chit-chat. She tells me all about the town and our plans for the weekend, and I listen intently. I realize this is really not the spot to have the conversation I really want to have. So I wait.
A diminutive elderly man cuts in front of us — all decked out in a short sleeved button shirt with suspenders and a bowtie. His pants are hemmed too short and his black shoes are so shiny, they practically blind me. With furrowed brows, Gwen shoots him a dirty look.
As I edge in closer, my arm brushes hers. “He’s about a hundred years old,” I whisper. “How can you be angry with him? He’s so adorable.”
She laughs. “Yes, quite the charmer. A little old for you but…”
I smile at her and nudge her in the ribs. “I’ve got my hands full already with two.”
“Oh really,” she says. Her body stiffens as she turns to me. “I thought you were down to one now. Isn’t it all over with Mr. omewrecker?”
I bite my lip. “Mr. Homewrecker…I haven’t heard that one before.”
I tear my gaze away from hers, and take in the quaint store with its rustic barn board shelves lined with homemade pies, sauces, jams, and pastries.
And I sulk. She’s such a drag when it comes to Weston.
We finally make it to the register and the sullen teenage girl asks Gwen if she’s brought a recyclable bag. When Gwen tells her she hasn’t, the surly girl pulls out a wrinkled disposable plastic bag from under her counter and gives her a whole little speech about the ozone layer and something about sea turtles eating plastic bags thinking they’re jelly fish and choking to death.
When my turn is up, the first thing I do is apologize to the crabby girl for my lack of a recyclable bag. “I’m so sorry. I’m a horrible human being. I’ll just stuff these jars in my purse.”
The stud in her bottom lip catches my eye as she stares a hole in my head. She takes my money and gives me the change without a single sound — not a single ‘thank you’ or ‘come again’.
We scurry out, happy to be out of there, and nip our way through the vacationers and tourists.
I try to stuff the jars into my already too-jammed bag. “I really liked that place until we got to the register.”
Gwen wobbles slightly on her tall wedges. “Yeah, self-righteous much?”
“Preachy-preachy.”
“I mean, I feel bad about the turtles” she says, “but I kind of want to go back to the cottage and grab all my plastic bags, and go back in there and throw them at her face.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.
“The little self-righteous b—”
She jerks to a stop — a tall gangly man almost crashes into her. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbles as he makes his way around us with a furrowed brow.
She fixes me with wide eyes. “What? What did you just say?”
I wince, not wanting to say the words again. “I’m pregnant.”
I’m not sure why I chose to go about it this way — fast and furious. I think I just wanted to get it done with.
She drops her bags on the ground. Thump. Thump. “Since when? How far along?”
“About eight weeks.” My gaze is still glued to the bags on the ground. I can’t quite seem to look at her.
“How did this happen?” It’s the exact same question I’ve asked myself about a thousand times. “Weren’t you on the pill?”
I grab her bags and make my way to the closest bench I can find. She takes a seat next to me, a deer-in-headlights look still plastered all over her face.
I tell her everything. And she listens without a word. I think she’s just too shocked to comment. I tell her about New York, the stomach flu, and the doctor’s appointment.
She rests a hand on my knee. “You haven’t told Gabe yet?”
I look away. “I can’t. I just don’t want to mess things up.”
“But sweetie, you really need to tell him.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. This could break us,” I tell her. Does she not realize this? Does she not realize what’s at stake here? “I’m just waiting a few more weeks, and then we’ll see what happens.”
She brings her hand to her opened mouth. “Are you considering…”
I bite back a tear, feeling the lump in my throat grow even bigger. “I don’t think so…”
She winces. “Oh Mirella, I know you…”
The tears finally make their way to the surface. “I