Page 62 of Nash
"That's not a real rule," Sloane says from the couch, where she's already cross-legged with a glass of lemonade.
"It is now. I'm making rules. Rule two: no talking about men for the first thirty minutes."
"That's going to be hard," Darla says, opening the pickled okra, "considering I'm carrying one of them."
"He's not a man yet. He hasn't even been born. Therefore, exempt." I check my phone. "All fully formed men are banned from conversation until seven-thirty."
"It's seven-oh-two," Candace says.
"Twenty-eight minutes of freedom. Use them wisely."
The first twenty-eight minutes are exactly what I needed without knowing I needed it. We make it two minutes before breaking my rule. Honestly, that feels like growth.
Sloane starts. "The first time I cooked for Knox, I set off the smoke alarm. Not once. Three times. In forty minutes."
"What were you making?" Candace asks.
"Spaghetti. Just spaghetti. The noodles boiled over, the sauce burned, and I forgot about the garlic bread. Knox came into the kitchen, opened every window, fanned the smoke detector with a dish towel, and said, 'We're ordering in.' Then he ate the burned garlic bread anyway."
"That tracks," Candace says.
Darla is already laughing. She reaches for the pickled okra, unscrews the lid, and dips one directly into the jar of peanut butter she brought.
Maggie watches the dip happen. Her face goes through four stages of grief. "Darla. Baby. What is that?"
"Pickled okra and peanut butter. Don't knock it."
"I'm not knocking it. I'm mourning it."
"It's delicious." Darla takes a bite. Chews. Nods with conviction. "The twins want what the twins want."
"The twins want therapy," Sloane says.
"Easy for you to say. You're what, three months? You're in the cute phase. Give it time."
"I'm not having cravings."
"Yet." Darla points the okra at her. "You say that now. Wait until month six when you're standing in your kitchen at midnight eating mustard on a tortilla because your body has decided that's a food group."
"That's not going to happen to me."
"Knox is going to find you crying in the pantry at two a.m. holding a jar of olives you don't even like."
"I don't even like olives."
"EXACTLY. That's how it works. You hate olives now. By month seven, you'll be eating them out of the jar with your bare hands, sobbing, while Knox stands in the doorway trying to figure out if this is a medical emergency."
Candace is grinning. Maggie is shaking her head.
"East found me eating cold spaghetti dipped in chocolate syrup last week," Darla continues. "He stared at me for thirty seconds. Then he got a fork and tried it."
"And?" I ask.
"He said it was 'not terrible.' Then he ate half the plate. We're both monsters now."
"You're dipping a pickle into peanut butter," Maggie says.
"And I've never felt more alive." Darla dips another one. Offers it to Candace. Candace leans as far back into the couch as her body will allow.
