AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What about it?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” I pointedly stare at the wall clock mounted behind the counter that’s reading 9.30p.m. “But your hours aren’t exactly motherhood friendly. Especially single motherhood.”
“Shonda will cover for me. I covered for her when she had Lo, and now that her daughter is three, she’s back on full-time.”
Shonda is her CEO. They’re the team at the top.
“Okay.” I finally let myself get infected by her enthusiasm. “Guess I’ll be an aunt soon, then.”
Marissa hops off her stool and pulls me into a tight hug.
When she lets go, I ask more questions. “Do you already have a clinic?”
“Yep, the best in the city.”
“Have you chosen a donor?”
“No, I still have a few months.”
“Months? How long does it take to get pregnant?”
“I have to do some preliminary tests first, check that everything is in order down there.” She points at her nether regions. “Then the clinic wants me to meet with a psychologist to make sure I’ve truly considered the physical stress and emotional impact motherhood will have on my life.”
“They’re very thorough,” I say between bites.
“Told yah, they’re the best. And even when all that is taken care of, they prefer for their clients to sit on the decision for a couple of extra weeks before taking the plunge.”
I smirk. They don’t know who they’re dealing with. Once Marissa sets her sights on a goal, she’s relentless. If she says she wants to have a baby, she’ll be pregnant by the end of the year.
The restaurant is slowly emptying, and with no new customers to serve, my dad comes back to talk to us.
“How’s everything, girls?”
“Spectacular as always, Joe,” Marissa says, then turning to me, she adds, “I’m going to miss prosciutto.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Pregnant women can’t eat curated meat,” she explains.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Who’s pregnant?”
“No one, Dad,” I reassure him.
“Oh, okay. By the way, Blake, a friend of yours came by at lunch.”
I can’t help but perk up on my stool and notice how Marissa’s eyes narrow at the gesture.
“Really?” I ask in a voice too shrill to pass for casual. “Who?”
“Nice fella, tall, elegant, handsome…”
The profile matches MGM to a T, even if I’m not positive about the nice part.
“Gabriel,” my dad continues. “You know him?”
“Sort of,” I say noncommittally. “What did you talk about?”
Dad shrugs. “He asked me a few questions about you, had a pie, and then left.”
