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“Are you alone?” Bee asks, and there’s a fragile bend to her voice that tells me exactly what she thinks about that.
“It’s broad daylight,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to, you know.”
“I’m just walking into a Freddy’s.”
“What’s a Freddy’s?”
“It’s like a Target. Or a really nice Walmart. But local… sort of.”
The crosswalk signal changes and I walk with the man across Cesar Chavez Boulevard. I hear her sigh in the background, and then there’s a tension.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Bee…”
“Promise you won’t get mad?” she says, her tone hesitant.
“No.”
“Megan!”
“Bee!”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”
“How can I promise I won’t get mad when I—” I stop where I am, stop talking, stop moving. Derek is standing at Hawthorne entrance to Freddy’s, hands in his pockets, serious look on his face.
“I’ll call you back.”
“You promised not to—”
I end the call and stuff my phone in my purse.
“Bee called you?”
He nods.
“You gonna try to stop me?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Would you let me?”
I shake my head.
“Probably not.”
He shrugs. Then he opens the door for me. Something squeezes my chest, tight and secure, and it’s as if it’s like a domino effect. It tightens my throat and activates my pregnancy hormones, and as I walk through the door he’s holding for me, I have to wipe at the tears running down my cheeks.
Fred Meyer is a bustling madhouse, like always. But his hand on the small of my back is like a steady, solid presence that roots me. I slow down and let him apply just a little more pressure.
We approach the Western Union counter and I locate the correct form.
