“I’m glad,” Kyle said, with evident relief. He sat on the barstool next to her and put his hand on top of her leg.
“I understand,” Natalie repeated, wanting to finish her point before she forgave him completely, “but I still think you should have told me. It’s not healthy for us to keep this kind of thing from each other, no matter how pure our motivation might be.” She turned her upper body to face him and searched his face with her eyes. “Can we agree on that?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, nodding. “I guess I told myself I was being practical when I really just didn’t want you to be mad at me.”
“And look how well that worked out,” Natalie said, leaning over to rest her forehead against her husband’s, the silent signal they’d used over the years to tell each other that everything was okay between them.
“No kidding.” Kyle chuckled. He reached for her face, then ran the side of his thumb down her cheek. “I really am sorry, Nat. I’ve got your back, I promise. I’m here for you . . . for Brooke . . . however you need me to be.”
Brooke
Brooke pulled into the parking lot of the Sea to Shore restaurant exactly fifteen minutes before her scheduled interview. After she turned off the engine, she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, happy with what she saw. In the past week, since the amniocentesis, her skin had never looked better—she assumed this was the “pregnancy glow” she’d read about online. Her black curls were shiny and smooth, and her eyes were clear and bright. Her nausea had all but disappeared. Dr. Travers had called and told her that everything was fine with the baby—there were no discernible problems. But when she asked if Brooke wanted to know the baby’s gender, for some reason, Brooke said no. She felt like it wasn’t something she wanted to hear alone. Maybe Natalie would come with her to her next appointment, and they could find out the sex together.
Brooke locked her car and walked inside the building, which was right on the edge of Lake Union. It possessed a clean, minimalist décor: teakwood tables—all of which had a view of the sparkling blue lake—brown leather booths, and cream-colored votive candles everywhere she looked. It was three o’clock, two hours before the establishment opened for dinner, and Brooke saw several members of the waitstaff sitting at a table near the kitchen, folding napkins and organizing silverware in preparation for their shift. She’d checked the restaurant website for pictures of what the servers wore, and saw that their uniform was all black, different from the typical white top and black skirt/pants requirements of most places she had worked. She wore a black cardigan and matching skirt so the manager with whom she interviewed might more easily visualize her as part of the staff.
“May I help you?” a man who was standing at the host podium asked. He had blond, slicked-back, short hair and wore a dark blue shirt with a matching tie.
“Yes, thanks,” Brooke said. “I’m Brooke Walker. I have an interview with Nick Hudson at three o’clock.”
The man smiled and walked around the podium to shake her hand. “I’m Nick,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Brooke felt him appraise her outfit, and she was happy that she’d taken the time to dress appropriately for the interview. “You, too,” she said, making sure to stand up straight and look him directly in the eye. Something about interviews made her feel like she was a teenager again, insecure and uncomfortable in her own skin. She reminded herself that she was almost forty years old, likely the same age as the man who was about to interview her. She could do this.
“This way,” he said, so Brooke followed him through a maze of tables to a two-top. They both sat down, and Brooke crossed her legs, trying to appear as relaxed as possible. She needed this job. At seventeen weeks, her belly had begun to round, pushing out enough to make it impossible for her to zip up any of her jeans. She needed to get hired before her pregnancy really started to show and no one would want to take her. At a place like this, with an average plate cost of eighty dollars per customer, on any given night, she could make upward of four hundred dollars in tips. She could maybe even afford to move into a small rental house so her child, when he or she was old enough, could have a yard in which to play.