“East Coast hustle,” he says. “Big dreams, big money. They’re trying to get to happy.” He shakes his head. “Like it’s a place. But they’re trying to get out of the cold, too. Not like in LA, huh?”

“I lived five seconds from the beach. You don’t hurry in Venice, unless it’s to catch a wave.”

“You surf?”

“My boyfriend does.”

Micah with his shaggy sun-bleached hair and tan skin. The thought of him makes me anxious.

“Do you think your boyfriend would be mad that you’re hanging out with some dude who sold you pills?”

“He trusts me,” I say.

“What’s he like?”

I smile a little. “Fun. Pretty chill—surfer, you know. I don’t know how I would have gotten through the past month without him. He and my dad were really close, but he kept it together, you know? For me. He’s loyal like that.” I take a long sip of my coffee. “Usually.”

“Usually?”

I shrug. “It’s a long story. What happened with you and your ex?”

He grimaces a little, rubs his palm against the back of his neck. “Just too different. We broke up at the end of last year.”

“Miss her?”

He frowns. “Sometimes. But not really. We weren’t right for each other. She’s the captain of the soccer team, goes to church.”

“Were you dealing at the time?”

“Yeah. That’s part of why it was never gonna work out,” he says. “But I also felt like … I couldn’t be me with her. Like I had to be this version of me she wanted, but the real me—she didn’t want that.” He runs a finger around the rim of his cup. “I want to be all in with someone. You know?”

And that’s the thing about Micah. He’s not all in. Not anymore. And I don’t think I am, either.

I nod. “Yeah.”

We get up and head back toward the car. We’re waiting to cross the street when I notice a woman with a tiny belly rest her palm against it, almost protectively. Something about that gesture stops me cold. Then it hits me, a sudden knowing, like the kind Mom used to get. My body floods with heat, and I’m so angry I can hardly breathe.

I grab Drew’s arm because for a second, it feels like the earth opens up beneath my feet and if I don’t hold on to something, it’ll pull me down.

“Hannah? What’s wrong?”

There’s a reason we can’t wait.

Rebecca Chen, when I met her at the funeral, before I read the emails: resting her hand on her belly and saying, I’m feeling a little under the weather.

“She’s pregnant.” The crosswalk signal goes green, but I just stand there. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Who?”