Fed up

Adrianna, whose new number was still unlisted. I'd have to get on her about having her number published, or I’d be missing a lot of calls.
    “I’m playing hooky. Yeah, let me just throw on some clothes, and I’ll be over soon.”
    When Ade and Owen had moved in together last spring, I'd been glad that their apartment was within walking distance of my place. Today, I actually wished that Adrianna lived a bit farther away than she did, because a good, long walk would’ve helped shake off some of yesterday’s tragedy. I tossed on a pair of gray yoga pants (not that I actually did yoga) and a white top, and yanked my hair into a ponytail. Knowing that Adrianna wouldn’t have any caffeinated coffee, I filled a travel mug with my own and left to see my incredibly enlarging friend. On the way, I resolved not to make any more jokes about how many babies she was carrying. Quads? Are you sure it’s not at least triplets? Well, I’d try very hard not to. The last time I’d made a joke about multiple births, she’d thrown a stuffed bear at me. Next time it could be something painful, like a bottle warmer or a diaper bin.
    Like me, Ade and Owen lived on the top floor of a house. Trudging up the stairs to their place, I once again lamented the steepness of the steps my friends would have to manage with a baby. Now, while she was pregnant, Ade needed to stop for a break when she climbed the stairs, but once she had a baby or toddler in her arms, the staircase would become perilous. At least the apartment looked attractive. It was minuscule but charming, with hardwood floors and original molding around the doors and windows.
    I knocked on the door while simultaneously opening it and announcing my arrival. “Ade?”
    The heavenly smell in the apartment made me suspect that Adrianna was once again cooking. Now that Ade had stopped work, she was doing the whole nesting thing: she spent most of her time organizing and reorganizing the apartment. baking decadent cakes with elaborate icing, and putting together scrapbooks using strange craft tools I’d never seen before.
    “Hi, Chloe. Come in,” my friend called.
    I stepped into the hallway and into the bright living room—kitchen area. All I could see of Adrianna was her backside popping out from the open door of the refrigerator. “Yeah, I know. I’m cooking again. But wait until you see what we’re having.”
    “No complaints from me,” I said happily, peering into a pot on the stove. “What are you making?”
    “I already baked a coffee cake, and now I’m starting the artichoke and spinach eggs Benedict with a spicy hollandaise sauce on croissants. And potatoes with rosemary, onion, and garlic. It’s going to be bang-up.” Ade emerged from the depths of the fridge, her arms loaded with half its contents. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in soft curls. Even hugely pregnant, she was stunning. Her face was bare of makeup, and she wore black stretch pants and an oversized tank top over a sports bra, but she still looked better than anyone else I knew.
    “Look at you!” I practically squealed. “You’ve become so domestic and cute!” The change in Adrianna was incredible. The prepregnant Adrianna never appeared in front of anyone without makeup. As for cooking, she’d been the queen of takeout—high-end takeout, admittedly, but takeout nonetheless. Not that I objected: a warm, comforting meal was just what I needed to soothe my nerves.
    “Shut up. I’m not domestic, and I’m certainly not cute. Have you seen my feet?” She kicked a leg out for my viewing pleasure. “I mean, I haven’t seen my feet in weeks, but I imagine they are monstrous, swollen blobs. Grab a mixing bowl for me, will you?”
    I complied and then helped her to mix spinach, artichoke hearts, mayonnaise, sour cream, garlic, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese. She poured the concoction into a ceramic baking dish that I popped into the oven. While the oven door was open, I got a glimpse of the aromatic potatoes that were crisping beautifully.
    “Now the hollandaise sauce,” she said.
    I watched in awe as Adrianna heated a double boiler and began melting butter. This from a woman who adored food as much as I did but who, until now, had had zero cooking skills!
    “Here, separate the eggs for me.” She pushed the carton toward me.
    “Yes, ma’am!” I dutifully began cracking eggs, separating yolks and whites, and tossing the shells into the sink.
    “Oh, so I want to hear about