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“Little man?” I ask, shaking my head. “We don’t know the sex yet.”
She winks at me. “I know a hard head when I see one,” she says, passing me back the ultrasound photos.
“I just don’t know what to do right now,” I say. “I mean, I need to tell my roommates. I’m sure they won’t love the idea of living with a baby. So then I’ll have to find a place to live, and then I’ll need to find a job, because I lost mine today, and then…” I gulp around a hard lump in my throat. My eyes focused on a green and orange lacquer brooch pinned to her tunic. “I just always swore I wouldn’t be this girl. That I wouldn’t do this to a baby…”
“Sweet girl,” Midge says, lowering her face so that I have to meet hers. You will be a wonderful mother, if that is what you want to be. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” I say, swallowing hard. I’m an out-of-work twenty-six-year-old without a high school diploma, and my most recent job involved slinging drinks at a titty bar. Hardly ideal mom material.
“There are many more twenty-six-year-olds who do this every day around the world. I’m not saying that you should be grateful for what you have, because what you have is shit. But you aren’t alone. You have two sweet roommates who, from what I hear in my comings and goings, love you deeply. You have a kooky upstairs neighbor who will always make you a cup of tea when you need her. And from the looks of it, you have a very handsome gentleman caller who appears to be rehearsing quite the speech in the rain.”
She nods toward the front window, and I move toward it, past her navy-blue velvet sofa with deep green and purple pillows and past the full-size mannequin dressed in what looks to be a Pucci gown.
I do a double take and reach for the fabric. “Is this Pucc—”
“Focus, darling,” she says, pointing to the window.
I do as she says and watch as Derek stands next to his car in the fast-fading light. He’s clutching a pharmacy bag, head down, his mouth moving. My heart squeezes. It’s only after a moment that I realize I’ve pressed my hand against my belly.
“Go hear what he has to say,” she says from the kitchen, where I hear her uncorking a bottle. I thank her for the tea and go downstairs.
It takes Derek a moment before he notices me. His eyes narrow and he looks confused.
“Did you forget your keys? Please don’t tell me you were locked out in this rain.”
“I’m fine,” I say, nodding at Midge’s door. “The neighbor invited me for tea.”
“Oh,” he says, glancing up, and waving. She must be in the window watching him. Then he flinches.
“What?” I ask.
“I, uh,” he says, scratching his head and chuckling. “I think she’s watching out for you.”
CHAPTER15
DEREK
Megan looksaround my loft in the same way Dorothy first took in Oz. I was relieved when she agreed to stay with me for the night. At least until we could be certain her nausea meds would work consistently. And now, I watch as she blinks her icy blue eyes into the bright sun-drenched space, as if trying to commit everything she sees to memory.
“Can I get you a water?” I ask, opening the stainless-steel fridge.
“Yes, please,” she says, approaching the floor-to-ceiling windows along the long expanse of wall between my sofa and bed. “This is a great view.” Her head angles toward the Fremont bridge and Mount St. Helens beyond.
“When it’s clear, you can see Mount Adams and Mount Rainier,” I say, shutting the fridge with my knee. I approach and hand her a bottle of water that must've been in my fridge since I moved in three years ago. I don’t have many guests.
“Thanks,” she says. I nod toward the sofa, and she turns, a little too quickly from the look of it. Her head wobbles and her hand reaches her out to steady herself. I catch her around the waist, holding her up until she finds her center.
“Thanks,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “Not sure what I’ll do when you’re not there to catch me anymore.” She pushes back from me, and I frown.
“Megan.”
“Thanks for, uh—is that my medicine?” She nods at the white paper bag on the kitchen island behind me. She crosses the space and opens it, retrieving a prescription bottle.
“Vitamins?” Her eyebrows furrow.
“They’re the good ones that don’t have iron in them,” I say.
“Oh, sure.” She puts them back in the bag and then examines the other two bottles.
