As we’d told everyone we were a couple, I didn’t see any way around the new sleeping arrangements at my apartment. Eloise would have thought it was strange if he’d slept on the couch. So that night, when Patrick showed up after his shift, after a brief chat with Eloise and Ted, who were snuggling on the couch, we’d both wandered stiffly to my bedroom. I used the bathroom first, and as I waited for Patrick to finish his shower, I peeled back the sheet to examine my sleepwear for the tenth time. A tank top and shorts. A negligee, even if I’d owned one, would’ve looked ridiculous on a woman who was seven months pregnant, but it felt a little presumptuous to wear nothing at all. I sat up. Maybe my good underwear and bra set would be better? It was pink and girly and … No. Not me at all. I lay back down.

The next time I sat up, the light was off and I could tell some hours had passed. Opposite me in bed, Patrick smiled. “Hey, there, sleepyhead.”

I blinked awake. “Whoa. How long have you been staring at me?”

“I wasn’t staring until you suddenly shot upright. I’m a light sleeper. Unlike you.”

I yawned. “Sorry. I must have dozed off while you were in the shower.”

“Pregnant women need sleep.”

“True.” I frowned. “You know, I’m not used to having men in my bed watching me sleep.”

“You’re not used to having men in your bed at all. I should know. Unless you’ve been sneaking them out the window—which, as a doctor, I would say is a dangerous move—on the third floor.”

“So that’s why none of them called.”

I expected Patrick to laugh, but he didn’t. “Is that what happened to him, then? The guy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That must be it.”

“You’re really not going to tell me who he is?”

I shook my head.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

Patrick propped himself onto an elbow. “If it were my baby … I’d want to know.”

“Trust me. This guy doesn’t want to know.”

“So he’s definitely out of the picture, then?” For once, Patrick looked unsure of himself. It made my insides hurt. “He’s not going to swoop in later, demanding back his fatherly rights?”

“No.” My voice was confident. “Definitely not.”

Finally, that megawatt smile. “Well, good. Then his loss is my gain.”

The gleam in Patrick’s eye was unmistakable. It made me nervous. He was in my bed. He’d have expectations. I wasn’t nervous about sex … exactly … but sex with Patrick? It was thrilling and terrifying in equal parts. Thrilling because, well … he was Patrick. He looked the way he looked, and he was definitely very experienced. Terrifying because I was heavily pregnant and most likely not up to the job. But I was happy to try.

I reached for him under the blanket and found his naked waist, warm, flexing under my hands. Slowly, I edged toward him, sliding into his space. The baby sat between us. I leaned in, over it, and pressed my mouth to his.

“Nev.”

I pulled back, my body a crescent moon mirror image of his. “Yeah.”

“I know this is a bit unorthodox, me being in your bed like this. But I don’t have any expectations. Fantasies, but not expectations.”

“Fantasies?” I flickered my eyes to the bowling ball between us. “Even with this?”

He half smiled. “Even with that.”

My head began to swirl.

“But not tonight,” he said. “Tonight I thought we could just … talk.”

“Talk?”

He nodded.

“You are in bed with a woman, and you want to talk.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s me, Patrick. I know your history. Mr. Lipstick on My Shirt, Mr. Reeking of Perfume. You’ve been sleeping on my couch, remember?”

“Ah.” He rolled onto his back, smiling, winging his arms behind his ears. “So my efforts weren’t wasted.”

“Your efforts?” I didn’t get it.

He eyed me sideways and laughed. “Come on. Do you know how hard it is to get lipstick on your shirt collar? How many women do you know that kiss a man’s neck when they’re not naked? Women who still have lipstick on.” I thought about it, but before I could come up with an answer, he continued. “I was trying to get a certain person’s attention.”

“Wha—?” I paused, taking it all in. “You mean … me?”

He laughed again, but now he looked a little shy. My brain continued to work overtime. “You mean … you were trying to get my attention by getting heavy with other women?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds a little counterproductive. But, yes.”

Part of me wanted to slap him. Another part wanted to grab his half-naked body and … “In what world would it be productive?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled at the ceiling. “A lot of other women seem to find me attractive. I thought if you saw how they saw me…”

“So you slept with half of St. Mary’s!”

“Not half.”

“A quarter?”

“Two,” he said.

“Two?”

“Two.”

His face was earnest. And while Patrick was many things, he wasn’t a liar. “Wow. Just two.” I should have been relieved, but a strange, unpleasant feeling began to burn through me. “Which two?”

Patrick started to shake his head.

“Come on,” I said. “If it’s only two, you’ll remember which ones. Tell me.”

“I remember who they are, Nev. But I’m not telling you.”

“Patrick. If we are going to be in a relationship, we have to be honest with each other, right?”

He raised his eyebrows and I cursed internally. I was hardly the advocate for open honesty. I prepared to retract the question when he spoke very, very quietly.

“Leila. And Kate.”

I nodded, tried to look indifferent. I’d suspected Leila, but still, it irked me. And Kate—I didn’t know her very well, but she was very nice. And pretty.

“Both were onetime things,” he said.

“When?”

“Ages ago.”

“When you were married to Karolina?”

“No.” Patrick’s response was immediate, and horrified. “I was never unfaithful to Karolina. Kate was shortly after the split, and Leila, a year ago.” He searched my face. “Karolina was unfaithful to me. You knew that, right?”

“No. No, I didn’t know that. I assumed … well, with all the women afterwards…”

“There were quite a few women afterwards,” he admitted. “Probably not as many as you recall. But I never crossed the line while I was married. I can’t believe you thought I would.”

I was thrown. All the judgments I’d made about Patrick—his infidelity, his string of women—were all getting thrown out faster than I could ask him about it. Either he was a really good PR person or—or I’d gotten him all wrong. I hoped it was the latter.

“I’m not that guy, Nev,” he said, and pulled me toward him. “I may be a flirt … but I’m not that guy.”

“Well, good,” I said, resting my cheek on his chest. “Then it might just work out for us after all.”

17

Grace

I woke in an empty bed. It was early—not yet seven—but Robert’s briefcase, which had been reclining at the foot of the bed when I got in last night, was gone. The blinds were cracked open and red-pink light filtered in, pretty but ominous. Red sky in the morning, shepherds take warning. Robert had been snoring when I got in, so I didn’t have the chance to tell him about Mom. Then again, even if he had been awake, I might not have told him. After his outburst the other day, I felt inclined to play my cards a little closer to my chest.

At 8:53, I was still in bed. The light had faded to peach, but otherwise, not much had changed. I still had seven phone calls to make. Seven clients to disappoint. I hadn’t found the right words yet. You know how you entrusted the most important experience of your life to me? Well, I’m going to let you down at the last minute without giving you a valid alternative, because I’m being investigated for negligence. Truthful, but I didn’t like the sound of it. As the minutes ticked closer to nine, the time I’d deemed acceptable to call, my anxiety grew. So, at 8:57, when my cell phone rang, I lunged at it—a prospect of distraction—without so much as checking the screen. “Grace Bradley.”