Annie scrunches her nose. “I’m not sure my eight-week-old fetus has a very developed sense of hearing. I mean, maybe. But either way, your light cursing is probably not going to traumatize it.”

I shake my head. “Whatever. The point is, you should’ve told me as soon as you felt a twinge of nausea. As that pee was drying on the stick. I should’ve known before Drew knew. You should’ve been texting me every time you had sex so I’d know there was a possibility you could conceive. Does the BFF designation mean nothing to you?”

“I didn’t feel sick! I mostly feel fine, but tired. I had my first doctor’s appointment this week to confirm, and I didn’t want to say anything until I really knew.”

She exhales a little shakily. “So . . . that’s why we’re getting married so soon. I want to have the wedding before the baby comes, because we’re probably going to be so busy after it comes that we’d never get around to it and . . . and I don’t know, I want to be married to Drew as soon as I can.”

“Ugh. You two make me want to barf.”

“We’re sickening.” She shrugs.

“And about to be parents.” I throw an extremely soft pillow at her, so as not to cause further damage to her developing baby. “I can’t believe this.”

“It feels like a dream,” Annie whispers, and I reach over and hug her. Because this really is her dream—after losing both of her parents (her dad when she was just a baby, and her mom when she was in high school) all Annie’s ever wanted is a big family with a million kids and a dog and probably not a white picket fence because she’s a writer and she’d find that detail too clichéd. But now, with her wedding coming up and her baby on the way, she’s living her dream. Everything’s going according to script.

“I’m so happy for you, babe,” I say, and I am. I really am. But there’s still a part of me that feels like I’m stuck here, sinking in quicksand while everyone else moves on.

* * *

It’s late when Annie leaves, but I’m wide awake. I need to sleep if I want to be functional at work tomorrow (have you ever messed up someone’s coffee order? Let me tell you, caffeine-hungry customers don’t care about your fatigue!), but I find myself lying in bed, staring at the sloped ceiling, my mind scrolling through the events of today like they’re an endless Instagram feed of frustrations.

Nick and I promised we’d pretend like that kiss didn’t happen, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. But just because my mind and pinky agreed doesn’t mean that the rest of my body can forget; I’m keyed up and jittery, waiting for some kind of payoff.

I pull my phone off my nightstand and text Nick. Our texting history isn’t robust—it’s mostly about work, saying I’m going to be late (me) or asking if I want to pick up a shift (him)—and I’m sure he’s asleep right now, but I go ahead and text him anyway.