28
CLARA
The mall smells like a manufactured holiday. The scents of toasted almond, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla, warm pretzels, and expensive perfume fill the air. Kids scream and laugh in the indoor playground while the mall Santa holds court nearby, with his elves and fake reindeer, giant ornaments, and presents lining the pathway to him. Flashes go off repeatedly for pictures, an odd accompaniment to the twinkle lights. The mall is decorated for the Christmas holiday everywhere you look.
I can’t help but watch the kids, their parents waving at them while they sit on Santa’s lap, elves shaking a toy so the babies will smile.
“Do you think that’s goingto beme someday?” I ask Emily.
She’s looking at her perfectly manicured nails, a bit bored.
“Are you kidding? You think a billionaire is going to bring his kid to see some mall Santa with fake plastic reindeer and creepy-looking elves? He’s going to hire some guy who could very well be Santa himself, have live reindeer brought in, a real sleigh, and probably order a snow machine to create snow if there isn’t any.Never mind the couture outfits you guys are going to wear for the pictures.”
I frown at her. “You know what I mean.”
Em huffs a laugh and peers over the railing, taking in the scene. “I don’t know, C. You don’t seem the perfect-family-photo type. And what are you going to say on the Christmas card? ‘Happy Holidays from the Mob Family?’”
“Oh my God, Em!” I whip around and shush her, hoping no one nearby heard what just came out of her mouth.
But she only grins. “Oh, come on. Everyone’s too wrapped up in themselves to listen, much less care. And who’s going to believe it, anyway?” Emily shrugs and waves a hand to dismiss my worries, then tugs on my arm.
“Come on. We’re here for me. I’m the bride, not you. Not yet, anyway.”
I let her drag me away, holding the large Victoria’s Secret bag and thinking about the irony of the name, because nothing about my life right now is a secret; everything feels exposed. “Is that why you made me buy all this lingerie?”
“You need it for your maid of honor dress,” she says over her shoulder. “That, and if you’re going to be with you-know-who, you might as well wear something you’ll both enjoy.”
I watch Emily as she walks a few steps ahead of me. She’s wearing a loose, olive-green silk blouse that hides the white bandage on her shoulder. Whenever I see the slightest hesitation in her movement, the relentless, suffocating guilt tightens around my chest like a vise.
“Are you sure you need seven swimsuits for eight days?” I ask, a playful tone to my voice.
Emily spins around and walks backward, flashing me that blindingly perfect smile that lands her pretty much whatever she wants, including Michael. “It’s Bali, Clara. OfcourseI need seven bathing suits.” She checks her watch, then gestures to a brightly lit sunglass kiosk, the bags on her arms waving. “Come on, I need some new sunglasses, too.”
We laugh as we drift toward the kiosk, but I don’t miss the way her eyes flicker to the people around us, a new habit since the incident. She tries to hide it just like I do, but it’s only a thin veneer covering the anxiety.
“What about these?” I ask, examining a pair of oversized black frames. They hide half my face when I put them on, and I consider buying them just for the anonymity they’ll provide.
“They look like they should be a gag gift,” she snorts.
“Hey!” It’s a good-natured protest, but I realize she’s right, as I give myself another glance in the mirror.
Emily buys two pairs because, she says, “It’s my honeymoon.”
I walk away with none.
We stop at two more stores before finding a café. All I care about is a warm coffee that doesn’t taste like someone melted a candy cane in it, and getting off my feet.
Although I’m barely showing, Idefinitely feelpregnant with the crazy roller coaster of hormones, exhaustion, and all of the other fun things. Sitting down is a profound relief.
At least the morning sickness has finally stopped. Now I only feel nauseous, and even that is starting to wane.
Emily comes back and pushes a cup at me, raising her own to her lips, which come away covered in white foam before she rubs it off with a napkin.
“Okay, you’re quiet. What’s going on?”
“I’m pregnant, tired, and my feet hurt. What else do you think is going on?” I mumble, sipping at my coffee.
“Hit me with it, Clara.” Emily’s gaze is serious, the smile gone. She’s back in best friend mode, ready to listen or drag it out of me.
