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I pressed end on Cricket’s phone and breathed a sigh of relief.
Bags in hand, I followed Cricket back to the truck and stuck the purchases behind the driver’s seat on the floor.
“Should we go up?” Cricket asked.
“Yeah, we’ll see where she’s at.”
I climbed the stairs behind Cricket, her amazing backside at eye level. I almost groaned. We walked into the doctor’s office.
“Hey, Perdi, is she ready?”
The beehive receptionist stood and took Cricket’s hand. “Not yet, but I think the baby is just fine.” We both breathed out whatever pent-up stress we were carrying. “How are you?” Perdi asked, her eyes narrowed in that pitying expression people always adopted when they just found out you fell into a big pile of shit or, I guess, cow dung in Cricket’s case.
“I’m fine,” Cricket said, sliding her hand out of Perdi’s. She looked up at me and I furrowed my brows.
“What’s she talking about?” I asked when Perdi went to check on Bridget.
I was so relieved to hear that my little niece or nephew was fine, but the way Perdi acted sent huge red flags in the air.
“Oh, nothing, she’s just nosy.”
My gaze fixed on Cricket. She was fidgeting and noticed I was watching her. She walked to the little sitting room area and plopped down onto a wooden bench, unfolding a magazine so outdated, the cover’s model had decidedly crimped hair and a bright yellow baggy sweatshirt and headband.
I sat down next to her. Her arm touched mine, and that made my hands tremble a little. I played with fire by leaning into her and pretending to take in her magazine. “Think Reagan will get re-elected?” I asked. She grinned her clever little smirk and my heart began to thump in my throat. “Did you see that episode of Punky Brewster last night? Soleil Moon Frye is the bomb.” More grinning.
You should stop, fool. This is borderline flirting.
“Don’t watch a lot of television, but I do like films,” she played along. “More of a Brat Packer myself.”
“Molly or Ally?” I asked.
“Molly. Although, Ally was pretty rad in The Breakfast Club.”
“Yeah, she had a whole who-gives-a-shit-about-what-you-think vibe. Like, I’m gonna toss my pimento loaf onto the top of this weird-ass modern sculpture then pound down this Pixy Stix-Cap’n Crunch sandwich and what are you gonna do about it?”
Cricket laughed, genuinely laughed. Loud. It caught me off guard but after a second, I became painfully aware of how amazing it was, how her whole face lit up, how her whole body shook. I was mesmerized by her.
A few minutes passed in silence then Cricket did something that made me crush so hard on her, I felt like I was going to crumble at her feet. She started whistling the theme to The Bridge on the River Kwai. It wasn’t long before I joined in, but we didn’t get to finish because Bridge finally emerged, looking a little green in the face, but otherwise intact.
I stood. “You okay?” I asked her.
“I’m fine, the baby’s fine. I’m due June twenty-third.”
“Congrats, Bridge,” I said, hugging her.
She hugged back. “Thanks, Spence.” She breathed deeply. “Pretty scared though.”
“Well, it’s a scary thing.”
Cricket hugged Bridge when I let go. “I’m so glad to hear the baby’s okay,” she said.
“Thank you,” Bridge answered. “You guys want to see the sonogram?”
She held out the glossy photo and I saw this tiny little peanut. Cricket aww’d and I just stood there absorbing the little thing, feeling proud and overwhelmed.
“Is this the head?” I asked her.
“No, that’s its rear end,” she laughed. “That’s its head.”
