Her eyes were glassy with fear. “In my dream last night, I saw what happened to the babies. It was a scary old lady, with long teeth that dripped with blood. She went to the bunnies, and ate them, and spit out their bones.”

I exhaled and shook my head. “No, it was probably just a coyote. Which is scary enough, I know. I’m so sorry that you had that terrible nightmare.”

She shook her head in frustration, swiping her bangs from her eyes. “It was a lady. A really scary one.”

I just pulled her to me again and gave her a tight hug. “It can’t hurt you.”

“I know.” She wiggled out of my grasp, and I stood up. She started to leave the kitchen but stopped and turned to me. “But it can hurt you.” And then she left.

I felt rooted to the kitchen floor, which was still dusted with crumbs left over from breakfast. A chill ran through me, and I wrapped my arms around my midsection.

I’m back.

I would have to talk to Mark later. Maybe he could explain what had happened to her in a way that was more concrete . . . and less creepy.

At the pool, Jess took a long swig of water from an aluminum water bottle as she watched Summer go down the slide over and over again. The sounds around us had reached a fever pitch from all the kids and parents yelling to get out of the water, here’s more sunscreen, find your flip-flops.

“Is there some sort of rule that after you have kids, you can only wear a black bathing suit with a skirt?” she said as she looked into the crowd of women, all of them PTA members who always got the teachers their kids requested and had the principal on speed dial. I noticed they snuck disapproving glances at Jess from behind their sunglasses. Jess would forever be labeled as “the girlfriend” by them, and I could only imagine what Sharon told them about her. Plus, I was sure that they had all heard about whatever Liz said to Heather at the block party, and we were all guilty by association.

I looked down at my own black bathing suit, a high-waisted tankini. “Apparently.” I didn’t wear a swim skirt, as that was my line in the sand.

“Don’t we all have stretch marks and veins and cellulite?” she said with a frown. “Shouldn’t we all just say ‘screw it’ and wear whatever we want?”

I settled back with a laugh. “In theory, yes. But might I remind you that you don’t have any of those things?” I glanced at her body, which was like looking into the past. She had never been pregnant—she harbored no desire to do so—and was nearly a decade younger than the rest of us at twenty-nine.