My Darling Jane (The Darlings)

Several days ago . . .

I’m behind the counter at the bookstore, ringing up a teenage boy who’s buying the hardcover of the Kama Sutra. It’s not the guy back in June who I caught using it as he made out with his girlfriend, but still, I press my lips together, trying not to smirk as I hand it over.

“Enjoy,” I say.

He nods, and I chuckle once he’s out the door.

I’ve lost ten female clients because of the video Freida posted, but I’ve let it go. Jasper said his PR team is handling it, and I’m leaving it alone. She was angry because she obviously saw me with Jasper. I chew my lips, recalling that magical day in the park with him and Londyn. I’m sure she saw how I looked at him. Maybe she saw how I adore him.

How I love him. With everything inside me.

I glance down at the pregnancy test peeking out from my dress pocket. Ugh. It’s time to figure this thing out. I’ve put it off long enough.

I head for the bathroom, determined to face whatever result awaits.

Babs catches me just as I’m about to duck into the hallway. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“I have to pee.”

“You just went.”

“Are you watching my bathroom breaks?”

She cocks her head. “Should I? Are you feeling okay? You’re pale. Just like yesterday.”

“You’re nosy.”

She narrows her eyes at me, raking them over me like a mom checking if her kid is faking being sick. “Seriously, did I hear you throwing up earlier?”

Yes.

“No.”

She wags a finger at me. “Something is off with you ever since Londyn was in the hospital.”

I move to walk past her, and the pregnancy test somehow falls out of my dress pocket.

“Is that what I think it is?” she says with a gasp. She pounces on it before I can make a move. “Jane, is this a—”

I snatch it back, stuffing it into my pocket. “It’s a thermometer! Yeah, checking if I have a fever.”

“A thermometer that requires urine? Science has really advanced, hasn’t it?”

“It’s nothing.” I try to sidestep her, but she’s like a detective.

“Lord have mercy. Jane, are you—”

I cut her off, backing away. “I gotta go, Babs. I have to pee! We’ll talk later.” I turn and sprint for the bathroom.

I lock myself in the employee bathroom, my heart thudding in my chest. Alone, finally. I tear open the pregnancy test package with shaky hands.

A knock at the door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “Jane? You know I can’t let this go. I saw what I saw. Jasper? Does he know? Is that why you haven’t been seeing him? Are you crazy? What are you going to do?”

“Just give me a minute, Babs!” I call out through the door. “And keep quiet. Someone might hear you!”

There’s a pause; then Babs sighs. “Just let me in. Do you really want to do this alone?”

I’ve been doing the hard things alone for a long time.

This is just one more to add to the list.

But maybe that’s been part of my problem.

Deep down I know what my inner flaws are.

I’m overly independent.

I’m cautious.

I struggle to accept help.

It’s sculpted by trauma, by deep-seated fears of being a burden to someone.

My mom walked away without ever saying goodbye. She left her life behind and moved away. Tomas—well, I’m not sure he ever loved me at all. He left for his career.

And me? I’ve armored myself in independence—it’s why I keep the possibility of help at bay.

Jasper has his own set of walls. We’re two people shaped by our pasts who’ve learned to protect not just our hearts but also our very selves.

The intercom comes on. “Store alert, all employees, the Chicken Lady is about to walk in the door. Please come to the front and help.”

I groan. The Chicken Lady is an older, wealthy socialite from the Upper West Side who dresses in the most divine clothes as she walks Lucy, her pet chicken, on a diamond-studded leash. She has been a member of many book clubs through the years. She’s also donated several first editions on display that aren’t for sale but are meant to draw people into the store.

The chicken is her emotional-support animal. Allegedly.

I’ve yet to see Lucy in a vest that declares it to be true.

Still, the woman is a former acquaintance of my gran’s and loves to come in. Usually she sits in the café area and orders scones for herself and Lucy. Inevitably, the chicken makes a poo. Other customers freak out. And Magic, our bookstore cat who is currently on vacation with Emmy, once chased Lucy all over the store and nearly ended her.

The first time I spotted the Chicken Lady, I was with Gran as we strolled through Central Park. She was a vision in a full-length mink coat that looked like it had walked straight out of a 1940s Hollywood film. Next to her was a white chicken on a leash.

Gran told me the story of how Mildred had lost her husband and was never quite the same. She had all the money she could ever want, but she was lonely.

“I’m in the bathroom, so this one is all you,” I tell Babs through the door.

She groans. “I refuse. She should clean up the poo!”

“She claims it isn’t Lucy’s. Always does. It’s your turn. Go manage it.”

“I really don’t like you right now!” I hear her huff. “I just want to know who cleans the poo at her apartment.” Babs’s voice filters through the door again, her tone an octave higher in distress. “Jane! You owe me big time for this. I’m not kidding!”

I open the door just a crack. Babs glares at me, her face scrunched in disgust as she hisses, “Chickens belong on a farm or in a backyard. Not in a bookstore. You are too nice to her!”

“Go on,” I say. “Take care of the customer.”

She tightens her lips, whips around with a huff, and stomps down the hall.

I peek through the door, now wide enough to catch the full scene. I mean, come on, I can’t miss this. I took care of Lucy last time anyway.

Babs is in full negotiation mode with the Chicken Lady, who’s dressed extravagantly in pink Chanel with a pearl necklace. Lucy struts around as if she owns the place, her feathers reminding me of my cupid wings. Amazement hits when I see that this time Lucy is decked out in some kind of diaper with sequins on it.

Maybe she took to heart the last conversation Babs had with her about cleaning up after Lucy.

Lucy pecks at the scone the Chicken Lady holds out to her, sending a few more giggles my way.

Babs nods enthusiastically. “Oh wow, she looks beautiful, Mildred.”

The Chicken Lady huffs. “Yes, she’s wearing one now when we go out, although my girl has never pooped in here.”

Babs smiles widely, clearly happy. “Still, she’s setting trends. Imagine the attention she’ll get on your walks in Central Park,”

Lucy pecks a little too close to Babs, and I laugh under my breath as Babs hops back to get away from her.

I shut the door and pull out the pregnancy test package, my fingers clumsy with nerves.

Then the unmistakable sound of Lucy clucking reaches me, a strange comfort in the bathroom. It’s followed by Babs’s exasperated voice, “Lucy, darling, let’s try to keep the scones on the plate, okay?”

Here I am about to possibly change my life with a single test while Babs negotiates with a chicken.

I set the timer on my phone.

The timer goes off, and I take a deep breath and pick up the test and brace myself for whatever comes next. “All right, Jane. You’ve got this,” I say, echoing the pep talks Babs usually gives me.

No matter what happens, I’ll remember it along with a story about the Chicken Lady.