Page 34 of I Think He Knows
“Oh.” The single syllable out of Lana’s mouth is short and punctuated. And with that, she rolls out of bed and offers me a small smile. “Um, I should shower.”
“Of course.” I’m on my feet in an instant. “I’ll be downstairs starting breakfast.”
Conversation is strangely stilted between Lana and me over our pancakes—even our usual “rate my plate” banter is as flat as the pancakes on said plate—and I’m glad for Legs being there, chatting away obliviously.
Maybe Lan’s feeling weird about last night. It’s been so long since we would sleep next to each other, and I know some of the memories from that time of her life are still painful for her. For me, on the other hand, there were many nights following that period of time where I’d wake up alone and wish she was still there, sleeping next to me—selfish as that thought might have been.
Or maybe I’m overthinking… this might not be about me at all. She could just still thinking about her bad date.
I can ask her later when I tell her about the harebrained engagement plan that Freya and I are about to be thrown into.
After breakfast, I see Lana and Legs off, clean the kitchen, then let myself out of Lana’s house to go by my place and change (whilst avoiding Ant’s judgmental raised brows and smirks) before hitting up the grocery store.
As soon as I step out though, I almost run into a guy lingering on the sidewalk aimlessly. When he sees me, he snaps a photo and starts to walk away. I frown at his retreating back, annoyed by the fact that even here, at Lana Mae’s house, I’m conspicuous. The last thing I need is for the paparazzi to find out where she lives.
I duck into my Jeep and pull away, filled with fresh resolve to protect Lana and Legs at all costs, along with a lingering mental image of how peaceful Lan looked sleeping next to me this morning… like everything was right in the world.
13
LANA MAE
There are two Lululemon moms waving at me from across the parking lot.
You know the type—skinny in that perpetual-pilates-going, snacks-on-only-almonds kinda way, dressed head-to-toe in form-fitting designer sportswear and sunglasses. Sporting expensive blowouts and diamond engagement rings, which glint in the afternoon sunshine as they jingle the keys to their Range Rovers and sip their oat milk lattes.
Do I sound jealous?
It might be because I am. Just a teensy bit. These women never usually wave at me or speak to me, even though our kids have been in dance together for years. I’ve always let that niggling little part of me believe that it’s because I don’t have a husband who’s a banker or a lawyer, or because I’m about a decade younger than most of them, or because I’m not one of those perfectly-put-together moms…
I just don’t fit in. My mom aesthetic is more “looks like she was dragged through a hedge backwards, someone get that woman a coffee now.”
Anyhow, I don’t really have time to wave back right this second because I’m dealing with a way more important issue. Namely, the Instagram photo of Freya DiMauritz that I accidentally just liked, and then, in a panic, unliked.
Because, apparently, Carter flew all the way to Atlanta out of the blue to talk to me about… Freya. And then, he slept in my bed all night. Beside me.
My heart beats at a million miles per minute when I so much as begin to think of his soft expression and smiling, crinkly eyes this morning.
And I know that it was just a mistake that means nothing, a friendly accident. But still, the insecure little so-and-so in me couldn’t help but look Freya up on social media and lament the ethereal bodily perfection of Carter’s latest apparent love interest in comparison to my own, humanly imperfect body, while I asked myself over and over again what he’s doing back in Atlanta.
Is he here to tell me that their work meetings blossomed into romance and he’s now dating her for real?
Not sure why that would warrant an in-person conversation. Or any embarrassment on his part. He’s dated plenty of women over the years, and Freya’s freaking hot.
Like, super hot.
In the picture I accidentally liked, she’s wearing a Baywatch-red bikini and a million dollar Hollywood smile. Her long hair fans around her dreamily—this pic was taken before she got one of those fashionable butterfly layer cuts that make stunning people like her look like they’re doing a modern take on Farrah Fawcett, but would make regular people (i.e. me) look like they’d just stuck their finger in a electrical socket.
The problem is that the picture—the one that my clumsy thumb hearted—was from the dark depths of her feed. I’m talkingthree years ago.And if sheisCarter’s latest girlfriend, she’s bound to notice his weird best friend liking her ancient pics like a stalker.
Would I be a terrible mother if I say that Allegra got ahold of my phone and went on a liking spree?
Oblivious to my internal panic, the Lulu Moms get closer, white teeth flashing. “Lana! Lana Mae! Over here.”
I blink in confusion at the confirmation that it is, in fact, me that they are waving at, and not the brick wall behind me (which would probably be more plausible). I smile and nod awkwardly in response before hurrying towards the dance studio entrance, clutching Legs’s favorite Strawberry-Kiwi Breeze smoothie from Smoothie King in one hand. Because no, I didn’t have a moment to make anything from scratch for her healthy post-dance snack, like my ever-present Mom-guilt dictates I must.
Seriously, Mom-guilt is a real thing. And it’s a freaking nuisance.
Inside, the studio is cool and air-conditioned, a welcome relief from the impending summer heat. The music is blaring and the kids are all doing a slightly frantic, leapy dance.