How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [42]
He moved and moved and moved, and a bunch of heat worked its way into my body, but I couldn’t seem to figure out what was going on until he started moving really fast, rubbing himself against me, and then my body exploded. Everything was all wet down there, but I didn’t care. His body was heavy on my chest and I felt his naked skin, and I didn’t think, Oh, man, I’m an idiot for having sex.
I thought, Wow. I get it.
He whispered things to me that I didn’t understand, kissing my face and my neck. Then we were getting dressed, and he combed my hair down and we went back to the party, holding hands.
And that was the last time I ever saw him. He got into a fight after the party and pulled a knife on somebody; he was arrested and then deported. Bye-bye.
What was humiliating was to find out after he left that he had had sex with almost every woman in the whole restaurant, including a lady who was pretty much the same age as my mom and had wrinkles around her eyes. I didn’t say a word, and nobody, as far as I knew, realized we went all the way while we were making out.
Now he was in Mexico somewhere, probably having sex with twelve million other girls, and I was going to have a baby. Who was half Mexican, and that might not please some of the people who wanted to adopt.
I would have to tell the truth. But that would mean admitting it was Armando, and that was so embarrassing I could barely stand it.
The farmers’ market in Castle Rock started in early July, and Poppy was in a fever getting ready for it. I worked right alongside her, harvesting strawberries and lettuces and spinach. We tied thyme and dill into bundles with yellow string and made chive vinegar with the blossoms that stained the vinegar a reddish purple, making it look like a magic elixir.
And we baked. Muffins; quick breads that we cut into individual slices; whole-wheat rolls; long, thin loaves that my aunt called baguettes, which we made out of my grandma’s starter. We carried it all into town in the back of her station wagon at five a.m. on a Thursday morning, and I found myself feeling both apprehensive and excited. I had discovered that I liked being up so early in the morning—liked the hint of dew still hanging in the cool air and the sound of birds getting breakfast and the fact that nobody else was around. Nobody in my family liked getting up early, so unless I was at my grandmother’s house, I went along with their schedule. Poppy said I was a lark, just like her, and we didn’t have to chatter while we got up and going. We drank tea, split one of the big blueberry muffins, and loaded up the car.
It was fun to be doing something so early, but I was also worried about how the townspeople would look at me. I could hide behind the table for a while, but that would get boring. I mulled it over all the way into town.
“What’s on your mind, Ramona?” Poppy asked as we pulled into the parking lot behind the courthouse.
I shrugged, but my hands gave me away, rubbing the growing hill of my belly.
“You don’t have to stay for the whole morning. You can go to the library or over to the record store.”
My heart gave a little jump. Last week I’d taken the record back to Jonah, and he had given me some more records. He was busy that day, so we didn’t get to talk much. He did ask me what I thought of the music. I wasn’t sure and told him so. He nodded. “Let me work on it.”
Maybe he’d be around today and could give me more suggestions.
I worked with Poppy until the crowds slowed down at around ten-thirty, and then she sent me on an errand to get her coffee, which I bought at a café truck parked on the street. I bought orange juice for myself and carried the change back to Poppy.
Nobody said anything to me, and if they were giving me the evil eye, I decided I didn’t want to notice it, so I just made change and helped Poppy hand out food. I