What could we do but follow them to the hospital? We could hardly go home and twiddle our thumbs while Freya was in preterm labor. If, in fact, it was preterm. If the baby was fine, big and healthy, that meant the child could be Brian’s. But if it was tiny, in need of medical intervention, we would know the timing was off, that the baby couldn’t have been conceived that night in July when Brian slept with Freya. And we would know that we were responsible for the infant’s premature delivery.

The thought was too horrible to contemplate. I would never forgive myself if the baby was born unhealthy because of our confrontation. Even if it wasn’t Brian’s child, even if its mother loathed me now, I still cared about that baby, loved it even. But if he or she was born robust and strong . . . Did that mean the child was my husband’s? How could we prove it? And if we did, what happened then? Freya would not be interested in peacefully co-parenting; she’d made that abundantly clear. We were the enemy.

The whole mess seemed unfathomable. How had one night of fun and debauchery upended our lives? Threatened our marriages and destroyed our friendships? People did stuff like this all the time with no repercussions. It was common practice on the islands, practically de rigueur in the seventies! But we had experimented one goddamn time and it had blown up in our faces. And now, a tiny life hung in the balance, its future precarious.

Brian’s voice broke through my reverie. “There they are.”

We had reached the hospital and could see Max’s black SUV parked near the front doors. He was helping his wife out of the vehicle, his big hands gentle and caring on his delicate passenger. Freya clutched her belly, her face contorted with pain, and something else. Fear. Freya was terrified. She had not prepared herself for what was to come. She needed me.

“Park here,” I instructed, as Brian pulled into an adjacent lot.

We would not be allowed to leave our car in the emergency spaces close to the door. We weren’t patients or family. Before the vehicle had even stopped, I was out of it and jogging toward her. Despite everything that had happened, the lies and subterfuge, I would help my friend through this. I would hold her hand and coach her through the delivery. I would be there when my husband’s child slid out into the world, having been carried for so many months by my best friend.

“Freya,” I called as I approached. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here for you. We can get through this together.”

She looked up then, and I saw the hatred on her lovely face. “No. You don’t get to be a part of this.”