CATERINA


    “Howe you’re not trying on any clothes?”


    Damn it. I was hoping I’d get away with it.


    We’ve been shopping for the past half hour, and only now has she ought to ask why I haven’t picked out anything. I was kind of hoping she wouldn’t pay attention. She’s having a good time trying on skirts and dresses and jeans. Now she’s frowning at me from the three–way mirror outside her dressing room stall. “Why aren’t you shopping, too?”


    I’m sure the response: I don’t know how much longer I’ll fit into anything. It would be a waste of money to buy anything in my size when I don’t have the first idea of how pregnancy will affect <b>my </b>body… wouldn’t go over well.


    “I feel bloated,” I groan, rubbing my stomach. “It’s just not a good day.”


    “I’m sorry. Would you prefer we go back home?”


    I like that she thinks of it as home for both of us. “No, I’m fine. I <b>just </b>know I would hate myself in everything I tried on<b>.</b><b>” </b>


    “You always look great, if that helps.”


    “Thanks. And you look hot in that dress.‘


    She does a little twirl in front of the mirror, hands on her hips. The pale blue color goes great with her blonde curls and sun- tanned skin. “It’s cute.”


    “I did not use the word cute. You’d be walking around setting off three–rm fires in that dress.”


    For some reason, her smile fades. Instead of looking at her reflection with her usual confidence, she chews her lip–much more of that, and she’ll split it open. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”


    I never know the right thing to say. I know that whateveres out will end up hurting her. <b>It’s </b>like she doesn’t care about looking nice anymore–like she would rather not even try.


    Look at what he took from her. I haven’t asked Gianni about Christopher, though I hope he’s dead. It’s the only thing he


    deserves.


    “It’s really pretty on you,” I point out, trying to be careful. “I say buy it but leave the tags on. Try it on again in a week or two, and if you’re still unsure, bring it back.”


    She runs a hand over the low–cut bust line, the thin straps over her shoulders. “Yeah. That’s not a bad idea.” She’s looking at her body like she’s never seen it before, as if she doesn’t know what to do with it. I have to look at the floor out of panic that I’ll start crying. Thest thing I want is for her to think I pity her. I do, however. There’s a burning pain in my chest that only spreads when I look at her.


    “What about all this?” I gesture to the pile of clothes in the dressing room that she decided, for one reason or another, she didn’t like.


    “I don’t want any of those.” When I absently start picking things up<b>, </b>she scowls at me. “Stop. I can clean up after myself.”


    “I’ll help you. It’s not like I’m doing anything else.”


    <b>“</b>I feel bad. You should’ve said something about not feeling up to shopping today.”


    I didn’t think of it until we were already at the store. The life growing inside me is at the forefront of my mind pretty much all <ol><li>t. I’m too practical the time. Oddly enough, I didn’t give any thought to shopping with somebody who doesn’t know I’m preg to buy something for the sake of appearances, although that’s what I should do if I want to keep her in the dark. </li></ol>


    I have to tell Gianni first. I wish I could find the right time. Only there’s always something going on. <b>He’s </b><b>in </b><b>a </b>meeting, or busy with Roger, or I have to go to work. He’s been under so much stresstely, too. I still don’t quite know how he will take the news.


    <b>I </b><b>don’t </b><b>want </b><b>to </b>ruin anything by telling him at the wrong time.


    <b>Thang </b><b>up </b><b>a </b><b>couple </b>of dresses and take them out to the rack where people leave what they don’t want. <b>I </b>wonder if I’ll ever look <b>good </b>in clothes like these again–form–fitting dresses, crop tops.


    <b>“</b>You okay out there?<b>” </b>I jump<b>, </b>startled, when Tatiana pokes her head out from the dressing room. “You got super <b>quiet</b><b>.</b>”


    “Oh, I’m fine. Distracted, I guess.”


    “Worried about your dad?” she asks before closing the door again


    I wasn’t until now after she mentioned him. “Yeah, a little, although that’s nothing new.”


    “He hasn’t gone back on saying he’s okay with you and Dad being together, has he?”


    “No. I can tell he’s not thrilled, but he hasn’t said anything.” He sure will once he finds out about the baby. He’ll have plenty <b>to </b>say. I just don’t think I’ll want to hear it.


    “He’d better not if he wants to keep his balls.”


    “Tatiana…” I have tough at how fierce she sounds. All she ever wants is to defend the people she cares about.


    “Sorry, but it’s true. You’re obviously happy,” she grumbles a little to herself<b>, </b>behind the closed door and out of sight. “With my dad. Which is kind of gross.<b>” </b>


    “Uh, I heard that.” I tap the door with my knuckles. “I’m standing right here.”


    “I mean, gross in the way it’s gross when you have to think about your parents as a person and <b>not</b>, like, a mom or a dad. It’s not like he ever really dated before you two got together, so this is kind of new territory to me.”


    “But… you’re okay with it? Right?” Asking a question like that is easier with a door between us. I strain my ears<b>, </b>wanting to hear anything she might whisper or mutter under her breath.


    Turns out, I don’t need to worry. She flings the door open just as I jump back to keep from getting hit then she wraps me up in a hug. “I’m okay with it,” she whispers in my ear while squeezing me<b>. </b>“I don’t want you to ever think I’m not. I’d feel so bad if I thought you were worried. All I care about is your happiness, and if you guys are happy together, so am I.”


    I wonder if she understands how important it is for me to hear that “It’s important we’re still okay. You’re the only one of my


    friends who bothered to stick around once…”


    Her hold tightens, probably because she knows I’m thinking about Luciano and how he alienated me from everybody else in my life. Luciano, whose parents are half crazy with grief this very minute. Stop. You have to stop thinking about it.


    It’s like she can read my mind. “Do not me yourself.” When she pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, wearing a stern little scowl, it’s like I got my best friend back. Finally, with her eyes zing and her cheeks flushed. “You hear me? I want you to say it. I do not me myself.”


    “I do not me myself,” I whisper.


    “Yeah. That’s believable.” She lets go of me and grabs the rest of what’s left in the dressing room. “Come on. I’m starving. Give me a minute to buy this stuff and we’ll have lunch.”


    “Sounds good.” Even though I don’t have much of an appetite; it’s been touch–and–go the past couple of days. I know I need to eat, but the idea doesn’t appeal to me. I wish I had somebody besides the inte to ask questions. I don’t know if any of this is typical or if there’s anything to make me feel better, I’ve read that peppermint seems to help, but my faith in it working is low. Everything makes me feel worse. Gah, I miss my mom. I wish more than anything she was here now to offer me advice. She would know what to do.


    It’s when we’re in line at the register that the onset of sweating hits me. Suddenly I feel like I’m standing <b>directly </b>in front of the sun. “Is it warm in here?” I ask shyly.