My phone flashes with Ami’s name.
“I’ve ballooned,” I mutter into the phone, wedging it between my cheek and shoulder.
“You’re pregnant, not ballooned,” she says, always the diplomat.
“I’m like dough expanding with the heat.”
“Yummy. How are you feeling?”
“At the thrift store right now.”
“That must mean you’re feeling cooped up. Does your posh baby daddy know your shopping habits? Does he even know what a thrift store is?”
“I don’t run everything by him. And you’re making him sound like a snob.”
“Never mind him,” she says dismissively. “Hey, I called to tell you that I took time off for June.”
“You did?”
“Yup.” She pauses before speaking nearly timidly. “Youdidwant my help didn’t you?”
“Of course,Ate!”
“Whew, OK, wasn’t sure if I’m imposing myself.”
“Never.”
“Can’t wait to meet my . . . when do you find out the sex of the babies?”
“We have an ultrasound coming up, but I’m leaning toward waiting.”
“No cake color or rocket launch reveals in your future, then?”
“Not for me.”
She sighs. “I wish I was there while you’re going through the pregnancy.”
“I’m doing well. I promise.”
“Still, I miss you. Hey, I have an idea. What do you think about visiting me in Texas during your spring break in March? Can you still travel?”
“Yeah,” I say, rifling through a rack of jeans that range from snug on a Barbie to aggressively wide-legged. “Dr. LeGuin said it’s fine until around thirty weeks. I’d love that.”
“We’ll get a cute Airbnb during the weekend. You can rest, and I’ll rub your stinky feet.”
“Don’t make promises you’re not prepared to keep.”
“Got myself a nose plug.”
“Deal. I’ll look at flights tonight.”
I pause to consider a gray knit dress. Stretchy. Forgiving. A little pilly, but nothing a sweater shaver couldn’t fix.
“You know, you could go to Target,” she adds.
“If I’m entering my ‘pregnancy muumuu’ era, I don’t want to pay full price. Besides, when I go to Target, I end up at the snack aisle.”
“That sounds healthy,” she deadpans.
