Malaquita

Jacinta, in the fifteen years since middle school, has become her Facebook profile. She is smiling and golden cheeked when she greets me. Baby hairs perfectly jelled. She wears a stone around her neck, one I've seen before, advertised on her Etsy Shop Bruja Bangles. Rose quartz. How those Bruja Bangles jangle when she moves. She kisses me on both cheeks, then hugs me, but is careful to keep her booty out—so not to upset my bump.

"Oye, mira que guapa! Mommy in the making!" she says and stops for a minute to take all of me in: the homunculus in my belly, the swollen ankles, the rounded face and thin skin. She buys us both gluten-free muffins at the counter—looking down at the belly while nodding approval—and a chai tea for me, coffee for her. Muffins and tea in hand, I follow her to a table by the window.

"Look who drinks coffee now," I say, unable to think of anything else to break the ice. Of course, there are so many things I could say—things I've found out from the vestiges of her life on the social media accounts that she's so carefully curated. About that boy Gabriel that she loves fiercely, that she may or may not be dating, the Colombian with the ponytail and the motorcycle. The job she hated so much that she "left" in order to start her now successful Etsy shop and the businesses that sprung from it. Jacinta and I met on the first day of sixth grade, when I heard her snickering in Spanish about the teacher. I laughed along with her and her light-skinned friends. She asked me if I spoke the language and I said I did. She asked me if I was Dominican and I made a face because someone had told me once that Puerto Ricans and Dominicans don't get along. She said she'd let that slide and that she liked me anyway because I was the same shade of brown as her favorite cousin back on the island. We were inseparable from then on. Jacinta and Jasmine. Jasmine and Jacinta. But mostly Jacinta and Jasmine.

"Yeah, she says. It's amazing what happens when you actually drink the stuff in the Bustelo container instead of using it for grease and shit, right? Oh! Sorry!" she says catching herself as if the baby can hear her cursing from there. I wave it away, rub my belly and laugh.

"Loca como siempre," I say, and she shrugs and makes a face copied from an emoji. "It's crazy to actually see you in person," I say. Throughout high school and college, we'd distantly stayed in touch online: Myspace and AIM to Facebook and Instagram. And when I'd posted an article about my first of too many miscarriages a few years ago, she'd asked me for my address to send me some spiritual goodies—candles, cleanses, bundles, yoni eggs—things she thought would help. So far, so good. As it was, she had a beautiful little boy that she'd birthed in high school who was now a healthy, smart, and thriving pre-teenager himself, and I'd been in the clear throughout my first two trimesters. The only thing I was missing was sleep, but it was a small price to pay for me and Danny to get what we wanted.

"You look great," she says. "Got that glow everyone talks about."

I say, "Oh stop it," but coax her on with my hand.

"Forreal, like, it suits you," she says, and unwraps the scarf from round her neck. "Jas, you've grown up so much. Like, can I be honest with you? I never would have expected you to be where you are right now."

I clear my throat and raise my eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Yo, do you remember you in middle school? Sis—" she coos and clicks her tongue. Between her laughs, the heat of the coffee catches on her tongue.

"Oh I know, don't remind me," I say. I want...