“That is mental and you know it,” I said. “You’re stuck with me until the end of the road, buddy, no matter which one it is. I’m just trying to be practical.”

“I know the baked-in fancy part of my personality is the crux of my sex appeal,” he joked. “Be honest, you’ve never been able to resist a man with his own heraldic flag.”

“No, the real draw was your family history of syphilis,” I said. “That, and your forearms.”

Nick grinned. “It is a relief that even in complicated circumstances, we can still be glib.”

“I would never be glib about these,” I told him, grabbing his arm and giving it a messy kiss.

He brought his knees to his chest and hugged them. “My entire life I’ve been complaining that I’ve never been given a choice, and now that I have one, it’s paralyzing.” He drummed his fingers on his shins. “To go, or not to go. That is the question. Which, by the way, you haven’t answered yet, either.”

I shifted again, trying in vain to feel better, and pictured myself as I was before. That girl who only wore jeans and hair elastics—in a ponytail with no extensions enhancing it—felt very far away from me now, and it was alluring to imagine jumping off the hamster wheel of being a public figure and getting reacquainted with her. But there was more than a decade between her and me, and what if—

Suddenly, I felt a telltale wetness underneath me. “We have to go.”

“It was that easy?” Nick looked at me, puzzled. “No indecision?”

I gestured to my stomach. “To the hospital,” I said. “I think my water broke.”

*  *  *

The shock of it immediately sent me into denial. I wasn’t even at thirty-four weeks yet, and everything had progressed normally to date; surely this wasn’t real labor. It’s not that much water. Maybe my bladder quit on me? I think I have food poisoning actually. I should call the doctor, but first I’ll get back in the shower and shave my legs. I forgot to do that. Then I might feel better. And on and on it went, calmly, stupidly, until Nick took the razor out of my hands and told me the hospital was ready, and my Go Time bag was in the boot of the waiting car.

“Oh, okay,” I said, and then I threw up in the sink. “I think I ate some bad cheese, Nick.”

“Whatever gets you downstairs,” he said.

My cramping was getting stronger. I concentrated on breathing and on not vomiting all over the back of PPO Stout’s car, which we were taking to the hospital’s private entrance. When we got there, I was hustled into a wheelchair, pausing once to puke in a waste bin near the elevator.