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I hang up the phone, close my eyes, and return to imagining Beck’s hands are on my hips.
* * *
Rachel popsher head into the office that afternoon and asks if I’ve had lunch. Since Beck and I are back to both pretending the other doesn’t exist, I have not.
“Come on,” she says, waving me out. “My treat.”
I laugh. “I eat for free.”
She grins. “Then I’ll buy the booze.”
We go to the deck where Mary—the new waitress whose crush on Beck irks me to no end—takes our order.
Once Mary leaves, I force myself to ask the polite question I should have asked a while ago. “So, how far along are you?”
“Thirty-two weeks,” she says. An apology rests in her eyes—I guess Beck told her. Or perhaps Caleb told her husband. “It wasn’t planned, but we’re happy.”
I remember that point in my pregnancy. I had the nursery set up in case Hannah came early. By thirty-two weeks, her room was painted and her name was hanging in wooden letters over her crib. Her closet was a sea of tiny onesies and dresses. I’ve never done anything halfway. I jumped in with both feet, never dreaming it could all go wrong.
Mary unceremoniously drops our drinks and a basket of bread on the table and walks away. She appears to like me about as much as I like her.
“If I were Beck, I’d have already fired that girl,” I mutter.
Her eyes twinkle. “Somebody’s jealous, I think.”
“I’m not jealous. But a little tip I learned while getting my MBA wasdon’t hire surly females for customer service positions.”
“I actually meantshewas jealous.” She tilts her head. “So you’ve got an MBA, but you’re doing part-time bookkeeping?”
“Your father is an addict,” I reply. “You, of all people, should understand what that does to your job history. I interview, but no one is willing to give me a shot once they hear the truth. It’s gotten really old.”
Rachel reaches for a roll and tears off a piece, slathering it with butter. “Loads of people in the world have made mistakes, Kate. Not everyone is going to shit all over you for yours. How many interviews have you gone on?”
“Two.”
“Wow,” she says with mock astonishment. “Two? My God, you must beexhaustedfrom all that interviewing. I mean, that must amount to like . . . an hour of your life? I don’t know how you do it.”
I give her the finger and she laughs.
“Go get turned down from a hundred jobs and then come back here and cry to me about how no one will give you a shot. Beck said he thought you’d stopped sending out resumes.”
I frown. Beck doesn’t need to be talking about my job hunt to others. And it’s notentirelytrue. It’s just that the jobs I’m even vaguely interested in seem to have dried up. I could look in San Francisco or LA, but that puts me a lot farther from everything than I’d like.
I guess Ihavetaken my foot off the gas a little bit. “The constant rejection was tiresome. I’m just taking a break.”
“Well, now isn’t the time to be taking a break because you’ve got a damn MBA and you’re working part-time at a bar. Do you know how many times I had to sleep with Gus to get pregnant with this child?”
I cock a brow at her. “Your husband would be flattered by what a hardship you’re making it out to be, and you said you got pregnant by accident.”
She grins. “Yeah, okay, I was just trying to shore up my argument about adversity. But we had to have alotof sex to get pregnant by accident, let me tell you.”
I laugh. She’s the first person I’ve met here who I’dchooseto be friends with, other than Beck.
Mary delivers our lunch with a heavy sigh, but Rachel doesn’t appear to even notice the attitude—she’s one of those women who just assume people like them, orwilllike them upon further acquaintance. I’ve always been the opposite, perhaps because very few people do actually like me upon further acquaintance.
“We’re having a housewarming party Sunday,” she says. “You and Beck should come.”
I poke at my ravioli. It looks dry, which means Mary left it under the heat lamp too long. “We’re not a couple.”
