When Brian came to my door with the news about Decker, I froze up, I broke down, and even though I couldn’t believe it, I believed it. With no data or facts at all.

This time, it’s different. This isn’t news; this is garbage. I don’t believe. And so, I’m remaining in control. There, I said it. I just don’t believe her.

Do I believe Gemma knows Decker? Yes. That’s obvious from her ability to piece together elements of the past on the spot. Did they sleep together? I mean, it’s possible. Decker was entitled to a history with other women before me just like I had hookups and exes myself. Did Gemma have a kid? So she says. But did she have his kid? No. There’s no way.

Perhaps there’s more truth than she cares to admit behind what she told her parents. She told them she didn’t know who the father was. How convenient, to pin paternity on a dead guy who can’t be DNA-tested, who can’t defend himself, and whose family is a complete and total cash cow. All it would take on Gemma’s part to pull this off is what it takes me to go on a date with any guy. A computer, social media, and ample time to research. It’s really not that hard to have targeted Decker.

But despite the holes I’m already poking in Gemma’s story, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s put this out there. So one way or another, even if just for this moment, the thought that my own husband, the man I was supposed to have children with, already had one, independently of me and without my knowledge, is weighing on my mind. I think now about the fact that there could be a piece of him still alive.

I pause for a moment knowing full well I must regain my composure. The only way I can do this is to bathe myself in the cold, hard facts. What do you know for sure, Charlotte? I grab on to the low-hanging fruit: I know Decker. I know him better than anyone else and there is no way he had a child, accident or not, adoption or not, and didn’t tell me.

I spot my favorite cocktail waitress and order another drink. This time, a gin and tonic, as well as a few sheets of paper from the back office. I pace back and forth, cracking my knuckles. She comes back a minute later with a stiff cocktail and stack of bright pink Post-its. Those will do. I give her a ten-dollar tip before retreating to a bathroom stall. I’m not trying to take a page out of Gemma’s book and isolate myself, but until this boat gets back to shore, I need a home base. I need a place where I can be alone and think. In my day, I’ve had many makeshift offices. This one—a plumbing-challenged women’s restroom on a boat—is a new low. But this one is also far more necessary than all of the others.