Page 64 of Truth or More Truth
“What it does is keep me awake so I can drive my lovely daughter to all the different places she needs to be.”
Kelli huffs. “Whatever. Just cut back, will you? You’re already old. I don’t need you dying on me.”
twenty-seven
. . .
“He still hasn’t called.” I’m whining, but I don’t feel bad about it. It’s now the fourth of January, and I have yet to hear from Bobby. Iknewit was all too good to be true.
“Patience, my friend,” Wendy says from the other end of the phone. “He’ll call.”
“How do you know?” I wrap the phone cord around my finger.
“Because he’s Bobby. He said he’d explain everything to you, and he always does what he says. His timeline just happens to be a little different than yours.”
“Has he called Randall to get my phone number, at least?” We never did exchange numbers, since we thought we’d be spending another day together.
“No, but we’re not the only people he knows who have your number.”
“Well, he’s not going to try to get ahold of Leslie and Ash right now, is he?” I flop onto my back on my couch in frustration.
“You make a valid point. But still, he’ll call. You can count on it.”
“What if I don’t like what he has to say?”
“Then you don’t. But you won’t know whether you’ll like it until you hear it.”
I drape my free arm over my face. “Can’t you just tell me what’s going on with him?”
“I most definitely cannot. Now, we need to get your mind off all this. Why don’t you come over, and we’ll have dinner and watch TV. It’s mostly reruns tonight, but there’s a new episode ofChina Beach.”
“And we’ll drink wine,” I add.
She hesitates before saying, “There will be wine. I’ll send Randall out to get food from Pat’s Diner so nobody has to cook. What do you want from there?”
Within thirty minutes, I’m knocking on the door of my friends’ apartment. Wendy opens it for me and heads straight to the couch, where she plops down unceremoniously and puts her feet up. I take a seat on the other end of the couch.
“Randall’s out picking up the food. Should be back soon. I’mstarving.”
Wendy pats her belly, and then she starts caressing it, which is odd. As I watch her hand and then move my focus up to her face, which has a dreamy look on it, a smile grows on my own face.
“You’re pregnant!” I point at her.
Her gaze shoots to mine. “What?”
“Don’t you lie to me, Wendy O’Halloran Hamilton. I never saw you drink a drop of alcohol at the wedding, and now you’re rubbing your belly like it’s a genie’s lamp. There’s a baby in there. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Now she’s beaming. “Yeah, there’s a little pea-sized baby in me.” She punches the air and squeals. “We’re having a baaaaaby!”
I launch myself at her, and we hug and laugh and cry like we’re teenagers, not fully grown women.
When I drag myself from her and we wipe the happy tears from our faces, she says, “I have even more news.”
“Bigger than having a baby?”
“Maybe not bigger, but pretty big. We’re moving this month.”
“Thismonth?”
