It’s just hormones, I say when I put my arm around her as we leave and I feel her chilly fingers under the hem of my shirt, tracing the slice of my skin above my jeans.
It’s just hormones, I tell her as I bury my head in her neck and finally lift her skirt as soon as we get back to her place.
It’s just hormones, I tell myself.
Fuck.
17
ROSIE
I’m choppingpeppers when my mother rings. I wipe my hands on a towel and place it on speakerphone
“Hello,” I answer. “Sorry, I’m hands-free while I cook.”
“What are you making?”
“Risotto.”
“Just for you?”
“I’m making a big batch,” I tell her, stirring the rice in my cast iron pot and not sure how to tell her that I’m cooking for my six foot five baby daddy who eats enough for three people. The bright orange casserole pot is a knock-off of the Le Creuset that Cleo got one year. I asked for one for myself the year after and got this instead. I can’t complain though. She uses hers for decoration, but I use mine nearly every week. I’d end up using a real one so much that it would lose its color or scratch the base.
“You know you have to double the recipe for that?” Mum reprimands. “You need to add protein. You always need to add protein to your diet, you can’t survive on just vegetables.”
“Yes, I know I’ve got tofu.”
“You should just use chicken, it’s much nicer with real meat.”
I sigh but continue chopping. I’ve been a vegetarian for almost nine years now, but we have this argument every time.
“I don’t have chicken, I have tofu,” I say patiently.
Mum huffs down the line, so I divert before she can turn it into another lecture about how every meal needs meat, veg and carbs.
“Are you up to anything nice this weekend?”
“We’re in the city for the day,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. They hardly ever come to London, preferring the countryside and their small town. Dad gets stressed driving through the city but refuses to take a train, so it’s typically a rare occurrence. “You should have said, I would have come and met you somewhere.”
“It was a last minute decision.”
“Is Cleo with you?” I ask.
“Hmm?” she answers distractedly. I can hear my Dad’s low voice on the other side of the line as her attention is pulled away.
“I said, is Cleo with you?”
I tip my peppers into the pot and adjust the heat as I hear a low mumble in the background. “I’ll let you go, Mum,” I raise my voice to be heard over her other conversation.
I don’t get a reply before the phone line goes dead.
I nod my head. Sounds about right. I still haven’t told her about the baby, but whenever we have one sided conversations like this I remind myself why I haven’t.
I lose myself in my cooking, Michael Kiwanuka’s voice serenading me through my speaker. When I’m nearly finished, I hear the buzz of the intercom.
Jackson’s early. I quickly down my tools and cross to the phone, letting him up without waiting for a reply.
