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My eyes cut over to Poppy, who stared back with raised eyebrows. “Uh, no. I didn’t … I wasn’t getting any.”
She must have sensed my discomfort, shifting her attention to Poppy as she stepped closer. “How far along are you, honey?”
“Just about eighteen weeks,” she said. “Starting to feel some kicks.”
The woman’s eyes bounced between Poppy and me. “Do you have any names picked out yet?”
The awkward pulse of silence was probably only noticeable to Poppy and me. I gave her a quick look, and she smiled. “Not yet.”
The husband puffed his chest out. “We waited until our kids were born. Got a look at their faces before we decided.”
His wife patted his arm. “Only one of the four stumped us. Took about twenty-four hours to pick that one.”
After a little bit of small talk with Poppy, they smiled and continued their browsing. Following after Poppy, I found myself watching them walk away.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It must be you.”
“What?”
“No one ever stops me to chitchat.”
“Didn’t she talk to you earlier?” Poppy asked.
“Besides that one time, no one does that. It has to be you.”
She patted my shoulder. “That’s because you never smile at anyone, and you look sort of terrifying.”
“Do I,” I said dryly.
“Especially with the beard.” Her eyes widened when I arched one eyebrow. “It works, trust me. But you are sort of intimidating.”
I sighed. “That settles it. If it saves me from small talk, I’m never shaving this off.”
Poppy laughed, and it occurred to me that she thought I was joking.
“What were you doing here?” I asked her. “No books for you either.”
We stopped in the lobby, and she tilted her head toward the community board. “Greer told me I should look here.”
The board was filled with brightly colored advertisements and hand written notices with slits cut in the bottom for tear-away phone numbers. There were ads for everything—litters of puppies. Flower bulbs. Furniture and cars for sale. “What for?”
She tapped on a piece of neon pink paper marked with big black letters. “I’ve been looking for a place, actually.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
Poppy nodded. “My mom has a bunch of friends over this morning—a monthly brunch thing she’s doing with some women she met in her grief group. And I love it for her, but it’s a good reminder about why I want my own space, youknow? I forgot they were coming over, so I walked downstairs today wearing only a sleep tank and no bra, and it wasawkward.”
Don’t think about it.
Do not think about it, you asshole.
The night before, she’d had on a pale pink sleep tank, her baggy pajama pants hanging underneath her bump, a sliver of skin visible when she walked. The image of a sleep-rumpled Poppy in just that tank top would haunt the ever-living fuck out of me.
Bare legs. The curve of her ass peeking out from under the hem. What kind of panties would she be wearing? All I remembered was the tight, sleek length of her body under my hands and mouth in the dark of my room and fuck if I didn’t want to see her now too.
See her in the light.
