Page 3 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

“Don’t act so shocked—it’s true, and you know it. It’s been three years since your divorce from Daniel, and we both know that what you were getting when you were married to him was…well, subpar is putting it kindly.”

“Why are we talking about my former sex life with my ex-husband?” I ask.

“Because your sex life with Daniel sucked. You told me more than once that he would finish and go to sleep before you even started getting close. You complained about it a lot, actually. And then, when things started to go really sour, your sex life dwindled away to nothing. And you’ve become steadily more introverted ever since.”

“It wasn’tthatbad,” I argue.

Cora splutters a raspberry. “You timed him once, remember? Three minutes from first grope to final thrust.”

I groan. “Can wepleasestop talking about this?”

“Fine. But my point is, you need to move on. You need to atleastgo on a date with someone. Anyone. Even Lewis Calhoun. Who, yes, is a small-town drug dealer, but he is also super hot and really funny.”

“And adrug dealer.” I pop my eyes at her. “I’m a guidance counselor. I can’t be seen with the town pot slinger.”

Cora snorts. “Pot slinger? I don’t think anyone in the history of ever has called it that.”

“Whatever. The point is, no.”

“No to Lewis? Or no to going out?” She grabs my hand and gives me pleading eyes—and this is where she gets me. “Please? Tonight will be low-key. A few bars, a few drinks. Maybe some dancing at Vinnie’s, and karaoke at Field’s. Please?”

“I hate karaoke,” I point out.

“No, you hatesoberkaraoke. You love it after a few drinks.”

“This can’t be a repeat of last time,” I warn, with a glare.

Last time she dragged me out for “a few drinks,” we somehow ended up calling Monty the tow truck driver to take us home, and then spent the rest of the night riding with him on calls, and annoying his dispatcher by monkeying with the CB.

“Nope. It won’t be anything like that. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Girl Scout, Cora,” I point out, “so that oath means nothing.”

“Fine.” She pulls her phone from her back pocket and tosses it on the table, placing her palm on it. “I swear by my precious iPhone Eight Plus—my baby, my addiction—that we will be good and there will be no trouble whatsoever.”

Considering how seriously Cora takes social media, that’s actually a very convincing oath.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But we can’t be out late, and we can’t do anything stupid.”

“We’ll be perfect angels,” Cora promises. “Slightly drunk angels, but angels nonetheless.”