“Annie,” I say. “I think you’re taking a random Internet list a little too seriously. And anyway, it’s not the same. You and Drew were already bonkers for each other by the time gossip websites even cared who you were. No offense.”

“Absolutely none taken.”

“You don’t have to deal with the stress of people writing about something that isn’t even happening.”

Annie raises her eyebrows. “It did happen. Tonight.” She leans forward. “Can you please describe the entire event in detail?”

“No!” I look at her in horror. “You’d probably write it into a movie.”

She shrugs.

I sigh and lean against the wall. “I’m sorry I made you come over here—I’m sure you’re busy with work and planning a wedding. Although you’d be less busy if you took your time with wedding planning, like most people. Like, have it next year or something.”

“Nah.” She inspects the stitches on my quilt. “We don’t want to wait that long.”

“But why are you insisting on planning an entire wedding in one month? I barely have enough time to make a sufficient quantity of poms!”

Anne sits up straight, eyes wide. “I told you not to worry about the poms!”

I hold out my hands. “That wasn’t a complaint. I’m living for this pom wall. All I’m saying is, I don’t get why you’re rushing this. You and Drew are the real thing and . . . Wait, are you guys, like, waiting?”

She looks at me and blinks a few times.

“You know. Are you waiting until you get married to have sex?”

“Chloe!” Annie’s mouth drops open. “Do you not remember that I texted you after the first time Drew and I slept together?”

“Oh, yeah.” I cross my arms. “With details about his penis.”

“Which is why, frankly, I think you owe me details about your after-hours make-out sesh with Nick.”

“I only felt his penis through multiple layers of fabric, so I have very little to offer,” I say, then stand up. “I’m gonna open a bottle of wine. You want a glass?”

She waves a hand, back to inspecting the quilt. “Um, no. I’m good.”

“But . . . drinking wine and talking about my hookups is one of your favorite activities,” I say. She still doesn’t look at me, and the realization washes over me slowly.

“Wait,” I say, sitting down so close to her that I’m practically on her lap. “Are you . . . pregnant?”

She presses her lips together but can’t stop them from spreading into the hugest of grins. She nods quickly.

“YOU’RE CARRYING DREW DANFORTH’S PRESUMABLY HOT OFFSPRING?” I screech. “How pregnant are you?”

“Eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks? And you’re just now telling me? You bitch!” I smack her on the arm, then recoil. “Oh, God. Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt the baby?”

Annie laughs. “Uh, my womb isn’t located in my upper arm, so no. We’re good.”

I cover my mouth. “And I shouldn’t have called you a bitch. The baby can hear me, right? I don’t want to teach them that sort of language until they can understand context.”