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Karla winks. “It’s the very same.”
“It looks deceptively innocent.”
“Don’t let it fool you. A woman cannot live by wheat germ and carrot juice alone.” She hands me the cupcake. “Hurry up and snarf that thing down before the food censor gets here and deems it unworthy of his child.”
Grinning sheepishly, I take a tentative bite—and promptly groan like I’m mid-orgasm. “Oh God. This is better than…”
“Sex?”
Some sex, maybe. Not Beck sex.But I keep those thoughts to myself. “I’d commit war crimes for more of these.”
“Lucky for you, you don’t have to.” She pulls another from the cabinet and takes a bite of her own morsel of heaven. “Oh, I should’ve been a baker.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not,” I reassure her. When this bit of cake goodness is gone, she digs into the cabinet to hand me another. “I shouldn’t.”
“You absolutely should. He’s having me buy barley.Barley.Sweetheart, there’s nothing even I can do to barley to make it taste good.” She shakes her head at me. “You know what we should be doing? Finding all his pregnancy nutrition books and switching out the recipes for something with flavor, something that has spices and herbs and a dozen sticks of butter.”
“Ugh. Don’t tempt me. You know what I miss? Fried chicken.”
Eleven herbs and spices. Mashed potatoes with gravy flavored by the cracklings of the chicken. But Beck has struck fried foods from the approved for pregnancy house menus.
“Oh, hell yeah,” she agrees.
“And corndogs.” As soon as I have this baby, I’m going to fly to some state with a county fair and I’m going to get funnel cake and corn dogs and put on ten or fifteen pounds I can call baby weight and work off whenever I damn well please.
“French fries. Fried pickles. Bacon. God, I miss bacon so much.”
She holds up her hand. “Back up. Back up. Back up. Fried pickles?”
“Oh, yes. Deep fried to a golden crispy brown served with a creamy ranch dressing for dipping… Mm. So good. Guilty pleasure snack of choice.”
“Sounds like some guilt I could be interested in conjuring for you.” She pulls out her phone. “I bet I could whip us up some. Let me find a recipe.”
“You sure? The food dictator will smell the fried food.”
“I dare him to fire me. He’ll just hire me back tomorrow.” She shrugs and keeps scrolling. “A-ha! I found it. Give me fifteen minutes.”
I grin and shuffle out. She doesn’t like anyone in her kitchen when she’s cooking and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want anyone looking over my shoulder and she probably gets enough of that from Beck these days.
As I walk out of the kitchen, my phone pings with a message from Beck.
Out with friends. Might be late. You should eat without me. Karla made a spinach salad that you’re going to love.
He’s a liar. First, nobody loves spinach salads. Second, he isn’t out with “friends”; he’s out with Viv. That’s like telling your mom your new boyfriend is a little rough around the edges and then showing up at family Thanksgiving dinner with Charles Manson.
My stomach roils again at the thought of Viv and Beck seated across from each other over a candlelit white tablecloth. Of her laughing and drinking too much wine and touching his hand a little more often than necessary.
I might actually be sick.
I don’t want to think about it anymore, but suddenly, my phone is pinging and tinging and singing a medley of ringtones. A whole avalanche of notifications.
Way back, I set an internet alert for Beck and any mention of his name in any article written. Usually, it’s funny. Goofy paparazzi shots or nerdy sportswriters waxing quixotic about his latest goal-fest.
Tonight, it’s not funny.
Not funny at all.
Tonight, there are pictures of Viv and Beck walking into some swanky nightclub with his hand at the small of her bared back. The headlines are one gut punch after another.
