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As I stir vanilla extract into my brown butter cream, I feel my cheeks burn. I understand why Carrie has directed this question at me. I’ve noticed a recurring activity: whenever the conversation veers into negative territory about one of their children, the mothers tend to draw me into the discussion, expecting me to offer a defense on their offspring’s behalf. I’m not even sure they’re aware they do this, but here I am, put on the spot as their curious eyes remain fixed on me.
Meeting their gazes, my brain attempts to churn out the right response. Should I reveal that I’m in the same boat as Carrie? I knew her in high school, but she and I ran in totally different circles, being that she was two grades higher than me. My scandalous secret would certainly take the heat off Carrie. All this time, while baking, selling, and making public appearances, I’ve been pregnant too. But am I ready to disclose the identity of the father—Randy Thorn, the man they’ve predicted will ride off into the sunset with the flawless Deanna Blume? No way.
Realizing I can’t prolong my silence any longer, I finally open my mouth to speak. After another brief pause, I know what must be said. “I don’t know, Carrie,” I start with a flippant shrug. “Maybe Bree felt it was safer keeping the information to herself.”
Carrie’s expression crumbles into a deep frown, fierce enough to intimidate the boogeyman. “Of course I’m safe!” she snaps, her frustration evident. “Who’s safer to tell than her own mother?”
I nearly respond with a sharp comment about the relentless dirt-dishing that goes on at their table and suggest that maybe her daughter is withholding news because of it. But I hold back, opting for a more tactful approach. “Listen, Carrie, there are many reasons why someone might keep a pregnancy private initially. For example, some prefer to wait until they’re past the first trimester before sharing the news, just to ensure everything is progressing okay.”
The ladies nod in agreement, each acknowledging the validity of the point. I’m relieved and certain my diplomatic response got them off my back for the time being.
“But didn’t she eventually tell you?” Joyce asks Carrie. “She must have said something for you to find out.”
Carrie’s face turns a deep shade of red, and I instantly regret the turn the conversation has taken. It’s clear she discovered her daughter’s pregnancy in a less than ideal way.
“I called her, and somehow, I heard her speaking to someone. She didn’t know she had answered my call,” Carrie confesses, clearly puzzled by the incident.
“Ah, a butt dial or something,” Norie suggests, nodding confidently as if she’s familiar with the concept.
“No,” I mutter under my breath, knowing they can’t hear me.
“Yes, that’s it,” my mom agrees, mistakenly confirming the incorrect term for what likely happened. I suspect that Bree thought she had silenced her mom’s call but accidentally answered it instead.
Joyce slaps the table. “Well, there you go. She’s talking to her friend about it before saying anything to you,” she deduces a bit too bluntly.
Carrie falls silent once more, retreating inwardly.
I sigh, shaking my head. Joyce’s observation, though accurate, has clearly stung Carrie. Seeing her hurt, I contemplate whether it’s time to share my own secret.
Before I can say anything, my mom speaks up. “Maybe she just didn’t want her special news shared with the entire world.”
“What do you mean, Faye?” Carrie demands.
Despite her cohost’s defensive tone, my mom doesn’t back down. “We must take responsibility for gossiping about the parts of our kids’ lives that they might prefer to keep private. That’s all I’m saying. We enjoy the stories, sure, but there could be a price,” she explains calmly yet firmly.
“We’re not gossiping,” Joyce retorts sharply, likely defensive because she’s the most frequent gossip of the group.
“Oh, you’re gossiping,” I blurt out, unable to hold my tongue any longer.
The shocked expressions they direct at me make me feel as if I’ve been caught stealing the last truffle-infused grilled cheese sandwich my mom prepares before every Thursday podcast. They really love those sandwiches.
“Gina!” a man’s voice booms, slicing through the tension.
All eyes, previously fixed on me, turn in unison. Standing before us is Chef Randy Thorn, his presence as striking as ever. The surprise of seeing him causes me to release the teaspoon of baking soda I had been holding between my fingers.
“Randy?” I barely whisper, finding my voice again.
He approaches me cautiously, his hands raised, palms out in a gesture of peace. “Gina, I know you’re pregnant,” he declares, unintentionally disclosing my secret to the very people I had hoped to keep it from.
I catch a brief glimpse of the ladies as they erupt in gasps, but I can’t focus on them for long; I’m too stunned by Randy’s presence.
“Gina, you’re not pregnant, are you?” my dad asks, his expression clouded with uncertainty.
The heartbreak in his eyes is upsetting, and even more so when I see his shoulders sag as he reads the truth in mine. I know I owe my parents a thorough explanation, but that will have to wait. Right now, my attention is torn between the concern on my dad’s face and Randy, who is steadily approaching us.
It’s Randy who captures my full attention, as he’s all I can see. “Babe…” he starts. My gaze locks onto every detail of his face. The dark circles under his eyes contrast starkly with his gaunt complexion. He looks utterly exhausted. “I’ve been missing you terribly,” he confesses.
“How did you find out I was pregnant?” I decide to ask outright, now that the secret is already out.
