The kind of shock that rocks you to your core.

I’m shaking, full body tremors. My hand slides to my mouth.

It’s not a sure thing, a voice inside my head says. The tests could be wrong.

But I know—in my gut, I just know—that I’m pregnant, and that my arrogant, dickhead boss is the father.

“Julia, sit down,” Gracie says, brow furrowed as she pulls out a chair at a table toward the back of her coffee shop, Holy City Roasters. “You look really pale. Are you okay?”

I nod at the chair across from mine. Swallow the lump in my throat.

“You’re gonna want to sit for this too.”

“Uh-oh.” Eva cuts me a glance. “The last time you said that, you were calling to tell me you’d met a French footballer at a discoteca and that the two of you were running away to live, and I quote, ‘that fancy as fuck David Beckham life.’”

Olivia grins. “I’ve heard the stories about that guy.”

I laugh, the tightness in my chest loosening the tiniest bit. I knew calling my girls was the right move, even if I do feel guilty for high jacking their Friday night. I met Gracie through my neighbor Elijah—she’s his younger sister—but the two of us really became close when I was designing the interiors for her shop. Olivia, the author of My Romp With the Rogue, has been my friend since grad school.

Eva I’ve known forever. We met when I was home one summer from college, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. She’s a pit master—a master of the barbecue pit, how cool is that?—and lives in Atlanta now. While she’s not in Charleston all that often, she does come to visit her parents every once in a while. They own a cute barbecue place out on Sullivan’s Island. Lucky for me, she’s in town this weekend.

“Armand will always be the one that got away,” I reply, sighing. “God, he was hot.”

“I thought y’all barely talked,” Eva says. “You barely spoke French, and he didn’t know a word of English.”

My smile grows wistful. “It was a magical time.”

Gracie sets an iced coffee in front of me, milk swirling into the dark liquid. It’s my usual order here at Holy City Roasters. I’m a coffee fiend—the kind that goes straight from bed to the coffee pot. I love the smell, the taste. The ritual of sitting down with the day’s first cup.

But looking down at my coffee, fragrant and ice cold, I’m hit by an unpleasant realization. I don’t know what the rules are exactly about drinking coffee when you’re pregnant. But I can’t imagine any doctor would recommend having a fourth cup of the day, especially at 8 P.M.

I feel short of breath. Like my lungs are gripped in an invisible fist. My eyes burn with tears.

Olivia runs a hand across my back. “Aw, sweetie, talk to us.”

“Do you not like the coffee?” Gracie asks, clearly distressed.