“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

He wandered over to the chair in the corner and sank into it. I watched, unspeaking, as he picked up a matchbook from the table and turned it over between two fingers. “That’s weird. Since we’ve never had sex.”

“Oh, right!” I forced a laugh. “So it’s not yours. Whew! That must be a relief.”

Patrick didn’t laugh. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this. Whose is it, Nev?”

I couldn’t believe I was joking either. What was wrong with me? I should just tell him the truth. He wasn’t Grace. He wouldn’t fire questions at me or demand answers. And the idea of sharing the burden—well, it was like a hot shower after a brisk swim at the beach. But something held me back. “It’s … mine.”

“And who else’s?”

“Just mine.” I downed my milk and turned to wash out my mug.

“Have you told your mom?” he asked.

With my back to him, I nodded. Patrick hadn’t met my mother, but he knew enough to know the minefield I’d be facing when I told her. My hand cupped my belly. It won’t be that way for us, little one. Not a chance.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked.

“Gran. You. Susan. That’s it. Although there’s no hiding it now, is there?”

“Not Eloise?”

“No.”

Eloise, my roommate, was perhaps the obvious person to tell. She was sweet, considerate, reliable. But she’d met Ted, her very nice, very time-consuming, boyfriend shortly after moving in and we’d never quite made the journey from roommate to friends. It was fine by me. I’d more or less given up on female friends in the seventh grade when I realized that female friendship was practically a religion. Thou shalt not sit next to another friend at lunchtime. Thou shalt insist you wear my favorite jacket and then get mad when you spill soda on it. Thou shalt not talk to anyone currently being shunned by the group. In contrast, hanging out with male friends felt like sliding into a pair of old jeans: comfy, predictable, unpretentious. I especially felt this way with Patrick.

I upended my mug on the draining rack and with nothing else to do, spun around. Patrick was right in front of me—so close, my belly skimmed his. “You mean you’ve gone through this alone?”

I tilted my head up, but for some reason, couldn’t look at him. He pulled me against his warm chest. “Oh, Nev.”

I didn’t bother protesting. Patrick was too strong to push away and besides, I didn’t want him to see the rogue tear that streaked down my face. Our friendship had always been more about laughter than tears. Laughter was what had brought us together, five years ago, at The Hip. It was quiz night. Susan and I had just completed a successful vaginal twin-delivery at the birthing center and it seemed like a good excuse for a drink and some mindless trivia. We had just ordered a jug of beer when Patrick and Sean, an ob-gyn whom I’d met in surgery, sidled up to our table.

“So?” Sean pulled out a free chair and sat down. “Team of four?”

Sean was so assuming, so confident. I had an overwhelming urge to tell him Sorry, our table is full. But my eye had already slid over to Patrick. I knew him—I knew them both from the hospital—but Patrick, I liked. He was a good guy. The kind of doctor who stayed late to help his patients and never hurried them even if his shift had long finished.

“Sure,” I said after Susan nodded. “Why not?”

“Nether, isn’t it?” Sean asked.

Patrick elbowed him. “It’s Neva, you goose.”

“Nev-a?” He helped himself to a glass of our beer. “Unusual name.”

“More unusual than Nether?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Sean continued, unperturbed. “You could have been conceived in the Netherlands.… Hey, I work in obstetrics, I’ve heard it all.”

I started to laugh, but stopped when I noticed something playful in Patrick’s expression. “Not a fan of unusual names, Sean? Weird, given your middle name.”

Susan and I swiveled to Sean. He paled. “Now just a sec—”

“Tiffany,” Patrick announced proudly.

Susan’s hand shot to her mouth. A snort bubbled from me.

“It was my mother’s maiden name,” Sean muttered.

We couldn’t hold it in any longer. At least I couldn’t. It tore from the depths of my stomach. Beside me, Patrick was doubled over and tears streamed from Susan’s face. Everything Sean said only made it worse.

I can’t remember the last time I’d laughed so much. Patrick admitted his middle name was Basil, like the herb. Susan told us she had an uncle named Esther. But nothing beat Tiffany. As obnoxious as Sean was, there was something so … likable about him. Particularly after he told us about Laura, the Texan cashier at his neighborhood grocery store. He told us he always gave her large notes because he loved hearing her count back the change in her smooth American-pie drawl. Fave, Tayn, Twenny dahllars. Thare you gow, kand sir. You have yerself a good day, now. He planned to wear her down until she finally agreed to become his wife. Patrick said he didn’t have a hope. At least, not after she found out his middle name.

We made a pretty good team, the four of us. There was the odd debate over the right answer, a given with Sean on our team. But Patrick, I noticed, always sided with me. Even the time I was wrong. He pulled my ponytail playfully throughout the evening, and though I always shook him off, I found myself hoping he’d do it again.

When the MC announced that we had won, Patrick lifted me off the ground and spun me in a circle. My legs bumped the table, knocked over a chair. A glass smashed. Patrick either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Then, abruptly, the spinning stopped.

“There you are, Patrick!”

Patrick’s arms loosened around my waist, and my feet found the ground. His body, so fluid just a moment earlier, became stiff. “Karolina.”

The pretty blonde crept to Patrick’s side and he took a small but distinct step back from me. “Karolina, this is Neva,” he said. He laughed, though not the same guffaw that I’d heard all evening. It was more stilted. Nervous. “Neva’s a midwife at the birthing center.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

A hand clasped my upper arm. It was Sean. “Want to come accept our prize?”

I nodded woodenly. As I followed Sean to the stage, he ducked his head casually to my ear. “Don’t waste your pretty pink cheeks on Patrick,” he said. To his credit, he spoke softly. Kindly. “He flirts in his sleep. He can’t help himself.”

“Who was that girl?” I heard myself ask.

I recognized the expression on Sean’s face immediately: pity.

“His fiancée.”

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. As my memories of the night faded, I was able to be in the same room with Patrick without having to feign an excuse and leave. And after a while, I realized it was for the best. Patrick would be a terrible boyfriend. By the sound of it, he was a worse husband. But as a friend, well, he wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Now, I relaxed into his arms.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Patrick and I sprang apart. Eloise stood sleepily in the doorway in her nightie. “Sorry,” she said again, “I was just getting some wat—Oh my God!”

She stared at my stomach.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”

Her eyes rushed up to mine, then dropped again to my belly. “But … you’re really pregnant.”

I nodded. Under her gaze—and Patrick’s—my stomach felt twice as large, my secret twice as ridiculous.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked, flicking a glance at Patrick. “I can make coffee.”

I shook my head. I knew this was the time to explain but I didn’t trust myself. “Actually, I’m really tired. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow?”

Without waiting for a response, I squeezed past them both into the hallway and then into the bathroom. It was steamy and it smelled of Eloise’s strawberry bubble bath. I sank onto the tiles. Deep vibrations rumbled through the wall—Patrick talking to Eloise about my revelation. I cocooned my belly with my arms. There’d be a lot more people discussing it soon.