Chapter 32 #32
Chapter 32
Shailyn
We left the ice cream shop hand in hand, walking slowly down the street with no particular destination in mind. The afternoon sun was starting to set, casting everything in that golden hour glow that made the whole world look softer, more beautiful.
That's when I saw a food truck parked on the corner, its colorful awning flapping slightly in the breeze. The sign on the side read "Mémé's French Pastries" in elegant script, and displayed in the window was the most perfect-looking croissant I'd ever seen, golden and flaky, with what looked like vanilla cream peeking out from the layers.
I stopped walking, my eyes fixed on that croissant like it was calling to me.
"Shailyn?" Dante's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What's wrong?"
"I want that," I said, pointing at the food truck.
Dante followed my gaze and frowned. "A croissant? But Shailyn, you don't really like that. You've never been a big fan of pastries. Too much carbs, you always said. Why are you even going for it?"
But I couldn't explain. I just wanted one. The craving hit me so suddenly and so intensely that it felt almost physical, like my body was demanding that croissant and wouldn't be satisfied with anything else.
"I know, but I just... I really want it right now," I said, already starting to move toward the food truck.
Dante's hand on my arm stopped me. "Baby, we just had ice cream. You're going to make yourself sick eating all that sugar."
"Please," I said, and I could hear the desperation creeping into my voice. "Please, Dante, I just really want it."
"This is ridiculous," he said, shaking his head. "You're acting like a child. It's just a croissant. You don't even like them."
"How do you know what I like?" I asked, frustration building. "How do you know I don't like croissants when I can't even remember? Maybe I do like them. Maybe I love them and I just can't remember."
"Shailyn..."
I felt tears pricking at my eyes, which was absurd. It was just a croissant. Why was I almost crying over a pastry? But I couldn't help it. The craving was so intense, and Dante's refusal felt like rejection, like he didn't care about what I wanted.
I almost got teary when he didn't take me seriously, when he kept trying to steer me away from the food truck like I was being silly or irrational.
"Fine," I said, my voice small. "Fine, if you don't want to get it with me, I'll go by myself."
"Jesus Christ," Dante muttered, but I could see his resolve cracking. "Okay, okay. We'll get the damn croissant. But don't blame me when you feel sick later."
"Thank you," I said, relief flooding through me.
He eventually followed me there after much persuasion, though his expression suggested he thought this was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done.
The food truck was run by an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and laugh lines around her eyes. She was wearing a floral apron and humming softly to herself as she arranged pastries in the display case.
"Good evening," she said with a warm smile as we approached. "What can I get for you young people?"
"I'd like that croissant, please," I said, pointing to the one I'd been eyeing. "With vanilla toppings."
"Ah, excellent choice," the woman said, her smile widening. "Would you like it warmed?"
"Yes, please," I said eagerly.
She carefully removed the croissant from the display and drizzled it with vanilla cream before placing it in a small paper bag. As she handed it to me, our fingers touched briefly, and she gave me a knowing smile that made me pause.
It was odd, the way she was looking at me. Like she knew something I didn't. Like she could see something in me that I couldn't see myself.
"Do you... do we know each other?" I asked hesitantly.
She just smiled wider, her eyes twinkling with something that might have been amusement or wisdom or both.
I took a bite of the croissant, and it was everything I'd hoped for, buttery and flaky and perfectly sweet with the vanilla cream. I closed my eyes, savoring it, feeling inexplicably satisfied.
Dante watched me with a mixture of confusion and concern. "Better now?"
"Much better," I said with a happy sigh.
The old woman was still watching us, that knowing smile never leaving her face. She looked between me and Dante, then back to me, and something in her expression shifted to something softer, more maternal.
Then she said what made both Dante and I freeze completely, the words falling between us like stones dropped in still water.
"Take care of the growing one, dear."
Time seemed to stop. The busy street sounds faded away. Everything narrowed to just those six words hanging in the air between us.
The growing one.
Dante's face had gone completely white, his eyes wide with shock.
My hand moved automatically to my stomach, pressing against the flat surface through my shirt.
No.
It couldn't be.
Could it?
Growing one?
The words echoed in my head, bouncing around my skull like they were trying to find a place to settle but couldn't quite land. I stared at the old woman, my mouth hanging open slightly, unable to form a coherent response.
She smiled at me, that same knowing, almost mystical smile. "Yes, dear. The little one growing inside you. You must take good care of yourself now. Plenty of rest, good food, and lots of love."
"I think you're mistaken," Dante said, his voice tight and controlled. He'd recovered from his initial shock faster than I had, though I could see the tension in his shoulders. "My wife isn't pregnant."
"Oh, but she is," the woman said gently, her eyes never leaving mine. "I can see it. Been able to see it my whole life. My grandmother had the gift, and she passed it to me. I'm never wrong about these things."
"That's... that's not possible," I stammered, finally finding my voice. "I would know."
After all, the doctor would have said something, I thought, my mind racing through all my hospital visits, all the examinations and scans and blood work. Surely someone would have noticed if I was pregnant. Surely there would have been some indication.
The old woman just shrugged, still smiling. "Sometimes the signs are subtle at first. Sometimes doctors miss what grandmothers' wisdom can see. But mark my words, dear, you're carrying new life."
"Thank you for the croissant," Dante said abruptly, taking my arm. "We need to go now."
As we walked away from the food truck, I could feel the woman's eyes following us, could almost feel her knowing smile boring into my back.
"She's crazy," I said, though my hand had unconsciously moved to my stomach again. "Right? She has to be crazy. Some kind of scam artist who tells random women they're pregnant to freak them out or something."
But even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it.