Oliver sets his jaw.
   “I just…it’s in both of our interests, Gillian. In the interests of us as a couple—”
   “Right,” I say. “Just like all the times I tried to talk to you about what would be in our interests as a family.”
   Oliver’s gaze snaps to mine. Alongside the exhaustion, I see the spark of a challenge.
   “Okay, just answer me this, Gillian,” he says. “What happens if we do it and it doesn’t work? What then?” His voice is steady in a way that unnerves me. “What happens to us? You and me. Adoption? Divorce? What?”
   I pull my eyes away, focus on pulling a fresh T-shirt from my bag.
“You don’t know,” he says quietly.

He’s right. I don’t. And I hate that he’s making me think about all that.

“Those are hypotheticals, Oliver,” I say.

“Well, they’re hypotheticals that matter to me!”

“Well, what matters to me is that you lied to me.”

Oliver makes an exasperated sound.

I pull on a shirt and jeans, my hands trembling, looking anywhere but at him.

“Should I book our return flights for later today?” he says.

I close my eyes. I picture sitting next to him on the plane, beside happy holidaymakers returning home from their holiday vacation. I picture going back to my bathroom cabinet full of pregnancy tests, and my kitchen counter arrayed with prenatal vitamins. I picture the days we were supposed to have here: the new beginning, the cocktails on Ocean Drive.

“I don’t know, Oliver. Whatever. Do what you think best.”

And with that I leave the room, and jog downstairs to find my sister.

*

I find them in the breakfast room—Abigail, Sam, and Dennis. Dennis is clean-shaven again, immaculate as ever, and with my sister’s striking looks and simple linen clothes they look like the kind of family you might envy: elegant, good-looking, perfectly harmonious. I wonder if that’s what the other hotel guests see.

But when I look closer I can see how Sam is more subdued this morning; how when he looks up from his food he glances from one parent to the other and says nothing. And I see the stiffness in my sister’s back, and the stubborn, determined look in Dennis’s eye.

“Hey, Aunt G,” Sam greets me in a quiet voice.

“Hello, Samwise,” I say, but he doesn’t crack a smile.

“Are you done, Sam?” my sister says, and he nods, pushing away his breakfast plate. Dennis looks between the two of them, and with a glance acknowledges me for the first time.

“I’m expecting you back by eleven, remember.”

Sam nods. Abigail says nothing, just gets out of her seat.

“Abigail.”

She looks at him, eyes cold.

“I heard you. Come on, Sam.”