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I laugh.
Reluctantly, like maybe she could stand here and do this all day long, her hands fall away. “Well, I’d better get going before the milk spoils.”
“It was really nice seeing you, Ava.”
“You too.”
After she leaves, I run into at least four more shoppers, and every one touches my stomach like it’s public property.Thisis why I left town the first time. But now, even if I don’t know the person well, I try not to let it bother me. Because this time is different. I’m savoring every kick. Enjoying every curious touch. Thanking every well-wisher. But mostly… I’m loving how it feels to be able to dream about a future I never thought possible.
~ ~ ~
“Dinner!” I call up the stairs.
“Not hungry!”
Disappointed she won’t even come down for her favorite meal, I eat in solitude then make her a plate anyway, write her name on the tin foil, and put it front and center in the fridge hoping she’ll change her mind.
I’m just about done with the dishes when the doorbell rings.
Our front door has three small square windows just above eye level, so I rise on my toes and peer through to see Christian on the stoop. I open the door.
“Hi, Miss Allie.”
“Hello, Christian.”
“Is, um, Bug here?”
“She is. Would you like to come in and I’ll get her?”
I hold the door open and he comes through.
“Have you eaten? I made lasagna, and with Asher away, there’s a lot.”
“No thanks. We had burgers.”
I point to the couch. “You can wait there okay?”
“Thanks, ma’am.”
I chuckle. “Not ma’am. Just Allie. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
Deciding not to yell in front of a guest, I trudge to the top of the stairs, completely out of breath from the short climb when I knock.
“I said I’m not hungry!”
“Darla, you have a visitor. Christian is here.”
“Tell him I’m sick,” she answers in a muffled voice, then I hear footsteps and the slamming of her bathroom door.
I carefully navigate down the stairs and find Christian sitting at the kitchen bar staring at the cookies I made earlier. I pick up the plate and offer him one.
“I’m sorry. Darla isn’t feeling well.”
He takes a cookie and picks at it. “She’s been saying that all week. She hasn’t shown up for practice since Monday.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “She hasn’t?” I pour a glass of milk, and push it across the bar to him, sparing a glance to her stairway. I don’t exactly keep tabs on her. I do work almost every day, and I take a lot of naps. And sheisthirteen—a confusing ageif I recall. But I had no idea she’d quit playing soccer. Maybe she really is sick.
“No. I just hope she hasn’t changed her mind about tryouts. They’re next week.”