“But do you really need one?”
I unpack my lunch, stifling a snort because yeah, I do. It’s not as if my tasks at True Brew are backbreaking—pouring espresso is kind of fun, especially when I share shifts with Kyle, whose parents own the coffee shop, but I sure wouldn’t do it for free. The savings account my dad opened for me will take care of the International Culinary Institute’s steep tuition, but living in New York’s expensive. I’m saving every penny of every paycheck I earn. Leah has no idea how costly NYC is and anyway, she’s planning to follow Jesse to Washington State University, a much more economical choice, which is why she thinks my job’s superfluous.
“With the baby coming, there are a lot of extra expenses.…” My voice trails off as I start to worry, again, about the unacknowledged strain that’s seized the Eldridge household. It’s heavy, and I wish I could unload, but I’m pretty sure this kind of stuff’s foreign to Leah. Her parents, first-generation Korean immigrants who work nine to five at Boeing and come to every home football game to help her cheer Jesse on, never seem to have worries more pressing than whether it’ll rain on their freshly washed BMW.
Tucking a stray lock of hair into my ponytail, I pick at my lunch, contributing minimally to the conversation. When I’ve eaten all I can stomach, I pull out the bag in which I packed a few homemade cookies.
“They’re healthy,” I tell Leah, offering her one. “Oats and raisins and dates. And, I used applesauce instead of butter.”
She’s already nibbling. The scent of nutmeg wafts through the air. “Mmm … They’re divine.”
I smile. There’s nothing better than watching my friends enjoy my baking.
“Oh, I just remembered,” she says, brushing stray cookie crumbs from her lap. “I saw the most adorable newborn outfit at Macy’s the other day. A tiny denim skirt with lace-trimmed leggings and a floral peasant top, and it was on sale. Tell Meredith she should check it out.”
“Will do,” I say blandly. While I’m indifferent about the world of children and parenting, Leah can’t wait to be a mom. Her life’s goal is to marry Jesse (who will undoubtedly take over his share of Hatz-Holden Logging, which his father and Bill founded almost thirty years ago), teach preschool, have litters of babies, and keep a lovely home. Not so different from Meredith, come to think of it.
“Has she picked out nursery furniture yet?” Leah asks.
“I have no idea. I stay far, far away from Meredith and her Pottery Barn catalogs.”
She gives her head a dreamy shake. “You’re so lucky to be getting a baby sister. You’ll be able to hold her and rock her and dress her. Just think about it!”
My brow crinkles. I am thinking about it; I’m thinking of what this fetus has already cost me: a healthy, capable stepmother, the easygoing father I used to know, and a whole lot of free time, now spent helping out around the house, filling in where Meredith can’t. It’s not like I wish the leech baby out of existence—I’m not a monster—but to say I’m looking forward to meeting her would be a serious overstatement.
“And when she’s older,” Leah goes on, “you can buy her first Barbie. You’ll be the one who teaches her about boys and makeup and push-up bras.”
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” I ask with a laugh. “I was brought up by Jake Eldridge, with very little maternal influence to speak of. I never owned a Barbie. I didn’t learn how to put on makeup until a few years ago, thanks to Marcy Holden.” I look down at my barely-there chest. “And I’m not exactly an expert in the push-up bra department.”
“Ah, but you should be,” Leah says sagely. “Speaking of—”
Something across the quad has captured her attention. I follow her disdainful look to find Becky McMahon standing among half the boys’ basketball team. Skinny with ginger hair and apple-green eyes, she’s cocaptain of the dance team, along with Ivy Holden. She’s also an enormous flirt, as evidenced by the starry-eyed way she’s gazing at Bryan Davenport, point guard extraordinaire.
Leah and I look on as she lays a hand on his arm. He’s in my trig class and, frankly, he’s not very attractive. He says something presumably witless and she cackles, a sound that carries through the quad like the caw of a hungry crow.
“What the hell?” Leah says, shaking her head. “She’s a swine.”
“Who’s a swine?” Jesse asks, approaching with Leo and Kyle at his heels. He sits down next to Leah and drapes his arm over her shoulders.
“Becky,” she says, popping the last bite of her cookie into his mouth. “She’s always screwing with Max, not to mention making a scene about it.”
He’s at Becky’s side, suddenly, speaking fiercely into her ear as the five of us watch from a distance. She unearths a tube of lip gloss and applies it like Spackle, ignoring him. Max is far from perfect, but I can’t believe how awful she’s been to him over the last few months. It’s like she’s forgotten about what happened to Bill, like she doesn’t even care that Max has, for whatever reason, deemed himself responsible for his father’s stroke. Instead of trying to build him back up, she’s egging him on, letting him believe it’s cool to drown his unhappiness in alcohol.
When he stops speaking, Becky rolls her eyes and gestures in Bryan’s direction. She’s red velvet cake—bold and confident, but with a sharpness that puts people off.
Kyle whistles a few bars of “Tainted Love,” the theme song he’s assigned to Max’s relationship with Becky, then shudders. “Jesus. I’ve never seen two people make each other so miserable.”
On cue, Max swivels around and saunters toward us. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders bent against the cold.
Becky trails after him, the spiky heels of her boots clack-clack-clacking against the pavement. As they near us, she cries, “Why are you walking away, Max?!”
Anyone with half a brain can see that their relationship is a vicious cycle of provocation and dysfunction, but both of them continue to lope back for more, as if mind games and manipulation are the foundation on which their alleged romance is built.
“Just forget it,” Max mutters, eyes on the ground.
“No! What’s your problem?”
He shakes his head and it’s so pitiful, I can’t help myself—I’m standing up, stepping between them, opening my mouth, inserting myself into a fight that’s so not mine. “You’re the one with the problem, Becky. Bryan Davenport? Even you can do better.”
“Jill,” Max cautions, but his voice lacks spirit.
Becky’s face buckles in a glare aimed straight at me. “What goes on between Max and me is none of your business.”