Hattie’s sitting at the back table, and when her eyes go to Lola in my arms, her face flushes with confusion. “Cancel my appointments,” I say, tipping my chin to my best friend and coworker. I expect her to argue. Tell me I can’t just cancel appointments. Tell me that she’s not my bitch. Typical Hattie shit. But her eyes move to Lola in my arms. “Got it. Call me . . . soon?” she says, not even demanding. And right there. That’s the reason Hattie Jones is my best friend. The only person on the earth who would see this, know I have it handled, know when to argue, and let me go. She’s a real one.
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