I blinked at him blankly for two beats before I found my voice. “What do you need?” Quinn wasn’t the type to ask for help, ever.
“Janie has been sick for weeks, and the doctors keep saying it’s normal and everything is fine as long as she’s not dehydrated or doesn’t lose too much weight. It doesn’t seem normal to me. They gave her a prescription for Zofran, but she doesn’t want to take it.”
“Why not?”
“She’s worried it hasn’t been adequately studied in pregnant women.”
“Pregnant women take Zofran all the time.”
“Yeah, but you know her. She says she wants to see a randomized, double-blind clinical trial.” Quinn and I shared a look of commiseration; this was classic Janie. He continued, “She’s tried everything to stem the nausea and nothing works. Ginger, peppermint, Preggie Pops—whatever the hell those are. Do you have any ideas?”
I thought on this for a moment, then asked, “Is she craving anything?”
“She hasn’t mentioned anything.”
“Maybe try bringing her different kinds of foods, all with strong flavors. Citrus helped me with Jack. With Grace, mustard or anything vinegary did the trick.”
“The other thing is,” Quinn’s eyes darted to Greg, then back to mine, “she won’t listen to me. She’s been—”
“Irrational?” Greg supplied. “Crazy? Emotional? Exhausted?”
Quinn nodded. “All of those things.”
I covered Quinn’s hand with mine and squeezed. “I’ll talk to her for you. Have her take a few days off work and I’ll come over, bring different foods. Something will help.”
“Thank you.” Quinn turned his hand so he was holding mine, and his typical stoicism was replaced with the sincere warmth of relieved gratitude. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“No problem.”
Quinn let go of my fingers and pulled his through his hair. “Okay, I’m going to get her.”
He gave us both one more distracted head nod before disappearing into the bathroom. Greg tossed his arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the living room, placing a kiss on my forehead and whispering, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I gave him the side-eye. “I think so, Brain. But where are we going to get rubber pants?”
Greg grinned at my reference to Pinky and the Brain, a cartoon that originally aired in the 1990s, and one that Greg had forced me to watch repeatedly during his senior year of college. He’d left Iowa to finish his degree in Texas right after we’d become engaged. Every Tuesday and Thursday we’d sit on the phone together and watch Pinky and the Brain.
“I missed you, Pinky,” he said, staring at me like I might disappear.
I returned his smile, though I was inexplicably sad.
No . . . not sad. Nostalgic.
When I was pregnant with Jack, Greg had taken a desk job for a year so he could be with me, so he could hover and worry and fret daily in close proximity. It had made me crazy at the time, as we’d been apart more than we’d been together during our engagement and marriage. But now I looked back on those twelve months as some of the happiest of my life.
Greg’s grin diminished the longer I stared at him. Wanting to keep the moment light, I redoubled my effort to smile and lifted to my toes, giving him a quick kiss.
“I missed you too, Brain. I always do.”
***
“. . . and so I took Enis out of the soccer program and added him to the little league waitlist.” Ashley’s co-worker finished her lengthy monologue—regarding the trials and tribulations of the local co-ed youth soccer league—with unbridled exasperation.
“Fascinating.” Greg nodded intently, his eyes narrowed in a way that told me he hadn’t been listening to a single word she’d said.
Granted, he’d joined the conversation just minutes ago, stepping close to me, and shoving a plate of food into my hands, saying, “Please eat something.”
Kat and Sandra, who were also present, had nothing to add. Sandra scanned the crowd while Kat smiled politely. Kat’s superpower was being polite.
Meanwhile, I had been listening to the woman. I was keenly interested in the league’s dynamics since Jack was about to start practices next month. “Thank you for the information. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
We’d moved the party to Elizabeth and Nico’s penthouse, which was down the hall from Janie and Quinn’s. The blizzard-like conditions kept many people from venturing out, opting to send regretful texts instead. Ashley’s phone kept buzzing with messages, so she eventually turned it off. If she was disappointed by the turnout, she didn’t show it.
Ashley’s co-worker looked at her watch. “Like I said, soccer wasn’t the right environment for Enis. But your son might have a better experience.”
“Jack won’t be playing football,” Greg said distractedly.
“Right . . .” The woman gave Greg a questioning frown, but didn’t address his statement; she obviously wasn’t aware that, to the British, football meant soccer.
Since I had no plans to tell Greg that Jack would be playing soccer, I made no effort to clarify. I felt Sandra’s eyes on me; obviously, she had caught Greg’s meaning.