It isn’t until we’ve been driving for several minutes that I remember a conversation we had at a conference table a few months ago:

“Just watched Django Unchained again on Netflix last night,” I said.

Monica, who was arranging coffee on the table, shuddered and said, “Oh God, Tarantino is so violent.”

I laughed. “Yeah, but my husband loves his movies. Especially Pulp Fiction. We’ve seen that movie more times than I can count.”

I close my eyes, trying to remember what Monica said to that. Did she say she’d seen the movie? I can’t recall. But still. Saying that Tarantino is “so violent” is a far cry from calling him her favorite.

Yet somehow, now it’s not only her favorite movie, but she’s memorized every line of it.

I bite my lip hard enough that it hurts. Sam is still driving, whistling to himself. He had a good night tonight—he has no clue what I’m thinking about.

I’m probably being irrational. Maybe I’m remembering the conversation with Monica wrong. Yes, she said the movies were violent, but she didn’t say she didn’t like them. Maybe she was saying it in a complimentary way, like, “Tarantino’s the only director who satisfies my thirst for violence!” And she never said she didn’t see Pulp Fiction. Most people have seen that movie—it’s a very popular film. A classic, like she said.

Hey, maybe our conversation inspired her to revisit his movies.

I’m definitely making too much of this. So what if Monica sat in the front seat? So what if she shares movie taste with my husband? I’m the one who’s married to Sam. And thanks to Monica’s generosity, we’re going to be parents soon. I don’t know why I’m getting so paranoid.

Chapter 12

This is Monica’s first OB/GYN appointment since her positive pregnancy test.

Based on her last menstrual period, she’s ten weeks along, nearly eleven. Her stomach is still flat as a board and her boobs are huge. She’s wearing a hospital gown, but has nothing on from the waist down. I came with her to the examining room and offered to wait outside while she changed, but she insisted it was “no big deal.”

I turned away when she was undressing, but I couldn’t help but take a tiny peek. And then I wished I hadn’t. I never thought of Monica as particularly attractive, but she’s twenty-three years old, and her body is absolutely perfect. Not that mine is terrible or anything, but everything on her is so tight and… well, like I said, perfect.

“This is exciting,” Monica comments.

“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”

She squeezes her white hands together. “They said on the phone we might be able to hear the baby’s heart today.”