Meet Me at the Lake

I went to the pastry kitchen yesterday to find Peter, but one of the guys told me he’d taken the day off. I was worried he was upset about what I’d told him, but then he showed up at the front desk, took me to the library, and shut the door. He pulled out a bunch of prenatal pamphlets from his backpack—he’d gone to see his doctor for information about traveling during pregnancy. He was talking so fast about trimesters and ultrasounds, faster than I’ve ever heard him talk before. He used the word uterus at least twice.

He must have realized I was having trouble keeping up, because he took a deep breath and said, “You don’t need to cancel your trip.” I told him a vacation was the last thing I needed to worry about, and he shook his head. He said my whole life was about to change, but that I didn’t need to give up Europe. He made me take the pamphlets, and then he told me he’d been thinking about what I’d said about having to raise a baby on my own. He told me that I wasn’t alone, that he was here, that my parents were here, that there was a whole resort full of people who’d want to help.

I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that. I sat there holding a bunch of pamphlets, crying, and he asked if I was OK. I threw my arms around him and told him he was the best friend anyone could possibly have.