Page 157 of Diego

I rub my forehead as another cramp hits me, a little more noticeable than the first but still more uncomfortable than painful. I stop moving and wait for the tightness to ease, which it does after a few seconds.

Donna notices immediately. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little cramp.”

Her attention sharpens. “Where?”

“Low. It’s fine.”

“How bad?”

“Barely anything.” I shift my weight and straighten when the last of it disappears. “I’ve hardly eaten normally for the last couple of weeks. My stomach probably doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be upset about anymore.”

Julia is watching me too, but I pick up another blouse and turn toward the mirror before either of them can make more of it.

Lunch arrives ten minutes later.

A young man from a restaurant brings several containers into the boutique and hands them to one of the employees, who arranges everything on the table like we are having a private catered meeting instead of shopping for elastic waistbands. There are salads, soup, sandwiches, and fruit.

I stare at the spread. “This is insane.”

Julia hands me a plate. “Eat.”

“I am surrounded by women who keep giving me orders.”

“You seem to need them.”

I take the plate because I am hungry enough that arguing feels pointless. We eat in the lounge while Donna complains that the baby has been tap dancing on her ribs lately and Julia tells a story about Ricardo assembling something for Cecilia that apparently came with instructions he refused to read. I listen more than I talk at first, then gradually find myself joining in until it feels almost normal to be sitting here with them.

I catch myself thinking again that this must be what being folded into the Conti orbit feels like. Doors open. People remember your name and preferences. Lunch appears. Problems get handled before anyone has to ask. I am used to creating that experience for other people, and being on this side of it is both pleasant and deeply disorienting.

Still not getting used to it, though, I think resolutely as I finish half a delicious pesto-tomato-mozzarella sandwich.

Another cramp comes while I am reaching for my tea. This one lasts a little longer, a dull pressure low in my abdomen that makes me set the cup back down and wait for it to pass.

Julia notices. “Blair?”

“I’m okay.”

Donna watches me closely. “Again?”

“Just another little one.” I straighten when it eases. “I probably ate too much after barely eating anything all week.”

Donna looks unconvinced, although she does not immediately turn it into an interrogation. “If it gets stronger, you say something.”

“I will.”

This time I mean it.

After lunch, the boutique becomes even more absurdly attentive. Someone clears the dishes while another employee brings in a fresh rack of clothes based on what we liked from the first round.

Donna gets measured for a coat. Julia finds a dress she insists she is only trying on because the color is good. I get talked into maternity jeans that look exactly like normal jeans, which feels like witchcraft.

I'm trying not to worry too much about these price tags.

Unfortunately, Julia catches me looking at another one.

“You’re doing it again.”