Over Peach Cobbler
The phone rang. I looked into Bambi’s unseeing eyes for direction. He was no help.
“Hey, Kirsten, I was hoping you were home!” It was Kelly, my best friend of the past 16 years.
“Yeah, I’m home.”
“Listen, I was making peach cobbler, your favorite, and thought you might like to come share some.”
“You only bake when something is up. What’s up, Kels?”
“Well, you were acting all weird last night. Come chat!” Click. She knew how to motivate me.
Kelly’s kitchen was thick with the aroma of a cooling cobbler. We dug in with spoons, too early, burning our tongues.
“Okay, spill,” Kels said, mouth full.
“Well, you remember Nick?”
“Yes, well, we really hit it off.”
“You spent the night at his place!”
“Yeah, and now..”
“Now?” she prompted.
I couldn’t say it. I just slid the plastic tube across the table, two pink lines visible in the little window.
Her eyes widened. She dropped the spoon. She gasped. Then she screamed.
“I knew it!” she declared.
“You’re psychic now?”
“No, that you’d be first!”