We escaped back in here after setting up for the shower outside for a quick breather before guests start arriving. It’s an unseasonably warm May day, and the decision to have the baby/bridal shower in the same tent as the wedding made sense financially until now—people are going to be sweltering in there during a midday, peak sun event.
I hug my heating pad to my midsection, trying to give it a few minutes of rest. Liam and I kickstarted a flare with our attempt at being intimate, which is a neat trick I’m super happy to have discovered right before I had a million things to do. The usual welcomed heat itches in the accompanying humidity, but endo’s going to endo, hot or not, so I fan away the beads of sweat on my face and accept my fate.
My mother’s back upstairs fixing her hair because what should have been a demure loose curl is now thoroughly wrecked with the morning sweat. She encouraged me to try an updo, too, in the weirdest passive suggestion that’s ever left her lips. I agreed in my own Evie way, piling my curls on the top of my head when she probably meant for me to style it in a chignon or something like that.
A lightning pain streaks through my thigh and calf, and I inhale sharply. Sciatica flare. Oh. Yay. I massage the back of my leg with my fist.
“You okay?” Clare nods at my knuckles digging into a knot.
“Just some sciatic pain. Not a big deal.”
“Ugh. I know exactly how you feel. I had a bout of it during my second trimester, and it’s just the worst.”
I smile tight. I firmly believe I shouldn’t judge another person’s pain or pain tolerance because I don’t want to diminish anyone’s plight. It’s all valid. But sometimes, I wish that in validating other people’s pain, I didn’t feel like I was diminishing my own. I understand sciatic pain is something that pregnant people experience. I understand it’s incredibly painful. I even understand that my pain cannot eradicate theirs; they both exist. But when Clare says she knowsexactlyhow I feel, I can’t help but get the sense that it’s misplaced empathy. People don’t have to connect or commiserate to show kindness and compassion. Sometimes it’s better if it’s clear they can’t relate.
Because Clare can’t relate. Not entirely, anyway. And honestly, I love that for her. And her trying to connect means that my own reality is not being acknowledged. I’m in pain because I have lesions growing in my body wherever they damn well please. I’m in pain because when they shed themselves like they’re having a period, I bleed internally and build up scar tissue that adheres my ligaments and organs to each other and to my sidewall over time. That’s it. There’s no nine-month countdown to relief. No baby-shaped reason behind it. My contractions don’t come with a purpose either. It’s all pointless pain.
A small hand falls to my forearm, waking me from my deep spiral. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Clare smiles bashfully at me.
“It’s fine.” I wave her off.
“Please, I can tell by how you bit the inside of your cheek that it wasn’t. And that’s fair because it was a stupid thing to say on a day that’s probably already stressful for you.” She grabs my arm, huddling into it. “But I love you, and I missed you, and I’m so happy you’re here and snuggable when I fuck up because Josh says it’s harder to stay mad at me this way.”
“Absolutely. It’d be like being mad at a teddy bear.” I kiss the top of her head, letting it rest on my shoulder, and breathe through a few more spasms and lightning streaks. “Why don’t you try some of the treats I made? I plated those for you.” I nod to the coffee table, where I set a plate of miniature pastries and petits fours. I spent the last day and a half perfecting them with a pretty hot sous chef, and I’m rather proud of how they turned out. The menu was my only contribution to the shower planning. Clare handled invites, decorations, games, etc. But hell, I nailed that menu.
“Oh my word, Evie, these are delicious.” Clare moans, picking at the laminated flakes of my miniature pain au chocolats. “What did you use for the chocolate inside?”
“I panicked with my limited options and froze some truffle balls before putting them in there to see what would happen.”
“Good. Freakin’. Call. I love your experiments.” Clare takes another bite. Her head tilts up, and she closes her eyes, savoring it.
My heart flips as I watch her enjoy my food. Usually when I bake at home, it’s just for me, myself, and I, and the occasional stoic “Oh yeah, this is nice” Maria, but it’s a rush to see someone genuinely enjoy the moment the pastry melts away on their taste buds.
I did that. I made that moment.
A camera flashes to the left of us. I blink back the dots now spotting my vision, and Liam comes into focus with a tiny guilty smile.
“Seriously, bro, that couldn’t have been flattering for either of us.” Clare groans, eyes closed.
Liam glances innocently at his viewfinder. “You said to take pictures of the event.”
“Yeah, like the tent, and the flowers, and the food, and people when they get here—not me with my eyes closed, swollen ankles out, stuffing my face.”
“But you’ve got a cute chocolate soul patch going on.” I giggle.
“Which I should go wash off.” Clare swings her legs off the ottoman, pushing off the couch. She squares her shoulders, sizing up her five-two figure against Liam’s six-four one. She may be a foot shorter, but at the rate he’s shrinking into himself, that might not be the case for long. “There will be serious consequences if any pictures of me stuffing my face today surface. I haven’t had an Evie pastry in years, and I will not feel guilty about how many miniature items I’m about to consume. Understood?”
He sticks his hands up in surrender, worry creasing his brows. “I swear, I won’t take any pictures of you eating.”
“Good.” Clare nods, satisfied. “I have to check with Josh and see where he is with the balloons anyway. Go snuggle your Peach and get her to relax before the day from hell starts.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Liam says with a lopsided grin.
“Again, you’re welcome,” Clare hollers down the hallway.
Half joking, I shift to the left side of the couch. Liam and I have shared this couch hundreds of times, but there was always a dance to it. Especially on movie night, a tradition we both stubbornly kept even after Nana passed and Caleb left for college. The left cushion was mine. His the right. Snacks in the middle.
“Hey there, Peaches.” He settles into his spot, leaving his arm lounging on the top of the sofa like he always did.
