“Um...no. I just have to run back out to the truck to get Viola’s gift.” Her fingers drifted to her neckline, where they pinched at the links of the gold chain that rested there.

“Oh.” Tara stopped where she was, looking embarrassed. “You’re coming back in, right?”

A slow drizzle was falling on Rainy’s head and shoulders. She nodded, confused by Tara’s sudden interest in her comings and goings.

“Is there...do you need me for something?” Someone cheered inside the house, followed by a round of laughter. Tara glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen door, and then looked uncertainly back at Rainy.

“No,” she said finally. And then: “I’ll see you inside.”

Rainy didn’t watch her walk back into the house; she turned, eyes wide, and jogged to the truck. What the—?

She’d wrapped the chair in old sheets, and she pulled them off before carrying her gift to the front porch and setting it down where they could find it later. She checked her phone, hoping Grant had texted. Nothing. Then, steeling herself, Rainy walked through the door.

Halfway through the baby shower, Viola pulled her into the pantry and handed her a fresh glass of wine. “I’ve got the tea,” she said, and dipped her head around the corner to make sure no one was in earshot, her braids sliding across her bare shoulder. Then she did a little dance without lifting her feet off the ground, shuffling left, then right.

“What is it?” Rainy laughed, taking a sip of her wine. Their pantry was neatly organized and labeled—even the pasta was in matching glass jars with labels that read Bucatini, Angel, Bowtie. “Wow, okay...” Rainy said, looking around. “I definitely feel like a failure.”

Viola waved an annoyed hand in her face. “Pay attention!”

Rainy faced her in the cramped space, barely able to lift her wineglass to her mouth. “Go,” she said.

Viola didn’t need further nudging.

“So, I accidentally picked up Tara’s phone earlier instead of my own—you know how we both have that same phone case.”

Rainy nodded.

“Dude, Braithe is not sick. Her text said, ‘Thanks for covering for me, I owe you.’”

“It might not mean anything,” Rainy said. But the pantry, no longer charming with its labels, suddenly felt smaller. Her breath caught and she felt hot. Viola was blocking the door with her body, her belly between them; Rainy’s back was now to the pasta, and she wanted out.

“This party was her idea. She has no reason to not want to be here.” And that was true; Braithe was consistent, and she adored Viola.

“Okay, but I’m not finished. The next text from Braithe said, ‘I’ll tell you everything tonight. Come over after the party.’”