“I love this place.” Laurel vibrates with excitement, picking up a plain white piece of pottery. “What do you think of this?” She holds up the small flower-shaped plate.
“Solid choice.”
“Mmm.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure. Maybe this?” Now she holds up a sculpted octopus.
I brought her to one of those pottery places where you paint already-made pieces and they fire them for you to pick up later. I want to tell her about the baby and wasn’t sure about doing it over lunch. It’s been a while since we’ve come here, so I thought this might be a good idea.
“Looks a bit complicated.” I pick up a geometric owl. I should probably stick to something simple, like a plate, but I find myself thinking about painting something for my baby. Something I could put in their nursery, and maybe it would even be a keepsake they could pass down.
I’m getting ahead of myself, but I find it almost comforting to think about the future. Like deep down something inside me knows it’s all going to be okay.
“Ugh.” She stares at the octopus a moment longer. “You’re right. We’d be here all day if I painted that.” She moves away from me, scanning another shelf.
I put the owl back, and in the process, something else catches my eye. I pick the item up. It’s a tad smaller than the length of my hand and about four inches tall. I should put it back, but for some reason, my hand closes around it, holding on.
“Is that what you’re going to do?” Laurel nods to the item in my hand. She’s holding a small unicorn-shaped piggy bank. It’s such a random choice but somehow perfectly Laurel at the same time.
I stare at the bumblebee, realizing I don’t want to part with it. “Yeah. It’s cute.”
We set our finds down on a table, then grab our paint colors and brushes.
“This is so fun.” Laurel pulls her hair back in a ponytail, no doubt remembering the last time, when she got a chunk of black paint in her hair. “It’s been way too long since we’ve done this.” It really has. It’s been difficult for us to find time to hang out outside the apartment lately. “I’m really glad you suggested this.”
My breath is caught in my lungs. The whole point of this is to tell her I’m pregnant, but now that we’re here, I’m terrified. Not that I think Laurel would be mad, or judge me; if anything she’ll be excited. But bringing this outside the bubble where only Beckham and I know makes it that much more real.
I dip my brush in the pastel yellow. I chose a lighter yellow and gray instead of black, thinking it would be more neutral for a nursery. It’s hard to believe I’m thinking about a nursery already. But I find myself contemplating all the things I’ll need to take care of before the baby comes.
“I thought it would be fun,” I finally answer her, concentrating on adding yellow to the stripes.
“Maybe we should go get drinks after this? We’ll probably still have time to hit brunch somewhere.”
“Um . . .” I bite my lip nervously. “Sure, yeah, maybe.”
Laurel sets down her paintbrush, eyeing me with an arched brow. “You’re weird today.”
My hand freezes in midair. “What do you mean?”
Her nose crinkles in thought. “I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but you seem cagey. In fact”—she frowns, her brows furrowing together—“you’ve been off the past few weeks.”
I should’ve known there was no way all my behavior would go unnoticed.
Fingers trembling, I set the paintbrush down. “There is something I need to talk to you about.”
Laurel pales. “Don’t tell me you’re moving out. If you leave, your parents might sell the place.”
“What?” I blink at her. “It’s not that.”
“Oh.” She relaxes, looking utterly relieved. “What is it then?”
Tell her. Rip it off like a Band-Aid and do it.
“Wow, I didn’t expect this to be so hard.” I rub my hands together, but the sound of my dry palms is nearly the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard to my ears, so I stop immediately.
Worry returns to her eyes. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Like healthwise—everything is all right?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Actually, there’s a tiny health thing—not bad,” I rush to reassure her, “but . . . it’s a thing.”
“Lennon,” she pleads, reaching to place her hand on top of mine, “you can tell me anything.”
“It appears I picked up a hitchhiker from Chicago?” I don’t know why it comes out sounding like a question. I squint, gauging her reaction.
Her brows knit in confusion. “Huh?”
“I’m pregnant.”
The gasp that comes from her draws the attention of the group of older ladies on the other side of the room.
“You’re pregnant?” she whisper-hisses. “I knew it!”
I gape at her. “You knew?”
“I mean, I wondered.” She lets go of my hand, resting her elbow on the table. “Our cycles are in sync, and I noticed your tampon wrappers weren’t in the trash.” I never thought about that, but since we use different brands, the wrappers are different colors. “You’ve also had a lot of food aversions. You made me throw away a perfectly good sub last week. The salami was not bad.” She points an accusatory finger at me with a laugh.
“A baby, Lennon. You’re going to be a mom.” Her hands smack to her cheeks. “And that means I’m going to be an auntie. Oh my God, we’re going shopping after this, forget brunch, unless you’re hungry? I’ve got to keep you fed since you’re growing my future best friend. Wait.”
She frowns, a contemplative look falling on her face. “We promised we’d wait to have kids together. This is a betrayal.”
“Sorry”—I point to my stomach—“the hitchhiker didn’t get the memo.”
She sighs playfully. “Oh well. Next time, then.” She waves a dismissive hand.
My eyes widen in horror. I’ve barely wrapped my head around one baby, let alone thought about giving them a sibling in the future.
“Let’s slow it down,” I plead with her, both of us resuming our projects.
“How did Beckham handle it? Have you told him yet?”
“He knows, and surprisingly well to be honest. I have to give him credit there.”
“Hmm.” She hums, her tongue sticking out slightly as she adds pink to her unicorn’s mane. “He lives to see another day then. How far along are you?”
She starts counting on her fingers, but I answer her anyway.
“Seven weeks now. It’s all so weird to me how they calculate it.”
“Have you thought about names?”
“Laurel.” I laugh, fanning my face because she’s making me have a hot flash from the stress of all these questions. “I’m still coming to terms with this, let alone thinking about names.”
“I’ll get you a baby name book,” she vows, seemingly unbothered by the freak-out she’s giving me. “Whatever you do, don’t give the kid a boring name, but nothing too trendy either. There was a woman at Sephora the other day with the cutest baby ever, and I asked her what this child’s name was. Do you know what she said?”
“Um . . . no?”
“Peanut—this kid’s name was Peanut. I said it was a cute nickname, and she was sure to clarify that it was this child’s legal name. I swear to God, these people are naming babies but not thinking about how that will sound as an adult. That little boy is going to have to introduce himself as Peanut. The horror.”
I bite my lip to hold in laughter. “That is pretty bad.”
“Oh my God!” She practically leaps out of her chair. “Please tell me this means I can plan the baby shower. Your mom will make it beyond ostentatious, and we both know that isn’t exactly your thing.”
I frown at the thought of my mother organizing a baby shower. It would end up not only over the top but all about her and her friends. “You can have baby shower duties.”
I’m sure Laurel would do something nice. Simple. It would be me.
Laurel claps her hands excitedly, earning curious glances from the group of old ladies. At least they don’t seem perturbed. “Have you told your parents yet?”
I stifle a laugh. “God no. I don’t plan on saying anything until I’m further along. At least out of the first trimester.”
“Good. No offense, but your parents are crazy.”
Laurel might come from the same world as me, but her family isn’t nearly as strict or pretentious as mine.
“Believe me, I know.”
I focus on painting my bumblebee for as long as I can before Laurel comes up with a new onslaught of questions.
She’s been quiet for five minutes max when she asks, “Does it feel weird? Being pregnant? Like, do you feel any different?”
“It’s weird in the sense that there’s a person growing inside me. And as far as how I feel, just sick. Today’s been the best day I’ve had in weeks.”
“I hope you know I’m here for you. Whatever you need. Late-night craving runs, some ginger ale and saltines, I’m your girl. I’m prepared to Sister Wives this shit.”
I blame my out-of-whack hormones for the fact that I burst into tears. “Thank you.” I shuffle things around in my purse, looking for a tissue. Locating one, I dry my eyes before I have mascara halfway down my face.
“Stop crying.” She fans her face. “You’re going to make me cry too.”
“I’m sorry.” My bottom lip trembles. “I can’t help it. I’m hormonal.”
Somehow, we manage to get ourselves together and focus on finishing up our pottery. As nervous as I was to tell Laurel, I’m glad it’s out of the way. It feels good having her know, like I’m not so alone.
“So,” she says, looping her arm through mine as we walk out of the shop, “can we go baby shopping?”
Excitement bubbles in my chest. I think it’s the first time I’ve actually felt excited and not worried or scared about this. “Yes,” I practically shriek.
Laurel grins, and I think somehow, she knew this would be what I needed.
