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I hurry down the hall and out the double doors into the crisp, early, April air. I inhale a breath before running to my car. I drop my keys before I can unlock the door and let out a loud string of curses. A guy from Group glares at me for my foul language before he heads off toward the building. I’m tempted to give him the finger, just to spite him, but I don’t have time. I swipe up the keys and get in my car.
When I back out, I see Ryder come out of the building. His black hair is blown away from his forehead by the wind and he waves his arms, begging me to stop, but I don’t.
I leave. I have to. Before I do something I’ll regret. Or worse, something I won’t regret.
The day after running out on Group I’m mopeyer than usual. I’m so angry with myself for my irrational feelings. It was a fluke, I tell myself. Nothing and you made it into something.
I stir my cereal around and around the bowl, my spoon clanking against the side of the glass bowl.
“Kid,” my dad speaks from behind his newspaper, “if you don’t stop that I’m going to steal the spoon from your hand and throw it across the room.”
“You’re so nice,” I tell him, but I stop stirring. “I’m not very hungry.”
“You’re growing a human. You’re starving. Eat.”
“You’re bossy.” I glare at him, but he can’t see since he’s behind the newspaper. He laughs, but quickly turns it into a cough like he can feel the heat from my stare.
“So your mom tells me.” He reaches over and grabs his cup of coffee. It disappears behind the newspaper before being placed back on the table. “You need to eat, you’re growing a human and that has to be exhausting. Your mom was a bitch the whole time she was pregnant with you.”
“I heard that,” my mom says, coming out of the downstairs bedroom. Her hair is damp from a shower. “Your dad’s right, though. You need to eat.”
“What is it with you and food?” I mutter, staring down into the milky depths of my cereal bowl, like I’m waiting for a fortune to appear or something equally as ridiculous.
“Food equals life, Kid. Therefore, you must eat to live.” My dad lowers the paper slightly so I see his eyes.
I make a face and he quickly raises the pages back up.
“Maybe you’d like a sandwich?” my mom asks. “Oatmeal? Toast?”
“Eh.” I shrug and lift the spoon of soggy cereal to my mouth. “I’ll stick with this.”
“That’s hardly enough for the baby,” she argues.
I lift my eyes to hers as she leans a hip against the table. “This is good,” I tell her.
She sighs and moves away. “Suit yourself,” she says.
“Hey, Mom?” I call after her while she pours herself a cup of coffee.
“Yes?” She turns back around, raising a brow.
“I was thinking we could go to the mall today. Look at some baby things. It’s too early to buy anything—” I shrug “—but I thought it’d be fun to look.”
She instantly brightens and nods eagerly. “Sounds like fun. I’ll get ready. Dan, do you want to go?” she asks my dad. He grunts. My mom smiles at me and squeezes my shoulder as she passes. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”
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nbsp; I take a shower and blow-dry my hair before curling it. This is the first time I’ve styled my hair for myself and not because I’m meeting a client. I even put on more than a minimal amount of makeup. I swipe some red lipstick on and I automatically feel like I can conquer the world. I dress nicely too, in a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a plum-colored turtle-neck sweater. I even add some jewelry. It’s the most effort I’ve put into myself since I lost Ben. Since he died I haven’t seen the point in dressing up and looking nice. It seemed trivial. But today, I wanted to, and I actually feel better.
I grab my purse and head downstairs where my parents are already waiting.
“Oh, Blaire,” my mom breathes and begins to cry. “You look so pretty.”
It says a lot that the sight of me dressed nicely, with hair done and makeup on, makes my mom cry.
“Mom.” I drop my purse to the floor and go to hug her. “Please don’t cry.”
“I’m just so happy to see you looking like yourself.” She sniffles against my shirt.
