After climbing from bed, I turn on the shower and strip off my tired sweats. The water hasn’t quite warmed yet, and I stand beneath the stream, shivering. And crying.

Crying.

It’s the hormones. It’s just the body resetting its clock. I’m not really this sad, not this much of a mess. I’ll even out soon, even out and move forward, move back into the groove, whatever the hell the groove was.

I didn’t love Kai. I was infatuated. Intrigued by a life I’d never lived and possibilities that were more of an escape than a mature acceptance of life. People who move to Hawaii are running away from something, running from truth, responsibility, maybe even themselves; and if I’d gone to Hawaii, I would have just been running from me.

Now I have to confront that me, the woman I am and the woman I’ve become.

I squirt shampoo into my hand and lather my hair, thinking this is the first time I’ve washed my hair in nearly a week.

I’m glad I never told Kai about the baby.

I turn off the water, giving up on the shower before getting around to conditioning and shaving.

I’m done.

There won’t be any more babies. The baby oven is closed. I’m single, forty. I can put all the lotions and potions I want on my skin. I can get my boobs done and my tummy tucked. Can color my hair every three weeks. But I can’t fool my ovaries. They know the truth.

I’m out of time.

The eggs are old.

Whether I like it or not, the fertility game is up.

A month after my miscarriage, Kristine plans a girls’ day out. She’s booked us all spa manicure and pedicures at Frenchy’s and then downtown, where we’re going to shop, have drinks, and eat fattening appetizers.

It’s not until we’re at Frenchy’s that it hits me. August 18. Kristine’s birthday. Her forty-third.

“It’s your birthday,” I say. “And you planned your own party!”

“It’s not my birthday party, it’s just a girls’ get-together. I thought we all needed some fun and a chance to play a little before the summer ends.”

Nic’s feeling just as bad. “We forgot your birthday.” She gulps. “Again.”

And it’s true. We forgot her birthday last year, too.

Kristine waves her hand. “I don’t care if you remember or forget. The great thing about being forty-three is that I’m comfortable throwing a party for myself.”

I give Kristine a hug. “We’re terrible friends. And I’m sorry. But happy birthday, baby!”

We all cheer her with our bottles of polish, but Kristine one-ups us again. She’s brought along a bottle of champagne that’s already been chilled and four acrylic flutes.