Not waiting for an invitation, or giving her a chance to change her mind about letting me be in her space, I pick up my backpack and yank out some books. She hasn’t left me much space to work with on the table, but I’ll make do. I mean, of course she hasn't, because she didn't invite me to the table in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there.
Making do has been my MO since two lines popped up on the fourth pregnancy test, cementing the fact that the “pregnant,” the smiley faces, and the extra lines were all accurate, and I was, in fact, pregnant.
Her stare is heavy on me when I jam a pen between my teeth as I flick through my notebook. I want to launch into conversation. Ask her about her hair color, why she chose pink over every other color out there. I want to be incredibly rude and ask about her scar, what degree she’s working on, if she has any secret children lying around that could be besties with my Wyatt. But I chew on the fucking pen so I don’t scare my new best friend away.
It doesn’t last long. A need to break the silence crawls overme. I want to get to know this chick, and to do that, I’ve got to lure her in with the hot chocolate. “You’re empty. You want a drink or something?” I hook my thumb over my shoulder toward Jake the barista.
Yes. I know them all by name. A lot of my time is spent here in Bitches Brew. “I’m going to get something. Full disclosure: possibly more than one something. Spoiler alert:definitelymore than one something. Have you tried their hot chocolate? It’s orgasmic.”
It’s part sarcasm, part hiding the fact I’ve been watching her for days. She’s not going to turn down her favorite drink.
“I love their hot chocolate. I’ve already had one though. I should switch to tea.”
“You only live once. Have the second hot chocolate if you want it.” I pat my tummy. “This chunky girl doesn’t judge.”
After a long pause, like she’s evaluating her decision, she nods. “Okay. I’ll take another.”
“Something you’re going to learn pretty quickly about me, Eloise, is that I’m an enabler.” Dropping my voice to a whisper, I give her an exaggerated wink. “So, if you ever need to be talked into something, I’m your gal.”
When I’m halfway to the counter with my wallet, I stop in my tracks and turn back to her. “No allergies, right? If I get something with nuts in it, I won’t find myself having to dig through your bag for an Epipen or anything?”
“No allergies.”
Allergies are no fucking joke. Wyatt’s daycare has a boy named Arthur who’s allergic to both eggs and nuts. I don’t know how his parents do it. I’d stick him in a plastic bubble and never let him outside the house.
I’m enough of a helicopter with Wyatt as it is without having to read every single food label for the rest of his life. Eating out must be a nightmare too. Those parents are the real heroes.
Just as well Wyatt has no allergies as his favorite foods are dirt, months-old McDonalds fries from the depths of his car seat, and Mom’s cat food.
A couple minutes later, I turn back to the table with overflowing mugs of buttery hot chocolate, and my stomach falls through the floor. My new best friend is making eyes at the hockey god goaltender.
The de la Peñas are famous in our school. The hockey playing twins, the prodigy younger brother goaltender, the boss bitch older sister, rich parents… It’s like something out of a movie. Please don’t let my new bestie be a hockey fan. Please.
I send up a quick prayer. You can never be too cautious when it comes to the influence of the big man upstairs.
I’ve very carefully avoided all things hockey, including players, since my ex. And I’ve very carefully avoided all potential, dateable, real-life-penises since the night I conceived Wyatt. Fine, not all, just most.
I fuck around sometimes. Not often, but every now and then I hook up with someone from a dating app for a quickie. A girl’s got needs. Needs a battery operated boyfriend can’t meet. They just can’t successfully recreate a human tongue in toy form.
But I never date the same guy more than once, and I never give out my real name. Even though I have PCOS, I’m on the pill, and insist he wears protection. His toy soldier can’t come anywhere near my vagina if it ain’t gloved.
Lightning won’t strike twice in this one night stand space. It’s highly unlikely to conceive while having PCOS and on the pill, but it’s not impossible. It’s a freak occurrence that’s already shifted the trajectory of my life once before.
I also don’t have time to devote to a man-child, or an asshole, or worse, a man I might fall in love with.
I have a man in my life. He’s a two-and-a-half year old tornado who loves cars, trucks, andPaw Patrol. That littlefucker Ryder gets on my nerves every damn day of the week. But Wyatt adores him and his pack of dogs.
“Why are we staring at Ares de la Peña like he hung the moon?” I manage not to spill hot cocoa over the sides of the ginormous mugs as I place them on the table.
Eloise doesn’t answer.
“I can see you behind that shield of pink hair. I know exactly who you’re staring at.” I’m trying not to judge. Just because I had a shitty experience with my hockey-playing, asshole ex doesn’t mean everyone else in the world will too.
I’m sure there are some half-decent hockey players out there. Heck, maybe even mostly decent. Loki wasn’t a hockey player, and he still turned out to be a ghosting prick.
Flicking a glance toward Ares—who’s leaning so far back on his chair I hope gravity comes for him so I can get a good laugh at him falling on his ass—I question whether he’s an asshole or not.
I’ve heard stories. And if he fell on his butt I wouldn’t be mad. Not like, hurt himself fall. But just a small fall, like, enough to take some of the ego out of his sails.
