I’ve helped her shop for last-minute things like extra bottles and pacifiers and diapers and baby clothes.
I’ve washed all her baby clothes.
I’ve gone with her to get a pregnancy massage and pedicures.
I’ve even joined her in her pool for a freaking pregnancy aerobics class that she’s apparently been doing for the past five months with some bubbly private instructor named Poppy. Which was one of the craziest things I’ve ever witnessed. Hell, the woman showed up in a neon-pink one-piece bathing suit, leg warmers, a fanny pack, and a matching sweatband, and insisted on playing 80s pop music through the entire workout.
And now, I’m currently sitting in the nursery, organizing all the baby’s gender-neutral newborn clothes in the armoire that sits across from the white crib.
Billie watches on from the cushioned pastel-yellow rocking chair, her now-swollen ankles resting on a footstool. Her trusty Labrador sidekick Bailey sleeps on the floor right beside her while she sips from a fresh glass of lemonade and takes occasional bites of a chocolate chip cookie that currently rests on the “tabletop” formed by her protruding belly.
I swear to God, now that Billie is so close to her due date, her big oaf of a dog doesn’t ever leave her side. Though he was originally Luca’s dog, Bailey has more than proven he’s most loyal to my sister. It’s pretty damn adorable, to be honest.
“Oh, by the way,” she updates as I fold the cutest little onesie with ducks on it and set it in the armoire. “Luca and I are having an engagement party Saturday night at our house.”
“Saturday night?” I question and glance over my shoulder to look at her. “This Saturday night?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“You do realize it’s Thursday, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s two days away.”
“I’m aware,” she answers casually, like it’s no big thing that she’s throwing an engagement party in two freaking days.
And, seriously, an engagement party?
“Not to be a party buzzkill, but mind explaining to me why you’re throwing an engagement party when you’re a week out from your due date?”
“Because we never got to have one.”
I scrunch up my nose at her. “You don’t think that maybe you should wait until after the baby is born?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I think now is the perfect time.”
“Billie.” I stare at her in absolute confusion. “How long have you known about this party?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and takes another bite of her cookie. “A while, I guess. But it’s all planned. I have a caterer coming, and our guest list has been notified. So, you better fucking be there.”
“A while? What the hell, Billie? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe the same reason you didn’t tell me about your relationship with…you know who…until after I had to find out about it in a gossip article, and how you consistently refuse to talk about why you’re so fucking miserable these days.”
“I’m not miserable,” I lie.
She eyes me with a scrutinizing stare. “Get real, sis. You’re a regular Debbie Downer.”
“How am I a Debbie Downer?” I retort. “I’ve been back in LA for a week, and all I’ve done is spend time helping you with all sorts of shit.”
“I never said you weren’t helpful,” she corrects. “And I certainly appreciate all your help. I just said you were a heartbroken sad sack who walks around with a perpetual frown on her lips.”
“I’m not heartbroken,” I disagree, and even I know that’s a lie.
I am fucking miserable and heartbroken. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop replaying our conversation in Memphis. I can’t stop the stupid memories of his teasing jokes and playful smile from filling my head. And I certainly can’t stop the media’s current obsession with the two of us. Despite the statement his publicist put out, they are still hoping we’re secret lovers, waiting and watching to catch us together.
Obviously, they’ve obtained exactly zero footage of that.
“Get real.” Billie rolls her eyes. “I can’t even mention his name without you losing your shit.”
“Whatever,” I mutter and go back to organizing the baby’s clothes. Knowing full well this conversation isn’t heading anywhere good.
“All I’m saying is since you missed my baby shower, your ass better be at my engagement party.”
“I missed the baby shower because I was in Memphis.”
“I know that,” she concedes. “But my engagement party is in two days, and you’re here. In LA. So, you have zero excuse.”
“Is there a gift registry for this damn party?” I question and glance