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I raise my eyebrows as she gives me a meaningful nod.
“But of course, it was worth it. Fuck, I loved that dress.”
“I see,” I say, taking in the picture again. She does look young there, but I can see so much of her still. Despite the eyelash extensions and enhanced eyebrows, she looks like she’s aged naturally.
“You’re Megan?” she asks, passing me a pink teacup with gold trim around the lip. It’s fun and elegant, but not fussy.
“Yes,” I say, surprised she knows my name.
“Margaret,” she says quickly. “Just call me Midge.”
“Midge,” I say with a smile. “It suits you.”
She tilts her head and looks at me funny, and then lets out a throaty laugh.
“Yes, I suppose it does. I’ve never thought of it like that.” She nods toward a small navy Moorish-style table with two rattan chairs, and I sit across from her. The tea smells of mint and honey.
“So, your life is going to change pretty soon?” She doesn’t beat around the bush, doesn’t avert her eyes as she takes a deep sip of her tea. When she lowers it, the steam drifts in my direction and I smell something floral and pungent.
“Figured you wouldn’t want brandy in yours,” she says with a smirk.
I nod and take another deep inhale of my tea. It’s soothing and comforting and for the first time in days—no, weeks—I don’t feel ill.
“I just found out,” I say, not sure that there’s much more to say.
“I assume tall, dark, and dangerous from the sidewalk is the guy?” She pauses with a cocked eyebrow for confirmation, and I nod. “He in the picture?”
I let out a shaky breath.
“I don’t know. I think so?”
“Hmm.”
“I thought maybe something was happening, maybe there was…” I trail off, because the word I was about to say waspotential for something more. But those words feel like blades sticking in my throat, and I look down at my tea.
“It feels like every chance I had to make something with him just flew out the window.”
“That’s not exactly how this works,” she says with a wry smirk. “You know, babies can make men run, but they can also bring them to their knees.”
“I don’t want that,” I say.
“Sometimes, darling, we don’t get what we want. We get what we need.”
“Are you going to tell me you helped Mick Jagger write that one?”
She snorts and shakes her head. “No, love. But I did whisper a little something in Keith Richards’s ear once that… oh, never mind. A story for another time.”
I laugh and shake my head. Eager to ask her for the details, but she lifts a finger and gives me a look, and I know she’ll tell me, just not now.
“What does he say about it?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to remember what, if anything, he did say.
Everything happened so fast. I woke up, and then they wheeled in the ultrasound machine and he walked in with coffee. Before I could make sense of any of it, we realized that we’d made a baby in Seattle and he’s been quiet since.
I tell Midge all of this, not because I intend to, but because she’s easy to talk to. She asks for a few details that make me blush, and she squeezes my hand when I tell her about my expired birth control. And in the end, she stands and gives me a long hug.
“The thing about babies,” she says, shaking her head dismissively. “Not that I was ever lucky enough to be a mother”—she refocuses and continues, holding me by the shoulders—“is that they need very little at first. It’s a steep, but gradual learning curve. So there’s really no rush to things. And right now, all that little man needs is for you to take care of you so that you can take care of him.”
