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“What was your favorite?”
“Pasta. I usually try not to eat too much of it, but there was this place on the corner by my apartment building. Fresh homemade noodles, and they had this butter garlic cream sauce I’d try not to eat because once I did, I’d crave it for a week straight.” She laughs, and her head lolls my way. “If you ever go to Chicago, go to Bella Bites.”
“Will do.”
“And they had these garlic bread sticks. Ever since I got pregnant, it’s all I want. Pasta. Any kind. He or she isn’t picky.” She runs her hand over her stomach.
I’ve seen her do that a few times in the week she’s lived with me. Almost as if she’s growing used to the idea of being a mother.
“Well, I can’t offer you much here. But I’ll take you to By The Slice, and we can get a cheeseburger pizza. They have garlic bread and some marinara pasta that’s probably just sauce from a jar.”
“I haven’t had a cheeseburger pizza since I moved away from here. The pizza from Chicago is deep dish with a lot of cheese and sauce. It’s good, but I’ll take the cheeseburger pizza over that any day.”
I raise my fist. “Nebraska for the win.”
I drive us to Willowbrook’s small downtown and park along the small square in front of Laurel’s bakery. Sure enough, she’s got a line out the door.
“I feel bad. Gillian said I could take her hours here, and I never answered her about it. Maybe I should stay and help.” She grabs the handle and exits the vehicle.
I meet her in front of my truck. “Is it safe to be around all those ovens and mixers?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I’m not five, Emmett.”
“I’m just saying, what if your stomach bumps into a hot sheet or something?”
She shakes her head, laughing at me. “You’re being protective of me?”
“Yeah, you wish,” I say like a teenage boy trying to be mean to the girl he likes.
The truth is, women are foreign beings to me. My mom died when I was two years old, and I have no memories of her. Dad never remarried. I figured out young how to turn a woman on. Kimmy, the preacher’s daughter, gave me some lessons I still use today. But emotionally, fuck, I don’t even know how to be a friend to a woman.
We slip by the large line of people. Laurel and Gillian are going in opposite directions behind the counter, trying to fill orders.
“Are cupcakes going extinct?” I ask as we approach the side of the counter.
Neither Laurel nor Gillian laugh, but Briar does. I kind of like that.
“Laurel made Oatmeal Creme Pie Cupcakes, and I think she put heroin in them or something because she can’t keep up with the demand.”
“Oh, they’re so good, Emmett,” Mr. Torres, who’s at the front of the line, says. “Who are you?” he asks, looking at Briar.
Gillian uses her sonic hearing and answers his question. “That’s my sister, Briar.”
“Oh, little Briar. Do you remember story time?”
Briar smiles sweetly. Not one I’ve ever seen her use. It’s her fake smile. “I do. The way you’d act out all the characters, even the women.”
“Someone had to be the princess and queen.”
Laurel calls, “Next.”
“Oh, it’s my turn.” Mr. Torres looks like he did when he acted out the characters at story time.
“I’m here to pick up for Lottie,” I say.
“You get what you need and go. I’ll stay to help,” Briar says. “I’m sure Gillian can drive me home.”
I thought we were going to have lunch. I try to push away the disappointment I feel.
