“Excuse me?”
“My baby is a girl. I haven’t even told my husband. He said he wanted it to be a surprise. But I had an ultrasound. I couldn’t stand not knowing.” Sarah has big, beautiful eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“I don’t either,” Shelby says.
They both laugh, then Sarah begins to cry. “It must be hormones,” she says. She fishes a tissue out of her pocket. “Sometimes I can’t tell my husband anything. I feel like he’s judging me and weighing his response.” She blows her nose. “I just want someone to be happy when I announce the news.”
“I’m happy,” Shelby says. “I’m glad you’re having a girl.”
Sarah throws her a grateful look. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Shelby says.
They are walking through the grass, off the path, following the dogs. Harper told Shelby that he definitely would not be with Sarah after the first of the year. He said so last Monday, when they were having Chinese food at his desk. Orange-flavored beef, chicken in plum sauce, mushrooms and broccoli.
The dogs have grown tired. Sarah clips on the pit bulls’ leads. Shelby does the same with Pablo and the General, but Blinkie is still wandering around.
“Do you mind holding them?” she asks Sarah. Shelby ambles across the grass. She could grab Blinkie and run, leaving Sarah holding on to the leashes. When Harper came home, there her dogs would be and then he’d know that she understood that he’s a liar. But when it comes down to it, her dogs are more important to her than Harper is. That should tell her something.
Shelby scoops up Blinkie and heads back, takes her leashes and thanks Sarah. Together they walk toward the Ninetieth Street entrance.
“So what are your favorite girl names?” Sarah asks.
The park is much more crowded now. There are kids everywhere, or maybe Shelby doesn’t usually notice toddlers and babies in strollers.
“My friend’s daughter’s name is Jasmine.”
“That’s pretty,” Sarah says. “I love that.” They’d reached Fifth Avenue. “Are you going down Eighty-Ninth?”
“Nope. Downtown.”
“I’m going to think of her as Jasmine.” Sarah pats her belly. “Thanks for the name. Thanks for being happy for me.”
Shelby stays where she is. Sarah crosses Fifth, then turns and waves. Shelby waves back.
Then Shelby starts downtown. No cab will stop for her until Fifty--Ninth Street.
“I have to charge you extra for the animals,” the cabbie says. He’s nothing like the first driver.
“Fine.” Shelby gets in. “Go down Ninth Avenue.” She directs him to the veterinary hospital. She promises him an extra twenty bucks if he’ll watch the dogs for five minutes.
“But just five minutes,” the cabbie says. “Otherwise it costs more.”
Shelby goes to the entrance. She knows the maintenance guy, Leandro, who cleans the cages and watches over the kennel on weekends. When she taps on the glass, he waves and buzzes her in.
“It’s not Monday,” he says to her. Everybody is aware of her schedule. Everyone is aware of what she’s done. He seems concerned. “Are you sure the doc is expecting you?”
And then she knows. He’s got someone else back there.
“Oh, yeah,” Shelby assures Leandro, a nice man, about her father’s age. His worried expression isn’t changing, but Shelby takes off running down the hall. She can hear them before she opens the door. The murmurs of lovemaking; a girl’s thick voice, and then his, a voice she would recognize anywhere. Shelby walks in, braced for it; still she’s stunned to see him fucking a girl on the couch. She’s young, with masses of long black hair; maybe she works in the billing department, or perhaps she’s one of the veterinary students interning for a semester.
Harper gazes at Shelby, and for a moment it’s clear that he doesn’t recognize her. She just stands there as the girl pulls on her shirt. Then Harper’s eyes light up. He looks like he’s already thinking of ways to spin the situation to his best advantage. “Shelby, this is not what it looks like.”
She can’t believe he’s just said that. That’s dialogue from a movie that she doesn’t wish to see, let alone star in. “Really? Then what is it? You’re doing to me what you do to Sarah. Lying.”
Harper is pulling on his jeans. “Shelby. Don’t be like that.”
“Do you know her?” the black-haired girl asks.
“I’m Monday night,” Shelby tells her competition. “I assume you’re Sunday morning.”
“What is she talking about?” the girl asks, a break in her voice.