I chew on my lip. I haven’t voiced any of my anxieties to Shelley, partially because I haven’t had a free moment to talk to her in person and this was a little too heavy for text message, but also because I know she’s going to say, “I told you so.” And I don’t need an “I told you so” right now.

But on the other hand, I need to talk to someone about this.

“Things have been weird lately,” I admit.

“Weird in what way?”

“Like…” I run a chip through the salsa, even though I’m not terribly hungry. “Sam and Monica have gotten to be… friendly.”

Shelley raises an eyebrow. “Friendly?”

And just like that, the whole story comes pouring out. The night we gave Monica a ride and she stole the shotgun seat. The dinner I was late for, where Monica and Sam bonded big time over math jokes. The way she calls him “Sammy.” The ultrasound I missed, followed by the two of them getting coffee after.

“He said he was just going for twenty minutes,” I say, “but I texted him and he didn’t get back to me for two hours. So.”

“Wow,” Shelley breathes. “That’s intense.”

“And haven’t you noticed how she’s been wearing more makeup lately and dressing more seductively?” I add. “She always used to dress like she was in church, but now she looks… you know, hot.”

“Monica’s really attractive,” she agrees. “I always thought so. And she’s Sam’s type.”

I frown. “His type?”

She smiles crookedly. “Well, she looks like you. So I’m assuming that’s his type.”

Good point. I never thought of Sam as having a “type,” because he rarely comments on other women or talks about old girlfriends. I’ve never even seen photos of the women he dated before me. But he asked me out so quickly after we met, there must have been something that drew him to me immediately.

And yes, Monica looks like me. Except younger. And curvier. And pregnant with his kid.

“Also,” I say, “they’re texting each other.”

“They are?”

I nod. “I saw a text from her pop up on his screen this morning.”

“What did it say?”

“Um.” I think for a minute. “I think she was thanking him for sending her a math paper she liked.”

“Well, that’s pretty innocent.”

“But how is she so into math all of a sudden?” I stir the ice listlessly in my Diet Coke. “She wanted to go to school for graphic art to become a creative director, and now somehow she knows all about matrices and cokernels, whatever the hell those are.”

“I don’t think Sam is going to be overcome by passion while talking about math.” She snorts. “Actually, I take that back. Maybe he would.”

“Haha.”