Madison

Emily, Ashlee, Calista, Brecka, me. Five girls crowd into a booth meant for four. Five fake driver's licenses. A waitress in black trousers sets down a silver tray carrying five pink strawberry daiquiris complete with whipped cream.

“Who gets the virgin?”

“Me.” Brecka raises her hand, a gesture that may or may not have been intended to make her five-carat pink diamond flash in the relatively dim light. How do pink diamonds even exist? It seems like anything Brecka wants, Brecka gets.

Emily, Ashlee, and Calista squeal in surprise. None of them heard Brecka whisper the request to the waitress.

I'm less surprised, although I only overheard because I was waiting for the right moment to whisper my own request. I've been taking a lot of little assessing glances at girls' bellies these days. Can't seem to stop myself.

So. Five strawberry daiquiris topped with whipped cream. Two of them with a cherry instead of a strawberry. A sign, so the waitress can remember which ones are alcohol-free.

Brecka gets one of the cherries and, before the waitress can call attention to me, I grab the other one off the tray. The girl looks at me and starts to say something. Then she sees from the look on my face that she's already said enough.

“Evidently, our president has a big announcement for us,” Callista says.

Everybody else is still staring at Brecka, and nobody except the waitress has taken much notice of me. I can breathe. Deep breaths. It's gonna be OK.

“How many weeks?” Ashlee asks. “You're not showing anything yet.”

“Six weeks.” It sounds corny when people say pregnant women glow, but Brecka really is glowing with pride. “I'll still fit into next week's wedding dress.”

I need to contribute to this conversation, so I say something. Anything. I don't even know what it's going to be until I hear the words spool out of my mouth. “Now I know why Lane insisted on such a short engagement. He's a fast worker.”

“He says if he knows what he wants, he doesn't see any reason to delay in taking it.”

The words are unexpectedly painful, especially since I still don't know how Noah's going to react. Fuck. I do know. In my heart, I know. He won't take it well. He's just got something started with Barbie Strange, and they're making this bigtime movie, and the last thing he's going to need on his plate is some unknown eighteen-year-old popping up with his baby.

“Oooh,” Emily says. “Is your mom OK with that?”

“My mom fucking loves him.” Brecka's eyes dance. “And she's thrilled about being a grandmother-to-be.”

I can't take it anymore. I'm sitting on the inside of the booth, or I'd have already made a break for the ladies where I can break down and sob my heart out in peace. “You're so lucky. Southern women are so into that grandma thing. My mom is gonna crap.”

I shouldn't tell them, especially I shouldn't tell them before the father himself even knows, but this weight is too heavy for me, and the words come pouring out.

Everything's blurred in front of me from the tears I can't choke back. Somebody says something about how he needs to be rich enough for Club Sugar Daddy, and I spout some crap about how he's definitely rich enough, even though I already know he doesn't make the hundred million dollar mark and, fuck me, they're going to find out soon enough who it is. But I'm not ready to come clean about what a mess I've made of my entire life.

I've let down the club.

I've let down everybody.

And all for a guy who doesn't love me the way I love him.

Wait a minute. Where did that come from? The l-word. I shouldn't even be thinking the fucking l-word when I'm thinking about Noah Hammond.

He's a one-night stand. A rock star. Soon to be a movie star. He's with somebody else. Somebody rich and famous. Another movie star.

Why the hell would he ever want to be with me?

I need to forget all about him but, right now, I can't. I keep remembering the look in his eyes when he lifted that sweep of blue hair out of my face so he could kiss me on the corner of my eye and then the corner of my mouth.

“Um, the only thing is, he's a famous guy. Everything needs to be on the downlow for a while because the tabloids are going to go fucking crazy.”

“Who?” Everybody's got one question. “Who?”

I feel like I'm in the middle of a flock of owls.

“I'm not ready to reveal that yet,” I say. “He made me promise not to tell anybody until his publicist gives us the green light.”

“You can tell us,” Brecka says. “It'll be strictly confidential between you and the other members of the club.”

“I know I can, but I'm not ready, and he's not ready. Anyway, this isn't fair to you, Brecka. This was supposed to be your big reveal.”

She taps her virgin strawberry daiquiri against mine. “I don't mind sharing big reveals.”

“You shouldn't have to share. So tell us. Do you know yet?”

“Know what?” A dimple twinkles in her cheek.

“Boy or girl?” Emily asks.

“Ha. I haven't decided yet if I want to know.”

“Of course you want to know. You want to know how to decorate, don't you?”

Everybody's eyes are glittering. They're all thinking about how cool it's going to be, having access to Lane Darnelle's billions to fix up the nursery and hire all the staff.

They.

They're all thinking.

Why not we? Why aren't we all thinking? Because I'm not thinking much about that stuff at all. If the truth be told, I'm experiencing too much of a sudden stab of jealousy to think much of anything about Brecka's good fortune.

Her baby will have everything, including a father who's there and who cares.

Will my baby be able to say the same?