Six
“Wait a sec—” Rue blows her bangs out of her eyes only for them to fall right back. “You got fired for working too much?” She takes a sip of her lunch wine. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“That is pretty impressive,” a man’s voice calls from around the corner.
Nash, Rue’s husband, strolls into Mom’s kitchen wearing a ridiculously patterned button-up shirt—American flags with smiley faces of all things. Between his shirts and her overalls, they are complete eyesores. And they both must be blind because they can’t keep their hands off each other.
He sets a dirty dish in Mom’s old farmhouse sink then pauses behind Rue to rub her shoulders.
Around us, Mom’s familiar kitchen is filled with clutter and life.
Mismatched vases of plant cuttings and basil in a pot on the windowsill.
The cabinets are red, the walls are wallpapered in a blue toile pattern, and the dinged-up wood floors are covered in rugs.
She and Rue run Old Vines, an antique store, and my mother’s house looks like the overflow inventory came here to die.
“First off,” I say, “I didn’t get fired, I’m on sabbatical.”
“Forced,” Rue corrects.
“I didn’t know forced sabbaticals were a thing,” Nash chimes in.
“Because your wife—” I cut my eyes from Rue to Remy, who’s mid-bite of sandwich. “And her sister, couldn’t stop texting me during my meeting.”
“Uh-uh,” Remy says around her food. “Don’t blame this on us. We were keeping you updated about our mother who was having brain surgery that you’re too important for.”
I swallow a tinge of guilt with a sip of my sparkling water. As much as I need wine to cope with these morons, the book Healthy You, Healthy Baby that I read on the flight, said alcohol is off the table until this baby gets here.
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” I snark. “They wanted me to take a break, and I didn’t have a choice, so here I am.”
Their too-loud laughs annoy me.
“Shh!” I hush. “You’ll wake Mom.”
She was already home and in bed by the time my flight landed. Other than peeking in on her, we haven’t talked. The discharge papers said to expect a lot of sleeping—I already knew this from my research—and these two laughing at my collapsing life isn’t going to help.
“Well, since you think this is all so funny, there’s something else you should know.” I do not want to do this. “I’m having a baby.”
Rue says, “What the hell?”
Remy drops the crust of her sandwich on her plate.
And Nash says to Rue, “Told you we aren’t too old.”
When we all gape at him, he pecks Rue on the head and says, “I have to go get the kids.”
The kids, meaning Bennie, his and Rue’s daughter, and Nora and Luke, Remy’s kids, who were with a babysitter all morning while they brought Mom home from the hospital.
“Too old?” I ask Rue when he’s gone. “What the hell does that mean?”
She gives us a sheepish look. “Nash wants a baby.” She spins her glass. “We’re kind of trying.”
“Who cares about that,” Remy says, wide-eyed, staring at my clearly not pregnant midsection. “Who are you pregnant by?”
“I’m not exactly pregnant yet.” I clear my throat and lift my chin. “But I might have been told I don’t have a life outside of work and said that I’m on a path to impregnation via donor.”
“You what?” Rue tables her wine. “You’re getting pregnant by a sperm donor?”
“And?” I snip. “What’s wrong with that? You’re procreating with a man who dresses like Bozo.”
“Do you even want kids?”
“Of course I want kids.” I roll my shoulders. “This wasn’t the way I imagined having them, but people do it all the time.”
Rue barks out a laugh, but Remy looks solemn. “Are you sure about this, Reese? Having a kid for work seems a bit . . . dystopian.”
Remy is a librarian, and all roads always lead to literary references.
“It’s not dystopian, it’s practical. I’m forty. And I don’t have a lot of time for dating. And even though it was maybe a little bit of a lie, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. You two have kids. Remy, you’re a single mom and—”
“I’m not a single mom,” she defends. “Darren just wanted some space.”
“With a yoga teacher,” Rue pipes in.
At this, my jaw drops. “What?”
Remy glares at Rue and she shrugs. “You weren’t going to tell her.”
Remy sighs. “I found Darren at yoga.”
Darren and Remy have been married for nearly twenty years until this summer when he said he wanted space. “Found him how?”
“How the fuck do you think, Reese?” Remy snaps.
If Remy is using the f-word, shit’s gone south. “Oh.”
Remy’s a romantic, and because of this, she won’t outright tell us what’s going on, so Rue and I have to follow the breadcrumbs she gives us.
We know Darren asked for space, which is why she’s “temporarily” renting a place here in Fontain with her two kids and took a “temporary” position as the elementary school librarian.
And now we know he’s been bumping uglies with a yoga teacher.
Darren’s always had a bit of a wandering eye. I’ve never mentioned it, but I’ve seen him blatantly stare at other women more than once. I’ve also seen him check his phone and send messages in a way that he was clearly trying to hide from my sister. Him going to yoga isn’t the least bit shocking.
“Yoga’s for dirty hippies,” I offer. “And I have an appointment in a few weeks.”
Rue bites back a smile. “To have a baby?”
“To research sperm,” I correct. “So I can help repopulate this planet with another specimen of perfection like myself and save all of humanity.”
Rue laughs. “You would have a baby by picking sperm. Bet that thing will come out just as controlling as you. Bet you birth a label maker.”
“It’s called methodical mating,” I defend. “Look what happened when Mom went rogue and got knocked up with you.”
Rue doesn’t take the bait; she knows we all loved her dad. “Tell me, Ree,” she says, “will you swaddle your methodically mated baby with a spreadsheet?”
I throw a wadded-up napkin at her and snort a laugh. “Old bitch.”
She throws the napkin back then takes a sip of her wine. “I’m only two years older than you, and we all know you’re the bitch.”
“You shouldn’t drink alcohol if you’re trying to get pregnant.”
“This?” She downs the rest of her wine and smiles at me, smug. “Being pregnant at the same time as you might be worse than the hemorrhoids I hope you get.”
“What about adopting?” Remy asks. “You have enough money you could give some kid a great life.”
“I don’t want someone else’s kid,” I argue.
“I want it to be mine.” Because I do. I want to feel a baby grow inside me and then see my nose or chin or eyes on its face.
I’m not half-assing starting a family. And I help people in other ways.
I donate thousands of dollars every year to the American Heart Association since Dad died ten years ago, and after Mom’s diagnosis, I wrote a fat check to benign brain tumor research.
My generosity isn’t the point; I want my own baby.
With a grin, I add, “My contribution is creating another me.”
Rue mutters under her breath as a loud knock on the door bangs through the house—I will be hanging up a sign so that doesn’t happen again—then heads to answer it.
The moving company.
Rue eyes the box truck in the driveway. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“That’s me.” I nudge past her to take the clipboard from the man. “I’ll show you where to take it.”
“You hired movers?” she asks.
I scoff. “Of course I hired movers. I’m here for three months. I couldn’t fit all that in a suitcase.”
“But movers?” Rue is incredulous. “How much shit do you have?”
Remy cranes her neck as a man rolls up the back door of the truck. “Is that a Peloton?”
“You think this ass just happens?” I turn to the man. “This way. And make sure you’re quiet.”