Miranda takes the remote out of my lap and presses play. She slides across the floor and rests her head on my shoulder. With every traitorous tear I wipe off my cheek, another one quickly takes its place. “I can’t believe I’m crying,” I say. “I don’t even want to date. I already turned him down, but I guess—god, I don’t even know what I think. I hate men and I hate dating.”
“When I found out I was pregnant, I cried a lot and everyone just watched me.” Miranda’s voice vibrates on my shoulder. I try to look at her but can only see the top of her head. “Even Mom just looked at me and walked off. I remember thinking that I didn’t want anyone to tell me it would be okay, because that’s pointless. I just wanted someone to put their head on my shoulder and be there for me.”
“Oh, Randy,” I say, the tears falling harder now. I start to laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m crying, really. It’s not like Tyler and I were dating.” I wipe more tears off my face and take a deep breath. “This is so stupid.”
Miranda lifts her head. “Look at it this way. So what if he had a crush on Elizabeth? She’s taken.”
“That’s only a mildly good point,” I retort. I grab another chip. Depression has sunk in now and that always makes me eat.
“Come on,” Miranda nudges me with her elbow. “Where’s the fight in you? You can’t just give up that easily. Win him over.”
I open my mouth and say one word, “Eh.”
“You’re pathetic.”
I shrug.
She shakes her head like a disappointed mother. “You’re hotter than Elizabeth. You can win him over. I mean, look at those boobs! They’re almost as perky as mine.”
“Let’s change the subject, okay?”
She groans. “Okay, new subject. What do you want to talk about?”
“How was work?”
“Lame subject, new one.”
“You do realize that the only reason I’m staying in this totally worthless town is because you have a job, right? Tyler is now off my radar.”
“Don’t even act like you’re doing this for me. You’re doing it for Great Grandpa too.”
The whole room seems to swirl to a stop when she mentions Grandpa. I am a total selfish, boy-crazed, selfish, selfish, selfish asshole. How could I have completely forgotten about Grandpa like that? The photo. The mystery.
“You’re right. Let’s watch this stupid movie and then tomorrow I’m going to figure out why that photo is at the diner.”
Miranda beams. “That’s my girl!”
Chapter 8
The cook doesn’t even take a moment to think about it when I ask him about the photos in the counter. He just shrugs and pours my coffee. “You don’t know anything about how they got here?” I ask, prodding for any minuscule detail I can get.
“Naw, I don’t know nothing about that. Been here as long as I have.” The cook doesn’t have a name as far as I know, and he always looks like he’s purposely making a grumpy face. But I think that’s just the way his face is because no one could hold up the act of smooshing their face together for so many hours each day.
He grabs the salt shakers and begins refilling them even though they are more than three-quarters full. I think he just doesn’t want to talk to me. “Do you know anyone else who might be able to tell me about these photos?”
He shrugs. “Big Large, probably.” I open my mouth to ask another question but he turns on his heel and darts back into the kitchen. I’ve been ditched by the cook. Blatantly. It’s kind of embarrassing.
“Don’t you worry about him,” a throaty voice says from my left. I look over and see an elderly woman in a tie-dye shirt and black leggings sitting a few barstools down from me. She leans toward me and cups her hand over her mouth to shield her words from onlookers. Not that anyone is looking at us. “He’s autistic.”
“Oh,” I say with a nod. She smiles and goes back to eating, signaling that our conversation is over. I wish Miranda was here, but she’s passed out at home, preparing for her late shift tonight. The owner, also known as Big Large, waddles around the diner occasionally, never talking to anyone and always looking like he’s too busy to be bothered.
I’m not exactly sure how I could approach him to ask about the photos in the bar. Maybe I can get Miranda to do it.
The scent of berry shampoo smacks into me a split second before Elizabeth appears at my side. Her blond hair is down today instead of in its usual pony tail with wisps of hair falling out everywhere. She seems to have straightened it and if I’m not mistaken, she’s wearing a face full of makeup. It kind of ruins the small town charm she used to have.
“Hey girl,” she says, lightly touching my arm. I can’t help but like her, and then hate myself for liking her and then hate myself for hating myself. She’s really nice, and that’s just all there is to it.
“Hey,” I say, attempting a smile that shows no hint of my distain for the fact that Tyler likes her.
“Could you give me Miranda’s number? I need to see if she can cover a shift for me.” Elizabeth’s finger swipes over her phone screen. Her acrylic nails have pink glittery tips.
“Oh, um—” I’m caught off guard by the question. All I’m thinking about is Tyler, not Miranda.
“I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want her to, but she’s been wanting to pick up extra shifts. She says she needs the money and all,” Elizabeth says, twirling a strand of silky hair around her finger.
I have to actually think for a moment before I realize that Miranda doesn’t have a number because she doesn’t have a phone anymore. Maggie shut off her phone service about two seconds after I called and told her she was with me. “Miranda doesn’t have a phone, but I can ask her for you,” I offer. Her phone beeps and she glances at the screen.
And I’m totally not spying on her, but I look too out of habit. Tyler’s name scrolls across the top of her phone. My chest clenches in pain. He just sent her a text message and I catch the word apologized before she tilts it toward her to type out a reply. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said Miranda doesn’t have a phone, but I can ask her for you.” She looks at me, perplexed and opens her mouth to say something. But then her phone beeps again. This time I do purposely look at the screen. It’s Tyler again.
You know how I feel about
It’s all the words I get to see before she flips up her phone and types out a reply. Her fingers move rapidly across the tiny keyboard. I watch as her eyebrows deepen, either in concentration or frustration. She snaps the cover back over the front of her phone, lets out a sharp sigh and smiles at me. “Anyway, sorry about that. So Miranda doesn’t have a phone? Did it break or something?”
I let out a little laugh. “It’s a long story. She had one, but her mom paid for it and when we moved, well, the phone magically quit working.”
She nods. “That’s not very long of a story, now is it? Can you ask her for me?”
“Sure—” I barely get the words out before her phone beeps yet again. She gives me a broken smile and turns the phone over and over in her hands. “I’m sorry, Robin. I know this is so rude of me.” She looks at her phone for a brief instant. Her eyes flick back and forth as she reads, and then with a very defiant press of her finger, she taps the screen. “So, anyway. Let me give you my phone number and you can have Miranda call me from your phone.”
The pain in her eyes reaches out to me and pulls me in. As much as I want to hate her, I can’t. She’s hurting, and she’s too sweet to hurt. Plus, I want to know what Tyler is talking about that’s making her so upset. “Is anything wrong?” I ask, giving a knowing look at her phone.
“Nope, not at all.” She shoves her phone in her back pocket and flashes me the perfect Salt Gap Diner Waitress Smile. “My friend is just—being annoying.”
“Yeah, annoying friends suck.” Wow. I just managed to say the most idiotic statement in the history of the universe. All because I can’t get Tyler out of my mind and now I’m going insane about what he’s telling
her. And the worst part is that it’s none of my business. I take out my own phone just to give me something to do. “I’m ready for your number,” I say, wondering if he’d still be texting her if I had agreed to go on a date with him instead of saying no.
Miranda yanks the pony tail out of her hair with a fury that only working a twelve hour shift can bring out of you. “I asked everyone at work if they knew how the photos got in the counter,” she says, rocking her head back and forth and letting her hair fall down her shoulders. There’s an arc of bent hair from where it was in a ponytail all day.
“And did anyone have any answers?” I ask. It’s half an hour past midnight, but I’m stirring macaroni and cheese on the stove and kolaches are in the oven. Comfort food. I’ve gotten accustomed to Miranda’s crazy work hours and try to have dinner ready for her when she gets home. Who knew I could be so domestic?
She takes the wooden spoon out of my hand and eats a bite of macaroni straight from the pot. She loves leaving me in suspense. “Nope. No one knew anything.”
“I’m starting to think there’s no reason that photo is there. Like maybe they hired an interior decorator who found random photos in a thrift shop and put them in the counter.” I wave my arm around the air in circles. “For ambiance, or some shit like that.”
“Why would Great Grandpa throw out a photo? Especially one as great as that one,” Miranda says, taking another bite of macaroni. “Plus you know how he cherished every photo of his wife. There’s just no way.”
She’s made a valid point. The buzzer goes off and I pull the kolaches out of the oven. The smell of freshly baked croissant bread makes my mouth water. Homemade kolaches are the best recipe my mother ever passed down to me. Miranda is crazy about them too and so it’s become a staple food at our house.
Our house. I’m still getting used to the idea of that. I sit on a barstool at the kitchen island and wait for my food to cool enough to eat. “The sign on the door says the diner was established in 1935. That’s about the exact time that Grandpa would have been the age he is in the photo. It was a new photo.”
Miranda listens thoughtfully. “Do you think Great Grandpa lived here?”
“No, he’s always lived in Houston. He made his real estate empire there.”
She bites into a kolache and cheese drizzles down her chin. “Maybe he stopped by on a road trip when they were building the diner and he donated the picture so he could be immortal in the counter forever?”
“Way to sound like a Lifetime movie,” I snort. She rolls her eyes and walks over to the cabinet to grab a glass. Then she makes a noise like she’s choking on her food. “You okay?” I ask over my shoulder.
The sound of glass shattering on the floor makes me jump. I turn around to see Miranda squatting on the floor, arms on the countertop. Her fingers grip the edge of the granite. I rush over to her and put my hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
“I—I don’t know. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Go to the bathroom!” I bolt up, taking her elbow with me. If she’s going to hurl, she’s not doing it on the kitchen counter.
Miranda cries out in pain when I pull her into a standing position. Her hand flies to her stomach. “Fuck my life, this hurts!” she yells. “Ugh, I’m gonna puke. I’m gonna puke.”
The bathroom is way down the hall but the back door is only an arm’s length away. I make the split decision to shove Miranda out the back door and let her lean over the porch railing. The moment she’s hovered over the safety of the grass outside, she throws up all the food she ate just moments ago.
I want to run into the other room and cover my ears with a pillow and pretend this isn’t happening. But I remind myself that I’m not the pregnant teenager here. She has no one else and she needs me. So I pull back her hair and rub her back and tell her it’s going to be okay. I do my best to ignore the blood-curdling chokes and hacking sounds that are coming out of Miranda’s throat, tempting to make my own dinner come back up as well.
Chapter 9
The smell of cheap cinnamon air freshener and sterile hospital junk floats through the tiny waiting room at the local ob-gyn office. My foot taps repeatedly against the potted plant next to me as I flip through pages of a worn parenting magazine, wondering if I have what it takes to be an awesome aunt to my future niece or nephew.
Miranda had allowed me to join her in the examination room for about two seconds until the nurse told her to remove everything from the waist down. Then, with a balk and a freaked-out teenage squeal, she told me to leave and wait for her out here. I’m sure she’s fine but I can’t stop worrying about her.
And that says a lot because as of a couple weeks ago, I didn’t worry about anyone but myself.
The idea of having a baby in the house—a real living, breathing dependent child that counts on her and I to provide happiness and safety—is starting to become my sole reason for existing. I’m not exactly doing anything with my life right now and boredom has driven me all but completely insane lately. Maybe this kid will help fix a piece of my life that I didn’t know was broken.
I tell her this when her appointment is over and we’re heading back to my car with bags of free coupons and formula and other baby crap the doctor gave her. She snorts and climbs into the passenger side of the car.
“I love you Aunt Robin, but you’re dumb.”
“How am I dumb?”
She shrugs and flips through the contents of a white envelope she’s been holding since she found me in the waiting room. “My illegitimate bastard baby wasn’t placed in my womb to fix your life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re letting me live with you and that you want to help me with the baby, but you can’t keep ignoring your own life.”
“Maybe this can be my life,” I say encouragingly. “You need to get your GED and go to college and figure out your future. I’m free to do anything for the next couple of years so I’m the perfect caretaker for your little bastard.” I say the last word lovingly and reach over and pat her stomach, pulling back in surprise. “Holy crap, your stomach is rock hard!”
She rolls her eyes. “Well duh. There’s a baby in there. I’m not just a fatass.”
“Wow,” I say under my breath. “I know absolutely nothing about babies.”
“And you never will if you don’t step off your stubborn horse of stubbornness and get out there and find a man. I’m glad that you’re going to help me with the baby but you have to live your life too.” Her eyes narrow seductively and she adds, “And by ‘find a man’ I mean Tyler. You should date Tyler.”
We’re stopped at a red light so I take the opportunity to cross my arms over my chest in pretend indignation. “I’m perfectly fine living on my stubborn horse of stubbornness, thank you very much. I have no interest in dating Tyler, or anyone else. Men are stupid.”
“So much stubbornness,” she says under her breath as she pulls something from the envelope and holds it up for me to see. A long strip of paper with blurry ultrasound pictures folds out from under her fingers. “Say hello to your nephew.”
Chapter 10
“What about something short and cute like Max or Ian?”
Miranda shakes her head. “I had a dog named Max when I was a kid. I can’t name my child after a dog.”
We’re almost back to Salt Gap and we’ve been thinking of baby names ever since we left the doctor’s office. Well, I’ve been thinking of baby names…Miranda has been shaking her head or making gagging noises at every one of my suggestions. “You’re going to have to name that baby eventually,” I say.
She looks at her little bulge of a stomach and pokes at it with her index finger. “It’s weird that we’re talking about this thing like it’s a real baby now. I mean, it’s one thing to talk about being knocked up, but I just got hit with the realization that I’m not just pregnant…there’s a kid inside of me.”
I focus on the road ahead of me and imagine what it’ll be like to have a crying baby in the backseat of my car in a few
months. To have someone completely dependent on us for his survival. It’s a surreal thought. I’m not even sure if I’ve ever imagined having kids of my own. Life is so much easier when you only have to worry about yourself.
“Hey look, it’s a baby store,” Miranda says with a tap to her passenger window. A small shopping center is next to the last gas station before our exit for Salt Gap. Sure enough, next to the Cash for Gold and AT&T store is a storefront with zebra print decorations painted on the windows.
“Boutique Baby.” I read the Comic Sans font of the store’s name aloud.
Miranda blows a raspberry with her tongue. “Sounds expensive.”
“Sounds fun,” I say as I turn into the parking lot.
Miranda sits straighter and gives me a quizzical look. “I don’t have much money saved up. There’s no reason to stop.”
I put the car in park and open my door, slinging my purse around my shoulder. “Feel free to stay here then,” I say with a cocky smile. “I have a nephew to shop for.”
The door jingles with a dozen pink and blue bells hanging off the handle as I step inside of Boutique Baby with Miranda excitedly rushing in on my heels. A country station plays on the radio, loud enough for us to browse the store without feeling like we’re being watched. We aren’t really being watched though; the teenager behind the cash register hasn’t looked up from her cell phone since we arrived. Miranda and I browse racks of baby clothes, bypassing all the fluffy tulle skirts and rhinestone onesies for the less flashy boys’ section.
Miranda frowns as she holds up a long-sleeved baby outfit that looks like a baseball jersey. “I’m supposed to have, like, a theme or something right?” She puts back the baseball outfit and grabs a construction worker one and then one with jungle animals on it. “I don’t know what my theme should be.”
I recall a baby shower that Maggie threw for our cousin last year. The mother-to-be was obsessed with monkeys and had made sure that everything in the nursery had a freaking monkey on it. Maggie took the same desperate measures to ensure that the shower was monkey themed, complete with monkey games and cupcakes topped with marzipan monkey faces. It was all a bit too much in my opinion.
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