Kelsey lets out a laugh. “The imagery on that . . . too much.”

“But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Obviously,” Kelsey says. “So, what is it?”

Feeling slightly embarrassed, I turn so my side is pressed up against the brick. For some reason, the position makes me feel less exposed. “He, uh . . . he didn’t kiss me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, during all of our escapades, he never once kissed me.”

“Oh . . .”

“Oh?” I repeat. “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘oh,’ that sounds like a sympathetic ‘oh.’”

“Not once?”

My stomach twists, and once again, my emotions roar with shame. “No,” I say solemnly. “What do you think that means?” When Kelsey doesn’t answer right away, I add, “That he’s Vivian-ing me, right?”

“Vivi-what?”

“You know, how in Pretty Woman, Vivian doesn’t want to kiss Edward, or any of her clients, because it’s too intimate? I feel as though that’s what Huxley is doing.”

“Oh, I get it.” Kelsey pauses, and I swear it feels as though I’m waiting on pins and needles for her response. “I don’t know, Lottie.”

“That’s not what you were supposed to say,” I nearly screech into the phone. “You were supposed to say ‘no, that’s not it at all’.”

“I’m not going to lie to you.”

“God.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Look at me. I like a guy who’s Vivian-ing me. How did this happen?”

“Stupid luck?”

“You are not helpful today. I’m really freaked out, Kels. My stomach is twisted in knots, I—ugh . . .”

“What?” Kelsey asks.

A car pulls up on the street and I recognize it immediately. “Ellie is here. I should go.”

“Okay, I’m sorry that I’m not being a helpful sister. Honestly, all I can think to say is maybe just see where it goes.”

“But that complicates things.”

“Hate to tell you, sis, but things are already complicated. Might as well see if he’s worth your time.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“Then I’m doing my job. Love you, Lottie.”

Groaning, I say, “Love you, Kelsey.”

I hang up the phone just as Ellie pops out of the car and waves at me frantically.

She’s a little . . . much . . . for me, but she is incredibly nice. I do feel bad about deceiving her. Why couldn’t I just have been the fake fiancée? Why do I have to be fake pregnant too?

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Ellie says as she comes up to me and gives me a huge hug. “Are you excited?”

“Uh, you know, this might be a little much for me,” I say honestly. “But I’m more than happy to help you.”

“Oh, are you uncomfortable?” she asks.

“Overwhelmed with everything.” There, not a lie. I really am overwhelmed, especially with Huxley.

“I can understand that completely.” She takes my hand. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you.” She charges us into the store and all the way to the back, where there’s a designated area of breast pumps. Fake breasts of all shapes and sizes and colors line the wall—good for them—and below them are these weird suction-cup things with bottles at the end.

Is that what’s supposed to go on the breast?

“I love this place so much,” Ellie says. “When my sister was pregnant, we went to the same store, but in Georgia—oh, you might know where it is, actually. Off Clive Street?”

Uhhh . . .

Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be from Georgia.

I tap my chin. “Sounds familiar.”

“It’s right next to Peaches Bakery.”

“Ohh, Peaches.” I nod as if I’ve been there a million times.

“Wouldn’t you just kill for one of their cupcakes right now? Which one was your favorite?”

Oh God.

My favorite.

Err . . .

Think of something unoriginal that every bakery would have.

“Chocolate,” I say with a nod.

Her face contorts in confusion. “Chocolate?”

Oh fuck, do they not have a chocolate option? What bakery doesn’t have chocolate as an option? That would be absolutely ludicrous.

“Well, you know—”

She nudges my shoulder with a laugh. “I was sure you were going to say their crumble-cake cupcake, as you just give me those vibes.”

Never in a million years would I have said crumble-cake cupcake.

I shrug playfully. “A chocolate girl here.”

“I’m a chocolate girl myself. Have you tried their pink velvet cupcake? I honestly don’t understand how it differs from vanilla.”

“I was just about to say that,” I say as I pick up a fake breast and examine it. God, it’s so lifelike. “What do they do, just splash some food coloring in it and call it a day?” I ask.

“Totally. But their peach pie . . .”

I wave my hand at her. “To die for.”

“Hello, ladies. Welcome,” a saleswoman says. “Do you need help with anything?”

Ellie spins around with a smile and says, “Looking at breast pumps. I’m Ellie, and this is my friend Lottie. She’s not ready to find a perfect fit, but I’m here to squeeze breasts and figure out what works for me.”

“Wonderful. I’m Ann, and I’m an expert when it comes to breast pumps. Now let me see your breasts.”

Uhh . . .

Ellie goes to lift her top—wow, just like that, no shame—but Ann says, “No, no. Just puff your chest so I can have a better look.”

Ellie laughs. “Oh, okay. I was ready to strip down for you.”

That was obvious.

And entirely unnecessary.

Ann reaches out and asks, “Do you mind if I touch?”

“Please do. It’s why I came here.” Talking to me, Ellie says, “They can fit you perfectly to your needs, and you can test them out on the wall of breasts to see how they would work.”

I glance at the wall of breasts. “Seems as if you have every size there,” I say awkwardly.

“We do,” Ann says as she fondles Ellie. This is weird, really freaking weird. “And you can adjust the flow too.”

“The . . . uh, the what now?”

“The flow,” Ellie says. “They produce actual liquid, so you can get the full experience.”

Who on earth comes up with a place like this? Floating breasts glued to walls with an actual “milk” flow. I’m confused . . . and uncomfortably intrigued.

“Like almost every woman I come across, there’s a sizeable difference between your right breast and left.” Ann lifts both of Ellie’s boobs.

“Yeah, guilty. The left just can’t seem to catch up.”

“No breasts are symmetrical, but some women have a large difference and you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Ellie looks at me. “What boob is bigger on your body?”

“Umm . . .” I grip my boobs. “I think my right?”

“If you’re right-handed, it probably is bigger,” Ann says. She then asks Ellie, “Can I ask nipple size?”

“Why don’t I just show you? It’ll be so much easier.” Before I can even excuse myself to give her some privacy, Ellie lifts her shirt and bra at the same time, flashing both me and Ann.

And there are her boobs, just like that.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Do I look, do I not look? Do I pretend to find something fascinating on the ground? Do I stare at the wall of breasts? Do I pray the floor swallows me whole?

I was not mentally prepared for this.

“Oh, wow, you have wonderful nipples,” Ann says, and from the corner of my eye, I see her get in close and pinch Ellie’s nipple between her fingers. “Very firm nipple. That will serve you well.”

“Oh, really? I’m so happy to hear that. Do you have firm nipples, Lottie?”

“Huh? What?” I ask, glancing over at Ellie, but keeping my eyes north. “Sorry—these . . . books,” I pick up a book from a table. “Fascinating. What did you say?”

“Firm nipples. Do you have them?”

Awkwardly, I smooth my hand over my breasts, attempting to feel them through my layers of clothing—because this, the topless party happening in front of me, is not something I’ll be joining. “Well, you know, I have small nipples.”

“Nipples or areolas?” Ann asks.

“Both.”

She nods. “I think I have the perfect breast pump for you, then. There’s only one that works great with small nipples. But for you, Ellie, we have some choices to make, because these nipples are just spectacular. Lottie, come here, feel this.”