“Pretty much,” she says, nodding profusely. “Dane even has a bet on it.”

“I’m going to need more wine for this.” I finish the glass and get up for a refill. I pull the bottle from the fridge. “Why are you two betting on me?”

“Well . . .” She hems, her eyes returning to the TV. Leaning forward, she pauses the movie, and then she haws before angling to face me. “Want to know the truth?”

That has to be one of the most annoying questions ever. “Why do people ask that? Who’s telling others to lie to them?”

“I do. For instance, when I’m in a crowded bathroom and I’m feeling good, but I need a compliment to boost my courage before approaching some guy I think is cute, I’ll ask how I look and tell them to lie to me.” Apparently, this is common knowledge by how she speaks with such authority. “Drunk women huddled in the bathroom are the best boost a girl can get.”

How did this conversation get so far off the rails? “Indeed, it’s a very supportive community, but let’s loop back to us. You know I’m on the pill so—”

“Accidents happen.” She shrugs.

“Okay, sure. While that might be true, why is Dane betting against me?”

She kicks her feet up on the coffee table like our therapy session has begun. I’m just not sure who the patient is in the scenario. “Let’s talk about why Dane’s thinking you’re pregnant, or soon to be,” she says, eyeing me sideways, “is considered betting against you. Maybe he’s impressed you scored a rich Pointe kid.”

“For someone earning her minor in psychology, you sure do treat it like it’s your major.”

“In practicals, I’ve discovered that I’m really good at it. And I enjoy analyzing people. Tonight, you’re the lucky one.” Lucky one . . . I can’t help but think of Harbor.

I fill the glass to the top because no half-full glasses for me tonight. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“It’s not me you have to worry about. It’s the baby.”

“Oh my God,” I scoff and take large gulps of wine, but then I realize something. “See? I’m drinking, so obviously, I’m not pregnant.”

“In some countries, wine is culturally accept—”

“I’m not pregnant, and I’m moving in with Harbor,” I say, the words rushing out to end this loop of absurdity we’re caught in. And that ended it all right.

She sets her glass on the coffee table and stands. “You’re moving out?”

My throat thickens, making it harder to speak. “I, um,” I say, gulping. “I haven’t found a job, and our lease is up next month.”

“You’re moving out on me?”

Why’d she say it like that? My heart starts thumping, knowing hurting her is not my intention. “Well . . .” I say, starting slowly. “The lease is up—”

“You already said that, Lark.” She comes to the other side of the peninsula. “You and Harbor are that serious?”