The second Friday in January saw subzero temperatures with a wind chill factor around DEAR GOD, WHY DO WE NOT LIVE IN FLORIDA? Even I, queen of the third trimester hot flashes that left me feeling like overcooked broccoli, was bundled up in triple layers. It was a typical enough school day, with a test, a paper due and a quiz, until lunch when Leaf rushed into the cafeteria with a gigantic grin on his face. He slid into the seat beside me and brushed his lips against my ear, fast like a bunny so no one would catch him being egregiously affectionate.

“Dad got the mail,” he said, pulling out Tupperware from his bag.

“And?”

“Not only did I get accepted to Johnson & Wales, I got offered an academic scholarship that covers two-thirds of my tuition. I’m going to be a chef!”

I was so proud of him I squealed, hugging him and not giving a single crap when the lunch monitor, Mrs. Sullivan, came over to tell me to sit down, to stop being so handsy, that I was breaking school rules by touching my boyfriend so aggressively. I muttered an apology and stared at her, my hands resting on my stomach. I blinked slowly, waiting for her to give me detention.

Okay, I wasn’t really waiting for detention. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t give it to me. Putting the pregnant kid in detention was a bad look and she knew it.

I got off with a verbal warning.

As soon as she walked away, Erin reached across the table to squeeze Leaf’s wrist, offering her own big grin. She wore a pair of fingerless gloves under her hoodie sweatshirt with cat ears because Stonington didn’t believe in properly heating the south wing of the school. One degree colder and they’d have to rename it Siberia. “Awesome, dude. Super proud of you.”

Leaf winked at her.

“I got two rejections in the mail!” Morgan offered. “But I also got an acceptance. UMass it is, looks like.”

“You okay with that?” Leaf asked.

Morgan shrugged. “It’s not Northeastern, but I can still get a decent computer engineering degree. I’ll deal.” She cracked open a bag and produced a zillion high-protein, low-sugar snacks.

“I’m still waiting to hear back from Emerson,” Erin said. “But I’ve got a couple acceptances for backup schools. My mom’s freaking out that I want an art degree. She keeps telling me to do something useful with my life, but I’d rather be broke doing what I love than suffering for the next fifty years doing stuff I hate.”

“You tell ’em, baby. That’s why Mama’s gonna make the big bucks in programming.” Morgan grinned. “In theory, anyway. But I got you.”

“I know you do.”

They shared a look that could have melted butter.