Page 29 of Run To You
Sloane furrows her brows. “What’s wrong with Pia?”
“Shit, didn’t Becca tell you? Pia’s about to drop a baby!”
Sloane gasps. “She’s pregnant?”
“Heavily.” I laugh.
“Wow,” is all I get back.
“I’ll text the group, if you’re cool with that, ba…Sloane.”
Shit, I nearly called her babe.
She must have heard the near slip, because there’s a twitch at the edge of her mouth. If she cares she doesn’t show it, so I just power on, rattling off a text to everyone.
Bella will absolutely show up like she’s walking a red carpet, probably in a mesh top, ripped black tights and her usual Doc Marten boots. Becca will come just to insult Bella’s shoes and try to see how much meat she can stealoff the grill before being caught. I’ve never met anyone who eats like that woman.
Sloane disappears inside with her mum, presumably to start preparing food. I wrap a towel around myself and sit on the warm cement, letting the sun toast my skin. For the first time in ages, my brain isn’t loud. It’s just here, in the moment, and quiet.
The girls start arriving over the next hour, a slow procession of chaos and questionable fashion choices. Bella is, as predicted, dressed for a Berlin nightclub and walks straight past Sloane’s mother with a wink.
“Mrs B,” she says, “I brought the good wine.” She holds up a bottle with a label in French. Neither of us reads French, but it looks expensive, so we pretend.
Becca and Pia show up together. I imagine Becca was summoned by our rather emotional and large friend to pick her up. Pia isn’t doing well with Todd being away so much and has started calling on her friends more often.
Becca has a bag of Doritos for herself and a quart of Ben & Jerry’s for Pia, who waddles behind her, fanning herself with a paper plate. The baby bump is, in fact, enormous. I try not to stare, but it’s like seeing the world’s smallest, grumpiest Buddha in a sundress.
“Holy shit, Pia,” I say, running up to hug her gently. “You’re radiant!”
Pia laughs, then immediately grimaces. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, you’ll make me pee,” she whines. Becca cackles.
Mrs Bishop has gone full hostess, setting out salads and sides and cutlery—I think it’s the “good” set. We spread out on the deck, and even Bella behaves herself, at least for the first ten minutes.
For a while, Sloane keeps looking at Pia. At first, I thought she was still in shock over the whole bun-in-the-oven thing, but then I really see what’s going on. Sloane is petrified Pia’s going to go all Hulk on her lovely arse.
Before the baby, Pia would have “cut a bitch,” as she so often put it, if I was hurt. Now, though, she’s mellowed. She asked if I was good, and I said I was. There’s no need for Pia to be the mamma bear of me.
Sloane hovers at the grill with her dad, sleeves cuffed, tongs in hand, all serious focus and little jokes. Every time I see her I notice these micro-expressions I forgot she had; how she nibbles her lip when concentrating, or how she sighs before laughing. She’s not the same girl from high school, but she isn’t a stranger either.
At some point, the conversation turns to London.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Bella says, as if she’s daring me to admit cowardice.
“I think so,” I reply, watching her for signs of mockery. But she just grins, all teeth and approval.
“Good, because I’ve already started planning my outfits,” Bella dictates in complete seriousness.
“You’re going to be a famous artist and forget about us!” Becca declares, her voice only half joking.
“Impossible,” I say.
Becca gives a satisfied shrug and returns to her chips.
Pia looks at me with her usual soft concern. “You know we’re proud, right?” She says it so simply. I nod too fast, swallow around a hot prick of happy tears.
Later, after food and mocktails and some truly tragic pool volleyball, Sloane and I end up sitting with our feet dipped in the pool. She’s wrapped in a soft hoodie, sipping from a sad, watery soda, and I feel like we’re in one of those “coming home” moments from a movie, only better because it’s real.
She doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets me sit near her, close enough that our knees touch every so often.
