"Does Greg know you're talking to me now?"

She looked at him. "He hates you as much as you hate him. Maybe more so."

Myron decided to take that as a no. Emily kept her eyes on him, searching his face as though there were an answer there.

"I can't help you, Emily."

She looked like she'd just been slapped.

"I sympathize," he went on, "but I'm just getting over some major problems of my own."

"Are you saying you don't have time?"

"It's not that. A private detective would have a better chance--"

"Greg's hired four already. They can't even find out the donor's name."

"I doubt I can do any better."

"This is my son's life, Myron."

"I understand, Emily."

"Can't you put aside your animosity for me and Greg?"

He wasn't sure that he could. "That's not the issue. I'm a sports agent, not a detective."

"That didn't stop you before."

"And look how things ended up. Every time I meddle, it leads to disaster."

"My son is thirteen years old, Myron."

"I'm sorry--"

"I don't want your sympathy, dammit." Her eyes were smaller now, black. She leaned toward him until her face was scant inches from his. "I want you to do the math."

He looked puzzled. "What?"

"You're an agent. You know all about numbers, right? So do the math."

Myron tilted back, giving himself a little distance. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Jeremy's birthday is July eighteenth," she said. "Do the math."

"What math?"

"One more time: He's thirteen years old. He was born July the eighteenth. I was married October tenth."

Nothing. For several seconds, he heard the mothers chatting over one another, one baby cry, one barista call out an order to another, and then it happened. A cold gust blew across Myron's heart. Steel bands wrapped around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was like someone had whacked his solar plexus with a baseball bat. Emily watched him and nodded.

"That's right," she said. "He's your son."

Chapter 3.

You can't know that for sure," Myron said. Emily's whole persona screamed exhaustion. "I do."

"You were sleeping with Greg too, right?"

"Yes."

"And we only had that one night during that time. You probably had a whole bunch with Greg."

"True."

"So how can you possibly know--?"

"Denial," she interjected with a sigh. "The first step."

He pointed a finger at her. "Don't hand me that psychology-major crap, Emily."

"Moving quickly to anger," she continued.

"You can't know--"

"I've always known," she interrupted.

Myron sat back. He stayed composed but underneath he could almost feel the fissure widening, his foundation starting to shift.

"When I first got pregnant, I figured like you: I'd slept with Greg more, so it was probably his baby. At least, that's what I told myself." She closed her eyes. Myron stayed very still, the knot in his stomach tightening. "And when Jeremy was born, he favored me, so who was to say? But--and this is going to sound so goddamn stupid--a mother knows. I can't tell you how. But I knew. I tried to deny it too. I told myself I was just feeling guilty over what we'd done, and that this was God's way of punishing me."