“No.” It was firm this time. She got off the couch and rushed toward me. “Freya twisted my words. I never wanted to be with Max. But he said you and Freya were already in bed together. I was high. And I was weak. So I just . . . I went along with it. But I’ve hated myself ever since.”

She tried to hug me, but I folded my arms, backed away. I wasn’t ready to forgive her. Or myself.

“I wanted to talk to you about it afterward,” my wife continued. “I wanted you to know that I only want to be with you. Ever. But you went out in the boat with Max. You acted like everything was normal.”

“I was in shock. Maybe I was still high. I don’t know. . . .”

“And then later, when I asked you point-blank, you denied that anything happened with you and Freya.”

“I didn’t deny it. I just told you that you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to be with. And that’s the truth.”

“But we could have talked it through.”

“I didn’t want to talk it through.” I forced the words past the knot of emotion in my throat. “The thought of you with this rich, handsome fucking athlete eats me alive. I can’t write. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. . . .”

I let her take me in her arms then, let her run her fingers through my hair, let her whisper words of love in my ear. My shoulders sagged with relief, the tension in my jaw relaxed. Jamie was right. We needed to bring this out into the open, to talk about it and heal from it. Then I felt her pull away from me.

“Why were you meeting Freya at the canyon?”

Here it was. The part that would hurt her most.

“That night . . . we didn’t use protection. Freya said we didn’t have to worry. She and Max had been tested for STDs and they’d been monogamous since they moved to the island. And”—my voice caught, but I forced the words out—“she told me she couldn’t get pregnant. She said she couldn’t conceive.”

Jamie’s voice was a whisper as she put the pieces together. “Oh my god.”

“When you told me she was expecting, I didn’t know what to think. I had to talk to her. I had to ask her if . . .”

My wife’s strangled voice completed my sentence. “If Freya’s baby could be yours.”

“The timing’s off,” I assured her. “The baby isn’t due until May. The night we . . . had sex was in July. So, if the baby were mine, it would be due early April.”

“How do you know her due date? Are you taking her word for it?”

I was a step ahead of her. “I asked Freya to show me a dated ultrasound photo. She brought it to me today.”