Open & Honest (Sometimes) by Linda Cassidy Lewis

Author:Linda Cassidy Lewis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romantic comedy
Publisher: Two-Four-Six Publishing
Published: 2022-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

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Isn’t it weird how pregnancy makes you want to eat things you normally don’t? Jeremy and I are at the mini-mart to gas up the car when I get another insane craving for a Popsicle, so while he pumps, I get out and head inside. Pregnancy also makes me feel hot all the time, and because the August heat is unbearable today I’m already glistening by the time I’ve taken two steps across the lot. I stretch my tee away from my belly and fan it to get some air underneath. Inside the store, I relish the cold air from the freezer as I choose a Bomb Pop and then another blast as I grab a bottle of water from the cooler.

While I’m waiting in line to pay, I take a drink. The cashier, a skinny middle-aged man, throws me a hard look, a warning that I’d better not try to pretend I brought the bottle in with me.

Jerk. “Yeah yeah, I’m paying for it,” I tell him. When I’m next in line, I lay the Bomb Pop on the counter to reach for the money in my pocket. I feel an odd tickle on my stomach. Two seconds later, a burning stab is followed by the loudest scream I’ve ever heard come from my mouth. A second stab makes me scream again. Ohmygod. Something’s stinging me. I’m frantic, slapping at my shirt, but it doesn’t stop whatever’s moving across my skin. I drop the water bottle and jerk my top off over my head. Some evil dark insect flies away and over the head of the woman coming through the door.

“What was that?” The people standing around me silently stare. I turn to the cashier. His shirt front is soaked, and he’s trying to dry the counter with a wad of paper towels. It takes my pain-blurred brain a moment to realize my hand must have squeezed a geyser out of my water bottle with the first sting. “Sorry ’bout that.”

He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes are cussing me out. I take back my apology, dude.

The stings hurt so bad, tears have welled up. I’m in pain and confused. And I want my mommy.

Just then, Jeremy enters the store. He freezes, looking amazed—or is that horrified? “Chelsea! Bloody hell.”

I look down at my stomach sure that it must look grotesque but see only two small red welts on it. That’s when it dawns on me that I’m shirtless. I’m struggling to turn my top right side out when Jeremy rushes forward to help—and to block me from the site of two pre-teen boys gawking from the chips aisle.

“Something got stuck under my shirt,” I tell him. “It stung me.”

“Twice,” says the woman holding a 2-liter. “She screamed bloody murder.”

“It hurt,” I tell her. “It’s still hurting . . . like hell.”

Jeremy turns my face back to his. “Are you allergic?”

“No.”

“Did you remove stingers?”

“There weren’t any.”

“Probably a yellow jacket,” the cashier says. “I saw some flying around the dumpsters this morning.

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