The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(85)

“What you doing over in Dunham?” D’Andre asks.

“Looking around at some businesses for sale. I’m buying one with my dad’s insurance money.” Tucker crouches beside me and starts to paw through the pieces of the crib.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Lots of franchises, but nothing feels right. I can’t see myself making sub sandwiches for the rest of my life, even if the P&L statements are good. I could buy a couple of small rentals. Good cash flow with that.”

D’Andre nods. “Yeah. You’d be able to do most of the maintenance too. What else is out there?”

“In my price range? Mostly small businesses. There are a couple gyms, lots of foodie places, and a few other things which I think are a big money drain.”

“Gotta find something you like.”

“You know it.” Tucker hops to his feet. “I’m going to get the rest of the shit from the truck.”

I give him an absent nod as he leaves. In no time, we have the desk cleared out. Hope and I start to move it, but D’Andre stomps over and pushes me away.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Get over there and sit down.” He shakes his head. “Fool girl. The size of a house and she’s still trying to pretend she’s not pregnant,” he mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him.

Chastised, I make my way over to the bed to start sorting things. I’m going to have to clean out my closet and dresser drawers because, as Carin said, babies require a lot of shit. Diapers are already stacked in the corner of the closet—they were a gift from Hope. I can’t imagine going through all of them, even if the books say that you change a diaper six to ten times a day.

The books I picked up at the used bookstore were old, so I’m guessing some of the information is outdated. Because six to ten times a day? Who’s got time for that? Tucker has some newer books, so I can compare notes with him later.

Hope joins me on the bed. “‘Most Likely to be a Lawyer, 8th Grade.’” She makes a face. “You were a barrel of laughs as a kid, weren’t you?”

I snatch the stupid certificate out of her hand. “I suck at science but didn’t mind telling people exactly what I thought of them, so doctor was out and lawyer was in.”

“I think that’s talk show host, not lawyer.” She reaches out to glide her hand across my stomach. “How’s our baby today?”

“Sleeping.”

“I want to feel her kick. Wake her up.”

Hope has baby fever. Every time I see her, she wants to rub my belly like I’m the lucky Buddha statue at a Chinese restaurant. Unfortunately for Hope, the baby and I are not on the same schedule. When I’m moving around, she’s sleeping. The moment I get into bed, she decides to wake up. Doctor Laura told me it was because my movement lulls the baby to sleep. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help me get a good night’s sleep, does it?

“How am I supposed to do that? Jumping jacks?”

“Would that make the baby fall out? Like if you were near your due date, could you shake shake shake it out?” Carin wriggles her arms like she’s a member of Taylor Swift’s dance squad.

I stare at her. “Please tell me that whatever science field you end up studying in grad school, it won’t be important.”

Carin flips me off and shimmies her way across the room before bending down to pick up one of the bags we filled at Goodwill. She dumps them on the floor and starts sorting the whites from the colors. We agreed at the store that everything had to be washed in the hottest water possible given the smell of some of the items.

“Did you know that when the baby starts moving that it’s called the quickening?” Hope says.

I snicker. “So she’s going to burst out of my stomach with a sword declaring there can be only one?”

“Possibly. Women have died in childbirth, right? The baby is essentially a parasite. It lives off your nutrients, saps your energy.” She taps the bottom of a hanger against her lip. “So yeah, I think the Highlander motto could fit.”

Carin and I look at her in horror. “Hopeless, you can shut up any time now,” Carin orders.

“I was just saying, from a medical standpoint, it’s a possible theory. Not here, but maybe in other less developed nations.” She reaches over and pats my belly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. You should’ve gotten more maternity clothes,” she says, moving on to another topic while I’m still digesting that my baby is a parasite.

I shake my head. “No. That stuff was hideous. I already look like a boat. I didn’t need to look like an ugly one.”

“I think if I were pregnant, I’d wear muumuus or housecoats like Lucille Ball,” Carin muses.

“Are those even a thing?” Hope asks.

“They should be.”

I nod in agreement because hell yeah, I’d wear something like that over the awful jeans and polyester gear and their white expandable waist pouches. I know I’m going to appreciate those in a few weeks, but right now I’m not looking forward to getting bigger.

“I tried to bend over and touch my toes this morning,” I tell the girls. “I tipped over, hit my head on the desk, and then had to call for Nana to get up. I’m literally the size of an Oompa Loompa.”