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“Don’t worry, there’s literally no life for me to stop.” I pulled her into another all-consuming hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “We’re going to have a blast, Mamushka. Just like the old days. You’ll see.”
“Really?” Hope painted her face.
“Really. Nothing will ruin this for us.”
As I said that, the door flung open and in walked Ambrose Casablancas.
And a very pregnant Dylan.
CAL
“I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)”—Meat Loaf
Dylan was pregnant.
Eighteen months pregnant by the look of it.
With triplets.
Holy shit, her belly was huge. Who was the father? Hodor? When had she gotten married? How come no one had told me?
“Mom,” I whisper-shouted, tugging on her sleeve, feeling the full weight of the entire continent pressing against my sternum. “Why didn’t you tell me Dylan got married?”
Terror laced through my veins. I was entirely unequipped to face the Casablancas siblings. Especially Dylan, who had ripped my heart out of my chest the last time we’d spoken and stomped on it until it had dispersed into dust. And what was Row doing here, anyway? Didn’t he have a reality TV contestant to yell at about their stew tasting like a diarrhea puddle? Because that had actually happened. I remembered watching that episode in horror and thinking, I had this man’s salami stuck in my canal.
Mom dazedly stirred her gaze from her sponge cake to the door, where people clamored around a ridiculously glowing Dylan.
“Married?” She frowned, her mouth clamping around an airy piece of buttery cake. “No, Callichka. Dylan didn’t get married.”
“She’s pregnant.” I gestured to my ex–best friend, as though this fact couldn’t be detected from Neptune. I knew I sounded judgmental. Plenty of people had children out of wedlock. This wasn’t the forties. But Dylan had always wanted a grand wedding. With a golden carriage and unicorns and white doves and five different dresses. She’d had ripped Vogue pages folded neatly inside her underwear drawer with flower decoration inspiration, like Pinterest didn’t exist.
“That’s right, Callichka. But the wedding ceremony isn’t how babies are made. I thought you knew that?” She frowned, cocking her head. “We never discussed the birds and the bees, did we?”
“Whose baby?” I looked around us frantically.
She stared at me like I was insane. “Why, Tucker Reid’s, of course. Who else?”
Who else? Good question. Maybe anyone who didn’t threaten to wedgie us all throughout high school.
Were they together now? When had it started? The night she’d caught me and Row? And how had Row even agreed to this? He was very trigger-happy when it came to guys he deemed unworthy of his sister. Which was every human alive, by the way. I was pretty sure Tucker’s nose and Row’s fist were intimately acquainted.
Also—Dylan had sex with Tucker Reid? He was a shithead but…kind of hot? I wanted to dissect that piece of juicy information immediately and at length. Problem was, it was Dylan I wanted to discuss it with.
Tucker. Freaking. Reid. I couldn’t get over the revelation.
He was our bully. Well, I guess now, technically, he was only my bully. Evidence suggested he no longer unpinned the Goosebumps pinback buttons from Dylan’s JanSport and “accidentally” sneezed into the food on her tray at the cafeteria.
As if sensing our presence, Row and Dylan turned their heads in unison, catching sight of me and Mom.
Forever a responsible, sensible adult, I decided now was a good time to swivel toward the person behind me and launch into an avalanche of incoherent words to appear busy and unaffected. I didn’t want either of them to know how terrified I was of a showdown with them.
My poor victim was Lyle Cooper, a tiny carpenter in his seventies who used to have fish and chips with Dad every Sunday over beer.
“Lyle. Wow. Haven’t seen you in a long time. Let’s catch up!”
I was acutely aware of Row and Dylan as they sliced through the throng, ambling to my corner of the room. More accurately, Row was ambling and Dylan was wobbling. They stopped to talk to Mom, who stood right beside me, and I tried to simultaneously converse with Lyle and eavesdrop on their conversation.
“…sorry for your loss, Mrs. Litvin. Mom sends her regards…” Dylan.
