Page 15

15

Ziggy

I am such a chicken.

I woke up to a text from Mom asking if I wanted to go with her to deliver a present to Abby Nora. That’s when I should’ve asked her to meet me somewhere for breakfast so we could talk.

Instead, I’ve spent the past two hours making myself food, doing the dishes, letting the plumber in, scrubbing the kitchen, dusting and vacuuming the living room, taking care of Jessica, sketching out a menu plan for the next week, and starting a grocery list.

But I couldn’t delay it anymore when Mom called as I was straightening the covered porch.

I could for a while.

I distracted her by asking how the dogs were, if she’d seen Miranda recently, if she and Dad went to this sports charity auction thing I read about, but now she’s forcing my hand .

“Did you see my text?” she says. “I have a baby gift for Abby Nora and I thought you’d like to go with me when I take it over.”

So now here I am, doing this the cowardly way.

Over the phone so I won’t have to look at her and see the disappointment and confusion in her face while all of the best curse words I know in both Italian and Spanish roll through my head.

I will always support you no matter what , I silently tell my own little peanut. “Abby Nora and I broke up.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone.

Then— “Ziggy. No. What does that even mean?”

“It means we broke up . Our relationship is over. She doesn’t—” Dammit . Dammit, I didn’t want to cry. I suck in a deep breath and force the lump back down out of my throat. “She doesn’t like me anymore.”

“She doesn’t—did she say that?”

“She very much said that.”

“To your face?”

“At her baby shower. She didn’t get the memo that one of our other friends had me on video call so I could be there virtually.”

“And you’re sure?—”

“Mom. There was zero mistaking what she said. It was very, very clear.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t want to repeat it in front of the baby.”

“Oh, honey. Maybe you two can patch things up.”

I drop my head into one of my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ll forgive a lot of things for the people I love, but that doesn’t mean I need to stay in a relationship with them when they clearly don’t want me. ”

“Sweetheart, Abby Nora wants you. She does. It was probably pregnancy hormones.”

“She called me a stuck-up cunt who thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

Silence rings loudly in my ears.

Where’s Jessica? Why doesn’t she need something right now?

Would it be bad if I went into the kitchen and knocked something off the counter and blamed the dog and said I have to go?

“Maybe you misheard—” Mom starts.

“I didn’t mishear anything.”

“But you’re best friends.”

I had the flu once while I was recovering from a pulled back muscle after doing something stupid in gym class late in high school. It was like morning sickness, but with a fever and severe back pain every time I threw up.

This is worse.

And not only because Abby Nora won’t be coming over after school to tell me what all I missed and make me smile while I’m recovering.

“Were, Mom. We were . And we’re not anymore.”

“But why would she say something like that about you?”

A familiar dull ache creeps up from the base of my skull, and my belly gives a warning groan as it starts to twist up again. “I don’t know. She was my best friend for over half my life, and she’s not anymore, and I can ask why all I want, but it won’t change what is .”

“Maybe if you reached out to her?—”

“Or maybe when someone calls you a cunt in a roomful of people, it’s on her to reach out if she wants to be friends.”

“Does she even know you’re home? ”

“Yes.”

“But she just had a baby. I’m sure she’s been busy.”

“She’s known I’m home for weeks. Or at least, she knew I was home a few weeks ago. I ran into her at the club. In the bathroom. She pretended everything was fine, but I know she knows I overheard what she said. It’s over, Mom.”

“Ziggy. Oh, my sweet girl. Are you okay?”

And that’s what does it. That’s what finally makes my eyes hot and puts a lump in my throat. “No.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because it makes me want to puke and I’m tired of puking.”

“I’m going to talk to her mother?—”

“ No . Please don’t. Please. Don’t. I don’t want anyone to fix this. I just want to grieve and move on.”

“Should I come over?”

“No. I’m okay. Ish. Okay-ish.”

“Miranda and I can be there with The Princess Bride in thirty minutes.”

I draw a deep breath and rub my still-twisted belly. “Rain check. I need to get groceries and get ready for my big day tomorrow. And I promised Jessica we’d go to a dog park.”

“I worry about you.”

“I’m okay.” I’m not. Not yet. But I will be. “Promise. I just?—”

“Need some new friends. You’ll love the staff at Dad’s office. They’re so nice. And you’ll get to see Miranda every day too. Before you know it, you’ll have forgotten Abby Nora ever existed.”

I blink quickly.

I don’t want to forget.

Some of my best memories will always be with her .

But I could do with not feeling guilt and shame and embarrassment and stupidity and anger and pain every time I think about what we were and what we’ll never be again.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I lie.

I make up an excuse about Jessica needing something, and I get off the phone without crying.

Barely—it counts as not crying if the tears haven’t actually fallen and you’re trying to convince your eyeballs to suck them back in, right?

If so, then I make it without crying.

Feels like a miracle these days.

But then?—

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

I jerk straight and turn around.

Holt’s come back.

With a cloth bag hanging off one wrist while he uses his crutches to join me on the porch.

I swipe at my eyes because that’s what it takes for getting rid of the reaction they’re having to the pollen count.

Which is the story I’m giving him if he asks.

He sets the bag on the table in front of me, then takes a seat and pulls another chair over to prop his leg up.

I peek in the bag.

More crackers and seltzer water.

Then I do a double take at his shirt.

Goats are Spoons .

What …?

“My friends are the kind who give you weird-ass clothes when you pass out at their house and wake up and realize you haven’t showered in three days,” he says.

I clear my throat as I help myself to the crackers .

He twists the lid off of a seltzer water and sets it in front of me. Same as yesterday.

“Jet lag?” I ask.

“Jet lag, career-altering injury, pickpocket…yeah. Rough week. What’s your excuse for looking like shit?”

There’s zero heat in his words.

If anything, there’s too much sympathy. “You heard that whole phone call, didn’t you?”

“Enough of it.”

He doesn’t apologize for listening in.

And I don’t care.

“Close friend, I gather?” he asks.

“Best friend. Since I was thirteen.”

“But not anymore.”

I shake my head.

He’s staring out into the yard. I don’t think he’s looking for Jessica to make sure I’m taking good care of her. I don’t think he’s embarrassed to look at me either.

I think he’s just being .

It’s oddly comforting. Like I have permission to just be too.

I crunch on a cracker. Sip the fizzy water.

My stomach is settling down.

I slide another look at Holt.

He’s good at this caretaker thing.

I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the same guy who told me his job was to watch everyone and know where they all were at once so he could prevent what happened the one night we worked together. The same guy that the neighbors tell me waters their flowers and mows their lawns when he notices a need .

The same guy who offered a stranger a place to stay after she got fired from what would’ve been a really great job.

“Remember Vitamin Guy?” I say.

His dark brown eyes meet mine. “Who?”

“Vitamin Guy. That night we worked together. The one who trapped me by the bathrooms to try to convince me to buy his vitamins?”

He frowns. “No.”

“For real? You don’t remember the guy I threw up on at the aquarium?”

He stares at me for a long moment, and then it happens.

One corner of his mouth tips up in a sly grin.

“ Oh my god , you— argh .” I throw a cracker at him, call him a bastard in Italian, and then something even worse happens.

He grins at me.

Full-on smiles so broadly that his entire face lights up with mischief and amusement, and someone please protect me from myself.

He’s hot .

Sexy hot.

Gorgeous hot.

Plus, he apologized for being a bear yesterday. Then came back and took care of me while I was sick.

And here he is, showing up again with exactly what I need to calm my stomach.

I need to move.

“What about Vitamin Guy?” he asks.

Vitamin Guy.

Who’s Vitamin Guy?

What are we talking about?

“The guy you threw up on the night we met?” Holt prompts .

My brain is still riding the holy shit, he’s hot train, but it finally pulls into we can be normal station. “He’s my former best friend’s brother-in-law. I danced with him at her wedding—which was not enjoyable, by the way—and he didn’t remember who I was. When I puked on him, I mean. He didn’t remember me from the wedding. Or any of the other times we met.”

Holt straightens, the smile dropping off of his face.

The fuck?

Why is Mr. Growly-Face even hotter right now than Mr. Smile?

“Why wasn’t it enjoyable?” he says. “Did he do something? Isn’t he married? I swear to fuck, he was wearing a wedding ring.”

This is pregnancy hormones. I’ve switched from first-trimester morning sickness to second-trimester horniness. This is the only explanation.

Focus , Ziggy.

I stuff a cracker in my mouth and nearly choke on it, then follow it with too big of a gulp of seltzer water and almost choke on that too.

All while Holt’s watching me like I’m the whole room he has to guard.

Eli Harrison. Think about Eli Harrison.

I clear my throat. “Yes, he’s married. Yes, he cheats on her. At least, that’s the rumor. He told me he asked me to dance out of pity since no one else was asking, and he talked about his fantasy football leagues the whole time.”

“Leagues?”

“He always has a side hustle. Fantasy football was that year’s vitamins.”

“And that’s it? That’s the only reason it sucked? ”

Swoon . He wants to slay dragons for me. “He also smelled like burnt cheese.”

“Like burnt cheddar? Or more like a burnt bleu cheese?”

Does he for real know the difference? “Like burnt ricotta in a lasagna.”

“How do you burn ricotta?”

“That’s a question I wish I didn’t know the answer to. How do you burn bleu cheese?”

“Innate natural talent in the kitchen.”

I’m smiling.

Am I smiling too big? Am I making a complete fool of myself? Does he suspect I suddenly think he’s hot?

I grab another cracker, but I don’t eat it, because I don’t need to choke again. “Do you have any allergies?”

“Allergies?”

“To food. I started a menu for the week, but I can change it if you’re allergic to anything. Or if you don’t like anything. Or I don’t have to cook. We can each feed ourselves if you want. Takeout or whatever. I’m flexible. I start a new nine-to-five tomorrow, so I can cook. Breakfasts. Dinners. Meals. Like we talked about.”

“No allergies.”

It’s like getting an ok back in text.

I’m babbling. “Great. I’ll text it to you.”

“I don’t like burnt cheese.”

I smile again. Probably too big. “The smell of it would probably make me puke, so I promise not to make burnt cheese.”

Gosh, Ziggy, why are you doing this solo parenting thing and not dating at all?

Well, Mom, it’s because I’m an embarrassment to womankind when it comes to carrying on a normal conversation with a man .

But Holt doesn’t seem turned off by my constant mention of bodily fluids.

Doesn’t seem turned on by it either.

I desperately need to end this conversation and go somewhere else.

“Is it normal to be this sick for this long?” he asks. “With the baby?”

“Yes. And I’m mostly better. Except for when I’m stressed.”

“Because some asshole scares the shit out of you in the middle of the night.”

I shake my head, nod, then shake it again. “No. I mean, yes, but that was little. Honestly not as bad as finding out my former BFF had her baby when my mother texted me to ask why I didn’t tell her first, and then realizing I can’t put off telling my mom that we’re not friends anymore.”

He studies me like he doesn’t believe me.

“I would’ve been throwing up yesterday morning regardless of what did or didn’t happen the night before.”

Jessica trots up the stairs and growls at Holt through the screen door.

“You’d think I didn’t feed her and walk her and buy her seven different doggy beds,” he mutters.

“Clearly, she needs eight. Plus a play set in the backyard.” I get up and let her into the porch.

She trots to Holt, turns her back on him, and aims her butt like she’s farting at him.

“ Jessica ,” I chide.

She gives me the what? He deserves it look.

“He pays for your food,” I point out.

She snorts.

“I must’ve murdered dogs in a former life,” Holt mutters .

“It’s not you—” I start, but the plumber interrupts me.

“Mr. Webster? I gotta run out and pick up a part. Should have everything installed by the end of the day though. You got a preference on grout color?”

Holt rises, giving me a clear view of his gray cotton shorts, and fuck .

Look away, Ziggy. Look. Away.

He’s not wearing underwear.

I swear, he’s not wearing underwear, and the movement under his shorts is?—

Stop stop stop, Ziggy .

Jessica snarls at the plumber, and I barely grab her collar in time before she takes off running at him.

There’s a solid reason the dog stays outside while the plumber’s here.

“Doggie park?” I say to her.

She’s still growling at the men.

“Your dog doesn’t much like me,” the plumber says to Holt, whose butt cheeks are perfectly displayed by the stretch of his shorts.

Good god.

The man’s legs are thick as tree trunks and his ass?—

STOP IT, ZIGGY .

It doesn’t matter who sculpted his ass or how broad his shoulders are or that he’s been incredibly kind about me puking nearly every time I see him.

It matters that he’s giving me a place to stay for a few more weeks.

I don’t want to mess that up.

We’re in a good place today.

I won’t let my hormones complicate this.