My stomach churned. Was something going on between my husband and my best friend? If so, what? Did they know what Max and I had done? Were they plotting to destroy us? To abandon us? Or . . . had my husband lied to my face about that night? Had he and Freya slept together, too?

The thought of Brian making love to Freya made me sick. She was so beautiful, so small and blond and perfect. My husband would have been enraptured by her, like I had been with Max. I’d been excited by the newness, turned on by the differences. Brian would have felt the same way. He’d have compared me to Freya, and I would have fallen short. Were they in love now? Having an affair? My mind and stomach reeled with the possibilities.

About seven minutes later, I pulled into the gravel parking area. Brian’s truck was alone in the lot, and he was beside it, pacing in a circle. He was decidedly not stretching his hamstrings. He looked up as my car approached, and our eyes met.

My husband was not happy to see me.

I got out of the car and marched toward him.

“What are you doing here?” He couldn’t hide his dismay.

I’d left his inhaler in the console. I suddenly didn’t care if he had an asthma attack. “What’s going on with you, Brian? Why was Freya here?”

“Freya?”

“I passed her as I was driving. Is something going on between you two?”

“Are you serious?” He snorted. “You think I’m sleeping with your pregnant best friend?”

“It would explain a lot! You’re distant and moody. You won’t talk to me. You’re always running. Or so you say. . . .”

“I was going to run, but I forgot my inhaler.”

“I brought it. That’s why I’m here. But now I’d like to know what the hell is going on with you.”

He turned away from me, dragging his hands through his cropped hair. Then he whirled around, his face dark and angry.

“You want to know what’s going on with me, Jamie? My book is a disaster, and I don’t know how to fix it. If I lose this deal, we’re fucked. Your store doesn’t make enough money to support us, so I’ll have to go back to teaching. There won’t be any openings on the island, so we’ll have to pack up and move. You’ll have to sell the store. We’ll both have to give up on our dreams. All because I’m a fucking failure.”

I saw the pain on his handsome face. It was genuine. He was telling the truth.

“I run all the time because it’s the only thing keeping me off antidepressants,” he growled. “Would you rather I self-medicate with drugs or booze?”

“Of course not. And you’re not a failure.”