Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Dont' Live Forever

“So, really, there was no reason for me to come home,” I said, awkwardly stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Andrea arched an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, I wish someone had thought to tell you that.”

In an undead relationship, it’s best not to focus on the “nots.” Not being able to have children.

Not being able to legally marry. Instead, focus on what you can have, true long-term commitment.

—Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less Destructive Relationships

I could smell that Jolene was pregnant, a new, soft, green sort of scent that hit me the moment she opened the creaking trailer door.

I put on my “ignoring my surroundings” smile, the one that said, “I do not see the huge streaks of rust lapping down the pink wall panels or the carpeting that may be Astroturf.” Zeb was overseeing a PTA meeting that night and had asked me to check in on his bride. She’d missed me, he said, and was a little put out that it had taken me three days to make it over to their place.

Fortunately, I was carrying two recently reheated pot pies to win my way back into her good graces.

“Hey!” She beamed until she saw what I was holding. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Jolene loved Mama’s pot pies. For the last year, they were the only thing that kept her enormous appetite at bay when she visited my house. Since she and Zeb became my neighbors, I brought them over regularly for Jolene to snack on. And now, the mere presence of my foilwrapped gift seemed to be turning Jolene a delightful shade of “bleh.”

“I’ll be fine,” she whimpered. “I’m just a little sensitive to smells right now. Hormones combined with werewolf nose make it so much worse. Zeb was brownin’ hamburger the other night, and I had to run out of the room to throw up twice. And I can’t eat the foods I usually love.

I couldn’t get enough of your mama’s pot pies a few months ago, and now, just the thought of breakin’ the crust—” Jolene took a deep breath and pursed her lips.

“I’ll leave it outside,” I said. “You sit down.”

I went to the kitchen and managed to smack myself in the face with a half-attached cupboard door while I poured Jolene a glass of water. The trailer was snug, to say the least. The kitchen was what Jolene’s mother, Mimi, called a “two-butt model,” meaning no more than two butts could fit side by side between the stained faux-wood-grain counters at any one time.

“You’re out of Saltines, so I grabbed some Ritz crackers,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said, the color of her cheeks returning ever so slightly as she opened the waxpaper tube. “So, how was your trip?”

I launched into what was now the standard, heavily edited description. Lovely hotels, rude people, beautiful museums. Jolene paused mid-chew and clapped a hand over her mouth. With an

“Oh, God,” she ran for the bathroom door and retched pitifully.

Like a doofus, I followed her into the tiny bathroom. “Are you OK?”

I pressed my hand over my nose as Jolene’s sick smell smacked me in the face.

“This is as close to pregnancy as I ever want to get.” I handed her the water glass. “I thought morning sickness was just supposed to be, well, in the morning.”

“My ass. It’s around-the clock- ‘no-warnin’ sickness,’” she wheezed. “One minute, I’m a perfectly fine, functioning human being, and the next, I’m tossin’ up everything I’ve ever eaten.”

“And that’s saying something,” I marveled. She glared at me. “Not helping, sorry.”

“I threw up in the parkin’ lot at the Piggly Wiggly the other day. I had to tell Bitty Tate I was pregnant, because I didn’t want her telling everybody I’ve got a drinkin’ problem. Everything makes me sick. I ate a salad the other day, a salad, without any meat at all. I’m gonna waste away to nothin’.”

I eyed her belly paunch, which made her look about four months along in human terms. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

She glared up at me. “I’m gonna hit you, just as soon as I can stand up.”

“Fair warning.”

“I’m so miserable,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “And I should be grateful that we made a baby so easily. Some mixed couples can’t, you know. And I can’t complain to my mama, because she’ll camp out here in the living room and refuse to leave until the baby is in college.

And I can’t complain to Zeb, because he gets this weird, frightened-rabbit look in his eyes if I imply that I’m anythin’ but one-hundred-percent awesome. I’m just—I’m glad you’re here, Jane.”

“Well, you look great,” I told her, pushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead. And it was true in an infuriating way. Even the sweaty glow and water retention of early pregnancy only bumped Jolene down to what would be considered gorgeous for most humans. It just wasn’t fair to the four billion or so other women on the planet. My only consolation was that eating a Ritz cracker had just made her throw up.

“So, how’s your family?” I asked, helping her back into her chair.

“Well, Mama’s overjoyed. Calls me six or seven times a day. She says hi, by the way. Daddy’s sort of torn between pride and the horror of knowin’ what his little girl’s been up to. I think up until now, he’d been tellin’ himself that Zeb and I were sleepin’ in bunk beds. My cousins are sort of holdin’ their breath, I think, because they know my aunts are gonna make a huge fuss because it’s my first baby. And my cousin Vance has run away with a carnival.”

I shuddered, picturing the none-too-bright cousin with unnatural feelings for Jolene operating a Tilt-A-Whirl. “Is this one of those things where I hope that you’re kidding but assume that you’re not?” She nodded. I tried to use a nonchalant tone as I asked, “How are you and Zeb doing?”

She sighed again. “Weird. He’s so quiet. He’s never quiet, except for when, you know, under a whammy. Oh, man, you don’t think Mama Ginger scrambled his brain again, do you?”

“No. You know what I think?”

“Obviously not, or we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation,” she muttered.

“I think Zeb’s just scared. Scared of growing up. Scared of not being able to take care of you and the … litter.” Jolene got it together enough to smack my arm. I winced, glad that bruises didn’t last long on me. “OK, think about what happens to married people with children in Zeb’s family.

They end up drunk and angry and living in matching trailers in their relatives’ backyards. He’s terrified of ending up like Mama Ginger and Floyd. I think he convinced himself that he could handle the transition to husband pretty well, but what I will only refer to as his spontaneity and your superabsorbent eggs came back to bite both of you on the butt.”

“What do I do?”

“Stop putting ketchup on your egg rolls, for one thing. That’s gross. And maybe your family could spend less time rearranging your cabinets. Other than that, hell, I’ve never been married or pregnant. What do I know?”

She huffed. “Well, you’re a big help.”

“I do what I can. Or don’t, as the case may be. Now, tell me, how is Mama Ginger? Is she still all skittish and sorry? Or has she returned to her deranged, yet strangely effective, ways?”

“No, thank the Lord.” Jolene rolled her eyes. “She seems to feel just bad enough to stick to snippy comments when Zeb’s not around and then pretendin’ not to know why I’m upset.”

My brows lifted. “Comments about?”

“About having everythin’ handed to me. How it must be nice to have a family that will give you a trailer, friends that will give you land and money to build a house. About how I need to cut the apron strings and stop letting my family boss me around. I guess, ’cause she wants to be the one bossin’ me around. Then she’ll start makin’ suggestions on how I could make her son happier.