I look down, the table a blur, and hurriedly wipe tears. If I’m really pregnant, that means I’m going to be a mother again. That means there’s a baby on the way, a baby growing inside of me right now, a baby with a different father from William and Jessica’s, a baby with a thirty-year-old surf instructor for a father.

Jesus.

“Jackie.”

I jerk my head up. Anne’s looking at me with worry and love. “You can’t blame yourself for the accident,” she says softly. “You’re not to blame, no matter what Daniel says.”

“I know.”

“But do you believe it?”

I lift the tea, smell the pungent herbal mint aroma. How can anyone think this is tasty? I put the cup back down. “If it was your child, would you feel guilty?”

The corner of Anne’s mouth lifts. “Yes.”

“But I know. You don’t use sitters. You’re always with them.”

“Philip doesn’t like to spend the money.”

“That’s not why you don’t use sitters. You don’t think it’s good for the kids.”

“But I don’t have to work,” she says almost apologetically. “Not like you.”

Not like me, I echo silently, on the verge of bursting into hysterical tears. Not like me, who is pregnant and divorced and very much alone.

Not like me, who fell in love with a younger man so unacceptable that he isn’t even mentioned by my friends.

And maybe this is what pushes me over the edge. Anne knows I’m sad. She knows why I’m sad. She knows I’m missing Kai like hell, and she won’t talk about it. She’ll sit there and say she cares, she’ll sit there and make conversation, but she won’t let me say what I need to say most.

And if I can’t talk about Kai, how do I talk about being pregnant?

If he’s unacceptable, what about his baby?

I’m wild on the inside, wild and scared and cornered like a caged animal. I can’t sit here and make polite conversation one more minute. Can’t pretend I’m okay. Can’t pretend anything.

I stumble to my feet, make excuses about appointments and work to do before the kids finish school, and dash to my car.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I run a wild hand through my hair, once, twice, and catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I look nearly as crazy as I feel.

Pregnant.

I’m pregnant. Jackie Laurens, forty, single, and pregnant.

What the hell am I going to do?

I go through on autopilot the rest of the day, meeting a client at the Design Center before swinging by the marble importer, where I pick up some samples from slabs in stock to take to another client in Laurelhurst.