“I’d be sad about that, too,” he adds.
And oh. There’s a lump in my throat. That’s another thing about me. If someone says I’m sad, or asks me what’s wrong, or tells me not to cry, it’s like my body hears: NOW CRY. Like a command, even if I’m not actually sad. But maybe there are always tiny sad pieces inside me, waiting to be recognized and named. Maybe it’s like that for everyone.
“Anyway, it’s fine,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Obviously, I’m really happy for her.”
“Oh. Okay.” He looks confused. And I really wish I hadn’t said anything. Now he thinks I’m a shitty sister. And a shitty person. And an all-around asshole.
I don’t know why I’m incapable of shutting up around this boy.
I WAKE UP BEFORE SUNRISE on Wednesday, feeling jittery. My mind will not simmer down. It’s just jumping from one thought to another.
I mean, there’s Reid. And his glowing white sneakers. And his surprisingly low standards for frosting.
And there’s Cassie. And Mina. And the Facebook status update. And the cookie dough. And the fact that Mina’s coming when Grandma’s here. The inevitable shitshow.
I try to hypnotize myself by staring at my ceiling fan, and when that doesn’t work, I scroll through wedding inspiration blogs on my phone. But I can’t focus. Finally, I just take my pill and head down to the kitchen, and I start pulling out my ingredients. You never think you’ll be spooning egg-free cookie dough into tiny mason jars at five in the morning, until you are.
I’ve just gotten them into the fridge when I hear Xav babbling upstairs. I actually love being the one to get Xavier out of bed. I slip into his room, and when he sees me, he pulls up on the crib railing and does this bouncy little dance. Baby twerking.
“Hi, buddy.” I scoop him into my arms, and he cups my cheek, grinning.
“Momomomomomo.”
“That’s right!”
Let it be known that Xavier is the actual cutest baby in the universe. He has these huge brown eyes and big, mushy cheeks, and the softest brown skin, and a little gap between his front teeth. He’s perfect. I always loved the idea that we share DNA, even if it’s on the donor’s side. Maybe there are a bunch of mutual ancestors drinking ambrosia and spying on us right now.
“Hey, baby,” I whisper into the crook of his neck, and he scrunches up and giggles. I hoist him onto my hip and carry him downstairs. I figure I’ll set him up with his activity center in the living room and let my moms sleep in.
Except Nadine wanders down a few minutes later, yawning and smiling. “Well, look at you two.”
“Oh, did we wake you up?”
“Aww, Momo, no. It was the boobs.” These days, Nadine talks about her boobs like they’re sentient beings. They’re always waking her up or leaking through her nursing bras or demanding to be drained, like cows on a dairy farm. They have their own boobish agendas.
I pass Xavier to her, and she lifts up one side of her pajama shirt. Xav glomps right on. “So, I heard this rumor,” Nadine says, sitting up straight against the back of the couch.
“About Cassie?”
She grins.
“How did you know?”
“The mom chain.”
Otherwise known as Olivia’s mom. Olivia tells her mom everything. And her mom tells my moms everything. It’s a pretty foolproof system.
I settle onto the armchair with one of Xavier’s toys. It’s one of those interactive button-pushing ones that sings animal songs in an unnervingly chipper male voice.
“God, that thing needs to burn,” says Nadine.
“We should burn it.”
“Yeah, but you know another one will just spawn in its place. That’s right, Xavor Xav,” she adds. He’s popped off the boob to grin at her. “Hey. Hey. We’re spraying. Get back on there.”
“I made cookie dough,” I tell her.
“For dessert tonight?”
I nod.
“That’s what you were down here working on?”
I nod again.
“Momo, you know you need to sleep every once in a while.”
“I couldn’t.”
She tilts her head. “Aww, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“Are you working today?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, well—oh, now we’re vibrating.” She scoots forward and gropes around for a minute under her butt. “I think I’m sitting on your phone.” She pulls it out and hands it to me. “You’re getting texts like crazy. Look at you, Miss Popular. Who’s texting you at seven in the morning?”
“Um, probably Abby?”
But when I glance at my phone, there’s this tiny hiccup in my chest.
I’ve missed two texts from Reid.
Need any help making cookie dough?
And by making, I mean sampling
Xavier’s still on the boob, but he swings his arm back to make a grab for my phone.
“Nice try,” I tell him.
Nadine snorts. “The kid wants an iPhone.”
Okay, I feel like a jerk, because now I want Nadine and Xav to leave, so I can write back to Reid. It’s funny, because Cassie texts girls at the table and in the living room and in the car, and everywhere. I honestly think she’d coordinate an orgy in front of all of us. On the couch between Nadine and Patty. As long as they’re not actively reading over her shoulder, she doesn’t care.
But I can’t text a boy in front of my moms. I just can’t. Not even Reid.
“So, Mina and Grandma tonight.” Nadine yawns. “How the hell did that happen?”
I laugh. “I don’t know. I think it was Mina’s idea.”
“Cannot believe Kitty Cat’s allowing it.”
“Maybe Grandma will be cool?”
“Mmmhmm, right.” Nadine grins. “I’m excited to meet this girl, though.”
“Yeah, you’ll like her. She’s—” My phone buzzes again, and I try to ignore it. But I’ve lost my train of thought. Sometimes not looking at my phone requires all my mental energy.
Maybe it’s Reid again. Not that it matters.
Xavier finally finishes his boob, and Nadine readjusts her top, standing. “Okay, I’ve got to take this little dude to the supermarket before storytime.”
Nadine never misses storytime in the summer. Patty says it’s because whenever Nadine did baby stuff with Cassie and me, people assumed she was our nanny. Which I imagine is a shitty thing to hear when you’re a mom.
As soon as they leave, I tap into my texts, and my heart feels like it’s skipping. My body has no chill whatsoever.
There are the two cookie dough ones from Reid.
And the new text. From a Maryland number, not in my contacts. It says, simply: What’s up. No question mark. Just two words, plus that little emoji with the dancing bee ladies.
So now I’m curious. A text from a mystery person. But it’s got to be someone I know. I don’t think you’re allowed to drop the bee ladies on a stranger.
I Google the number, but Google doesn’t know, and I feel dumb asking who it is. So I ignore it.
I mean, I try to.