Laire and Kyrstin walked down the road, to the Dancing Turtle coffee shop, in silence, the only sound a bottle of prenatal vitamins shaking like a baby rattle in Laire’s purse with every step she took.

Sitting at a table by the windows, Kyrstin ordered them two cups of coffee, then folded her hands on the table, waiting to speak until Laire finally looked up and met her eyes.

“So?” asked Kyrstin. “What’re you goin’ to do?”

Laire sniffled, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

“I just thought you were eatin’ too many doughnuts.”

“Don’t joke,” said Laire.

“I’m not!” insisted Kyrstin. “You got yourself a little poochie tummy, Laire. Ain’t goin’ to be long before others notice it too.”

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“You can’t what? Can’t have it or can’t kill it?”

Laire had been staring at a crack in the tabletop’s Formica, but now she snapped her head up and looked at her sister in horror. “I’m not killing my baby!”

Erik’s baby.

For the first time since receiving the devastating news, her heart clenched with the awesomeness of it: Erik’s baby. Inside her body. She dropped her hands to her belly and rested them over the small swell protectively.

“Great,” said Kyrstin, nodding curtly at the waitress who brought their coffee. “Choice one made. You’re keepin’ it.”

“I’m keeping it,” whispered Laire, unable to keep her lips from turning up in a tiny smile, as she allowed herself to remember, for the first time since she left him that morning, how beautiful she felt nestled naked in his arms.

“Where, exactly, are you raisin’ it?” asked Kyrstin, stirring some creamer into the steaming cup and forcing Laire back to earth.

Laire reached for the sugar and overturned the cylinder, letting the white crystals spill into her coffee. They reminded her of sand in an hourglass, moving too quickly when she needed more time.

“I don’t—”

“It’ll kill Daddy,” said Kyrstin, her voice no-nonsense and eyes lethal. “Just so we’re clear, li’l Laire, let’s review the facts: you runnin’ around with some unknown boy gave him a coronary. Knocked up and unmarried? It’ll kill him.” Kyrstin clenched her jaw before sipping her coffee. “So I’m askin’ you again: where you gonna raise your baby?”

A chill went through Laire, freezing her brief moment of happiness.

Kyrstin was right.

Finding out his eighteen-year-old, unmarried daughter was pregnant would kill Hook Cornish, so she had a couple of options: one, get married, or two, leave Corey before she really started showing.

“Get . . . married?” she asked Kyrstin timidly.

“Fine. That’s an option. Get married, and then you can tell Daddy it was a weddin’-night baby. Everyone will know it wasn’t, but nobody’ll say anythin’ if you’re married.”

Laire stirred her coffee absentmindedly, allowing her mind, for the first time in over two months, to think—really think—about the possibility of a future with Erik Rexford.

“So who you gonna marry?”

“What do you mean, who?” Laire cocked her head to the side. “The baby’s father, of course.”

“And he’ll be just thrilled about this, huh?”

Laire dropped her sister’s gaze, thinking about Erik’s beautiful face, his desperate voice on the phone, the way he’d looked at her, spoken to her, held her. I love you, Laire.

“I don’t know if he’ll be thrilled, but he loves me.” She nodded. “I think he’ll do what’s right.”

“Laire,” said Kyrstin. “I never asked, but that was him, wasn’t it? At the hospital that day?”

Laire met her sister’s eyes, gulping as she admitted the truth. “Yeah.”

“Is he local? From Ocracoke? Or—”

She shook her head. “Summer dingbatter.”

“Oh, fuck,” whispered Kyrstin. “From where?”

“He has a house in Buxton.”

“From where?” asked Kyrstin again.

“Raleigh.” She took a deep breath before leveling her eyes with Kyrstin’s. “His name is Erik Rexford. He’s . . .” She gulped again. “He’s the governor’s son.”

Kyrstin stared at her for a moment, her mouth open. “The governor of what?”

“N-North Carolina.”

“What? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” She held her coffee cup frozen midway to her lips. “You were datin’ the goddamn governor’s son all summer? He knocked you up?”

Laire nodded, taking a small sip of the coffee but finding it too bitter to enjoy.

“Oh, Laire,” said Kyrstin, taking a long sip, her wide eyes over the rim registering complete and utter shock. “Oh, my God.”

“I’ll go see him,” said Laire quickly. “We had . . . we had a plan . . . to meet at Thanksgiving.”

“You had a plan?” Kyrstin scoffed. “We don’t know how people like that work! Laire, you don’t know he’ll do right! Oh, my God. This is—”

“He will. I know he will. I know him. He loves me.”

“How do you know that?” Kyrstin leaned forward. “I thought you broke it off with him that day at the hospital. It’s been months. Long enough for him to move on.”

Kyrstin’s well-chosen words hit a tender spot, and Laire winced, reaching up to wipe the tears that had started falling.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“How’s that exactly?”

“Daddy was sick and I was so scared, Kyrs. I thought . . . I needed to be a good daughter. And I . . . I blamed him some. We’d spent the summer together, but my father was lying unconscious, while he was heading back to his fairy-tale life at college. It wasn’t fair. It was easier to believe that there wasn’t any chance for us to—”

“Enough melodrama. You need a plan,” said Kyrstin, dabbing at her lips. “You talked to him since?”

“He tried to call me at King Triton in September, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I told him to stop bothering me. Eventually he stopped.”

“So you’ve had no contact with him in two months, but you’re gonna walk up to his house, tell him you’re pregnant, and ask him to marry you?” She laughed the way Laire had laughed in the doctor’s office—high-pitched and a little crazy. “That’s not a plan.”

“What other choice do I have, Kyrstin?”

Kyrstin locked her eyes with her little sister’s, her lips thin and white. When she spoke, her voice was low and merciless. “Forget the governor’s son. Find an island boy and fuck him fast.”

Laire’s eyes widened in horror and she recoiled in her seat. “No.”

Kyrstin nodded. “Brodie’s still up for grabs. Drinks a lot. You’d just have to seduce him once.”

“No!” Laire sobbed. “I don’t want Brodie! I love Erik!”

“Who cares?” growled Kyrstin in a furious whisper. “You need a solution and I’m givin’ you one.”

“I can’t do that,” she said, weeping.

“Laire!” said Kyrstin fiercely, reaching for her sister’s hands. “You gotta get married fast. Fast, you hear? You gotta get married and make this right . . .” She searched Laire’s eyes frantically as her grip tightened painfully. “. . . or you can’t never come home. You know that? You understand that? Never, ever. You’d be dead to us. Forever.”

Laire clenched her jaw as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Kyrstin continued, her tone and fingers merciless. “So you figure out what you have to do and you do it. You got yourself in this mess. You need to make it right.”

“I get it,” sobbed Laire, wresting her hands free and rubbing the feeling back into them. “I get it.”

“I ain’t feelin’ sorry for you, Laire,” said Kyrstin, though her voice, edged with concern, betrayed her. “You don’t wanna take a swing at Brodie Walsh? Fine. Then after our Thanksgivin’ dinner with Daddy, we’ll say you’re stayin’ the night at my house, and Remy can run you up to Buxton. You can tell your . . . boyfriend what’s happened, tell him he has to marry you—much good it’ll do you.”

“Why don’t you think he will?” asked Laire, her voice soft and broken. “Why can’t you be positive?”

“Because I’m not a goddamned idiot. Because those people ain’t our people. They don’t live their lives the same way we do, Laire. They got different values, different priorities. You know that. You can’t expect nothin’. I certainly don’t. When you come on back from Buxton with your heart in tatters, you can choose an island boy and set up a date. Get him drunk. Fuck him. And he’ll do right by you.”

“I can’t seduce someone I don’t love just so my baby has a daddy. I can’t . . .,” she said, reaching up to dry her cheeks again. The very idea chipped away at her soul. Trapped on Corey for the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love? It was a fate worse than death for Laire, who wanted so much more than Corey could offer.

“Then get a ring from the governor’s son,” said Kyrstin acidly, “and good fuckin’ luck.”

Kyrstin’s doubts made Laire wince, made her doubt herself. But Erik had loved her, hadn’t he? Yes. Yes, she was sure that he ha d. Then again, fear and anger had caused her to choose her family over Erik. She had rejected him and hurt him, forced him out of her life. What if he had stopped loving her? What if he had moved on as she’d urged him to do?

“What if he doesn’t give me one?” she murmured, stricken. “A ring?”

Kyrstin raised her chin, her face sad for an instant before it frosted over. “Then you know what you have to do. And if you won’t do it, don’t come home.”

***

Laire had made the drive from Corey to Buxton over a hundred times over the summer, but now? In the middle of November with Remy cold and silent at the helm? It was freezing and wet and completely unpleasant. Nothing like the long, warm days of summer, when she loved feeling the wind in her hair and thinking about her blossoming love with Erik Rexford.

Kyrstin explained to Remy what had happened, and Laire felt his disapproval and disgust in the looks he’d given her today. She could barely keep down a bite of turkey, the only glimmer of hope watching Issy with baby Kyle and thinking that she’d have her own little angel to love in six short months.

The most surprising thing about discovering her pregnancy, two days ago, was the speed at which her feelings about motherhood had changed. Laire had always regarded pregnancy as a trap—a way to keep an island girl on Corey forever, whether she wanted to be there or not. But now? With Erik’s baby growing inside her? Her entire heart had shifted. Her love for her son or daughter was rivaled only by her love for Erik, and with a hope that edged into desperation, she prayed that Erik would welcome her back into his life. They’d figure out a way to make it work, right? Once they were married, he could return to Duke to graduate, and she could live with Kyrstin and Remy until he had his degree. And okay, her daddy might not love it at first, but a daughter respectably married, with a li’l’un on the way, would eventually bring him around, wouldn’t it?

And once Erik finished college, the sky was the limit: she and Erik and their baby could form a new life wherever they wanted. She didn’t care where, as long as they were together.

Stepping onto the Rexfords’ dock in the darkness, she looked up at Remy, briefly wondering if she’d ever see him again, then banishing the thought from her mind and giving him a weak smile. “I’ll see you soon?”

“I’m s’pose to leave you here.” Remy shrugged. “And Kyrs said to remind you not to come back ’les you’re wearin’ a ring.”

“I won’t,” she said. But I’ll get that ring. I know it.

“Then, uh, good luck, I guess,” said Remy, raising a hand in farewell as he pulled away from the dock and turned back into the dark Sound.

She gulped nervously, watching his stern lights get smaller and smaller, until she couldn’t see them at all anymore, then she turned and walked up to the boardwalk.

Go out with me..

I can’t..

Voices from the past haunted her as she stepped carefully over the planks in the dark, remembering the first time she’d ever set eyes on Erik Rexford.

I will find you! That’s a promise, Laire Cornish!

Damn it to hell and back! Fine! You win!

As she reached the pool deck, she could see a party going on in the living room, a large group of people holding Champagne glasses as waitresses in black and white passed silver trays of light bites.

Oh, God, please don’t let him hate me, she prayed silently. Please let him understand I only pushed him away because I was scared and hurting.

She walked around the pool, by the chairs where they’d held hands, stargazing and talking about Thanksgiving.

Here she was, after all.

On Thanksgiving.

She stopped a short distance from the glass doors, staring at the party inside, at the pianist playing jaunty carols and the merry ding of crystal against crystal. She didn’t see Erik, but he was in there somewhere, and her heart clenched with joy, with hope, and yes, with relief. She had missed him. She had missed him too desperately for words.

Taking a step forward, she raised her chin and—

“Can I help you?” asked a smooth, deep voice, and Laire turned to the right to see Fancy Rexford, the First Lady of North Carolina and Erik’s mother, leaning against a porch column in the darkness, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, the orange bud bright and beautiful in the darkness.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she whispered. She cleared her throat, telling herself to be brave as she walked away from the doors and over to Mrs. Rexford. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Who are you?” she asked without preamble.

“I’ve come to see Erik.”

“Have you?” she asked. “And . . . does Erik know you?”

She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’re, um . . . we’re friends.”

“Friends?” she asked, looking at Laire’s green blouse and simple black skirt with a sniff. “What friend? I’ve never seen you before.”

She had a crystal glass in her other hand, filled with ice cubes and clear liquid, and it clinked as she took a sip, reminding Laire of the first moment she’d ever seen Erik.

Laire wasn’t easily intimidated, but Mrs. Rexford was formidable, even in the dark, Maybe especially in the dark. She cleared her throat. “Well, we, um . . . we spent some time together this summer.”

“You? And Erik?” She laughed, a light tinkling sound like how posh ladies sounded on soap operas or in the movies. “Oh, no. No, dear. I don’t think so.”

“I swear to you. I know Erik. I need . . . I need to see him. It’s urgent.” Her hands moved to her belly protectively, and Fancy’s eyes dropped to Laire’s stomach, narrowing in understanding before sliding slowly back up to her face.

She popped her cigarette between her lips, grabbed Laire’s arm, and yanked her into a shadow, searching her eyes.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she asked in a hiss, her voice fierce with menace.

“Ma’am . . .”

Fancy released Laire’s arm and blew a stream of smoke into the sky before looking back at her. “You’re trespassin’ on my property.”

“No, ma’am. I was invited.”

“Not by me you weren’t.”

Laire’s heart sped up and her breathing became more shallow. “By Erik.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, taking another draw on her cigarette. “Probably saw his picture in a magazine.”

“Please, ma’am.”

“Please what?”

“I need to see him.”

“Why?”

“I’m . . . expecting.”

Fancy’s eyes flared with fury, and she stepped forward, forcing Laire to back up toward the pool, farther away from the house. “You’re expecting an ass whoopin’ . . . because you’re a liar and an opportunist and a goddamned little gold digger comin’ here on Thanksgivin’ Day with your disgustin’ lies about my son.”

“No, ma’am, I swear,” she said, taking another step back. “I’m tellin’ the truth. Please just let Erik—”

“You’re not,” said Fancy, taking another sip of her drink. “What do you want? Money? You heard that Erik Rexford spent his summers on the Banks, and you came up with a plan to extort money from his family? You wouldn’t be the first little bitch to come up with such a clever plan, but you have underestimated your target, girl.”

“How . . . What do you mean?”

“My boy? My Erik? He’s taken. He’s been good and taken for a while now, which is how I know he was never with you.”

“W-what? What do you mean?”

Fancy threw her cigarette to the ground and reached for Laire’s arm again, holding it with an iron grip and pulling her toward the sliding doors. It was dark outside so, while they could see in, it wasn’t likely that the folks inside eating and drinking could see them.

This time, Laire found Erik immediately, and her heart burst with joy, then clenched in sorrow. His dark hair, thick and unruly, was so familiar, her fingers twitched to touch it. But as she caressed his face, it was impossible not to notice that it was sallow and drawn. He’d lost some weight too. Because of her? Had he been as lovesick for her as she’d been for him? She took a step toward him, but Fancy’s fingers dug painfully into her arm.

“See that stunnin’ girl next to my handsome son?”

For the first time, Laire realized that Erik had his arm around a dark-haired beauty, dressed in a couture cream and gold cocktail dress. She held a Champagne flute like she’d been born with it in her hands, smiling at at Erik like he hung the moon. Who was she? And why did she look so familiar?

“That’s Vanessa Osborn,” said Fancy. “Erik’s lifelong love, Van.”

Van. Van. Her lungs stopped working. But Van is . . . is . . .

“Van?” she repeated dumbly, staring at the beautiful girl she’d seen in so many of the pictures in Erik’s living room. “No, that’s not Van.”

“Of course it is,” said Fancy, releasing Laire to sip her cocktail. “I’ve known Van all my life. So has Erik.”

With her eyes, Laire traced Erik’s arm from his shoulder to where it rested comfortably around Vanessa’s shoulders, his hand curved possessively over her shoulder like a cape.

“No. No,” she said weakly, her voice cracking as the terrible truth of Fancy’s words sank in. “Van’s a man. He’s . . .”

“What in the hell are you talkin’—Does that look like a man to you?”

“No,” sobbed Laire softly, staring at them together—their matching dark heads and perfect, patrician faces. Vanessa would have a deep and cultured voice like Erik’s mother, wouldn’t she? A beautiful, refined Southern accent to match Erik’s. She was perfect for him. She was his match in every way.

. . . which meant . . .

Oh, God.

. . . he’d lied to her. He’d allowed her to believe that he was available when he clearly was not. He’d allowed her to think—every time he mentioned Van—that she was a he, when really she was . . . she was his . . .

“Oh, God,” whispered Laire as memories she treasured started shattering, recontextualized into terrible lies.

“Why?” she whimpered, her whole body trembling as she stared down at her toes. Why?

To get her into bed? To have two girls at once? Was it some sick prank to fuck an island girl? Was she just a challenge? Had he felt anything for her? Had he just used her for a backup fling? Oh, God, why?

She looked up again. Van—Vanessa—held up her hand, on which she wore a diamond ring. She waggled it in front of Erik and giggled as he shrugged, then chuckled along with her.

Fancy, who had lit another cigarette, leaned closer to Laire, her tone conspiratorial. “See the ring on her finger? My grandmother’s ring. Now hers.”

The wind was sucked from Laire’s lungs, and her stomach turned with the few bites of turkey she’d been able to hold down earlier. He’s engaged. He’s engaged to someone else. The ring I need belongs to someone else.

She sobbed, turning away from Erik’s mother and stepping quickly over to the shrubbery that circled the pool deck.

“Aw,” said Fancy. “Well, that’s just charmin’.”

Laire hunched over, retching until her stomach was empty, then turned to face Fancy with tears streaming down her face.

Fancy raised her chin, putting her hands on her hips. She scanned Laire’s body with disgust, spending an extra moment on her belly. “I don’t know who you are, but my son spent his summer with Vanessa. He’s been with her for months. Which makes you a liar.”

Laire shoulders shook with grief, with the sheer scope and magnitude of his betrayal, and she bent her head, staring down at the pool deck in misery. She’d been so gullible. Such a fool.

“Between you and me?” said Fancy gently. “It was a good try.”

“A good try?” asked Laire, looking up at Mrs. Rexford in confusion.

“A good plan. Simple, local girl. Maybe or maybe not pregnant. Pretty enough. Definitely sympathetic. Shows up at the governor’s house on Thanksgivin’ Day, when there are plenty of guests, plenty of witnesses. Claims he did the deed. Clever. Devious, but clever.”

Laire shook her head as tears coursed down her cheeks, but the lump in her throat made a response impossible.

Fancy’s face suddenly hardened, her tone quiet and lethal as she leaned closer to Laire. “But do you know what I hate? Girls who claim they’ve been touched or raped or toyed with. They drag a boy’s name through the mud, splash their dirty lies all over the papers. Then they admit it: ‘I just wanted money. I just wanted attention.’ Except, that filthy story follows the boy around for life.” She dug a finger into Laire’s chest. “Well, not my boy.”

Laire took a step away. “Mrs. Rexford—”

“The jig is up, gal,” said Fancy, toeing her cigarette on the deck until the orange light was crushed. “You chose the wrong boy to mess with.”

You chose the wrong boy.

Laire turned her head, looking over her shoulder to see Erik shake his head indulgently at Vanessa before squeezing her shoulder. Van looked up at him adoringly, saying something that made him laugh, and every hope—every little bit of hope for a happy ending with Erik Rexford—died inside Laire, leaving her cold and empty but for the little, tiny life that deserved far better than him.

You chose the wrong boy.

She reached up and dried her tears, lifting her chin as she looked into Fancy Rexford’s eyes. “You’re right.”

Fancy took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course I am. But as a Thanksgivin’ favor to you, I will not call the police and have you arrested for this little ploy. I’m not interested in causin’ a scene.”

“I chose the wrong boy,” said Laire in a daze. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Get along now,” said Fancy, finishing her drink. “And don’t ever step foot on my property again. If you do, I will be delighted to press charges.”

She narrowed her eyes at Laire, then headed back to her party.

Laire watched her slim figure slip through the sliding doors and walk toward Erik, whom she kissed on the cheek, before kissing Van. She took Van’s hand in hers, admiring the ring with a wink before turning her glance, briefly, back to the patio. With a victorious grin, she nodded once, then turned back to her son and his fiancée.

And Laire, who was invisible in the darkness, turned away from Fancy, from Erik and his Van, from Utopia Manor, and everything else that could ever connect her with the Rexfords. Around the side of the house, past the kitchen and garage, she ran to the road and just kept running.

***

“I have to give it back to you,” said Van to Fancy. “It’s just lovely, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I lost it!”

“Aw! It’s just a li’l ole cocktail ring. And it looks just perfect on you, darlin’. Go ahead and enjoy it for the party,” said Fancy in a singsong voice, her breath reeking of cigarettes and gin. “Maybe someday it’ll really be yours.”

Van’s cheeks colored as she chuckled softly. “Now, Fancy . . .”

“Now, nothin’!” said his mother. “I know you children like your privacy, but whenever you’re ready to make it official, Erik, I’m ready to throw the weddin’ of the decade!”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Really, Mother . . .”

Fancy leaned forward and kissed his cheek again, clasping his face with uncharacteristic intensity. “You know I’d protect you from anythin’, my darlin’. You know that, right?”

Erik was thrown, for a moment, by the sudden fierceness in her voice. “Mother? You okay, now?”

“I’m in my cups,” she said, releasing his cheeks with a soft chuckle. She winked at him, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Will y’all excuse me?”

He watched her walk across the room, her gait certain and elegant, though she’d likely had enough alcohol to pickle a horse. “In my cups” was a quaint expression for “drunk,” which more than explained her strange behavior.

“She’s somethin’,” said Van, smiling affectionately.

“That’s for sure,” said Erik, dropping his arm from her shoulders. He’d gotten used to playing boyfriend with Van over the summer and hadn’t broken himself of the habit yet, though the ruse was unnecessary now that he and Laire were over.

“I couldn’t believe it when she told me to try it on,” said Vanessa, admiring the ring still on her finger. “It was your grandmother’s, but she said someday it could be mine.”

“I heard her.” Erik gave her a sour look. “But we’re not even datin’, Van.”

“I know,” she said in a singsong voice, taking a small sip of Champagne. “But we could.”

“Didn’t I hear you were datin’ an earl?” he asked.

“Just a viscount,” she said, grinning at him, ignoring his mood. She met his eyes, holding them. “Erik, I’m not forward, but you must know . . . I’ve always had feelin’s for you.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked at her sadly. “I only see you as a friend.”

Her face lost some of its hopefulness, but she cocked her head to the side cajolingly. “I’d take my chances that could change. You could take me to the Wake Forest Winter Formal; I could be your date at Duke. We could spend some time together at Christmas break . . . see what happens.”

Over Van’s shoulder, outside on the pool deck, he saw a shadow move in the darkness, and for a second—for a split second—his heart soared, wondering if Laire had come after all. His heart stopped. His breath caught, and he lurched toward the sliding doors, placing his palms flush on the glass, staring outside at the darkness, his heart thrumming with hope.

“Erik?” asked Van, who’d followed him.

“Did you . . . did you see someone?”

“What? Outside?”

“I think I saw someone! A . . . a girl.”

“Are you crazy? It’s cold as the North Pole out there!”

Erik whipped open the door and stepped onto the pool deck, looking back and forth, but there was no one there. No boat moored at the dock. No sweet, soft girl telling him she still loved him. Nothing but the faint smell of his mother’s cigarette, black and smoky at his feet.

“I thought . . .,” he choked out, his insides twisting with disappointment. “I thought I saw . . .”

“There’s no one out here,” said Van from the doorway. “Come on back inside before you catch your death.”

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

It was nine o’clock on Thanksgiving night.

She wasn’t coming.

He stared out at the empty pool deck, at the empty dock, getting his ragged breathing under control. She wasn’t here and she wasn’t coming. They were over—Erik Rexford and Laire Cornish were over—and it was time for him to face the truth.

His heart was broken beyond repair, and he didn’t want to repair it. He wanted it to stay broken forever. It was the only way to protect it from ever shattering like this again. Reaching up, he pressed the palm of his hand over the broken mess of tissue and blood within, pledging to let it stay broken.

Hillary’s words returned to him: It’s time to pick up the pieces and finally move on.

Okay.

Yes, he’d move on now.

But he would never, ever let himself fall in love again. Never. If he couldn’t trust Laire, who’d seemed so earnest, so honest and true, then he couldn’t trust anyone. He turned back to the house. Stepping into the living room, he caught sight of his mother across the room, flirting with one of his father’s friends, feeling his blood run from hot and hopeful to dead and cold.

Women were deceitful and two-faced, false and dishonest.

They were executioners of hope, assassins of faith.

They could be used, as he’d been used by Laire for a summer fling, but that would be the extent of their purpose to him from now on.

From now on, he hated women.

That was Laire fucking Cornish’s goddamned Thanksgiving gift to him: a legacy of pain and destruction, a future full of hate for and distrust of the opposite sex.

“Erik?” said Van. “Did you hear me before? What do you think? About givin’ us a try? A real try?”

“What?” he asked her, looking at her with new eyes that didn’t see her as an old family friend, but as an enemy.

“How about givin’ us a try?”

“A try,” he said softly, as something once soft calcified inexorably within him, unreachable, unfixable, untouchable, dead.

“Erik?” Vanessa whispered. She scanned his face, staring at him warily, her hopeful smile fading.

He looked her body up and down with cold eyes. “No, thanks.”

***

Laire walked blindly through the night, her tears making the way blurry as the cold wind, hitting her from the Sound and the ocean, bit at her wet cheeks. Making her way to Route 12, she simply walked, aimlessly, trying to process everything she’d just seen and heard.

Even though she’d seen him standing there with his arm around Van—Vanessa—part of her still couldn’t believe it.

How many times had he told her he loved her? Insisted she was beautiful? Assured her that he wanted her in his life?

How could it have all been lies?

“Rotten, fucking lies,” she sobbed, hearing Kyrstin’s voice in her head: Because those people ain’t our people. They don’t live their lives the same way we do, Laire. They got different values, different priorities. You know that. You can’t expect nothin’.

She was right. Kyrstin was one hundred percent right. And Laire was a fool of epic proportions. A pregnant fool. A fool who refused to go home and trick a local boy into marriage. And couldn’t go home, because the ring that should have been hers was on another girl’s finger.

After twenty minutes of walking, she found herself standing in front of the Pamlico House, blinking in surprise as more tears welled in her eyes. There was only one person in the world she wanted to see, who could—possibly—help her.

She went to the back door of the kitchen and knocked, asking the dishwasher if he could find Ms. Sebastian and send her outside.

She caressed her belly through her black skirt, whispering softly, “We deserve better than him, li’l bean. You deserve better.”

“Laire?” said Ms. Sebastian, stepping out of the kitchen, smelling of warmth and turkey and cranberries, such a contrast to the bleak cold of the night. “Laire, honey? What a surprise!”

“Ms. Sebastian!” she sobbed, hurtling herself into the older woman’s arms and crying torrents on her shoulder.

“Laire! Oh, dear! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She had no words. The depth of her sorry and fear, worry and exhaustion, were so profound, she couldn’t answer.

But thank the Lord for small mercies because Ms. Sebastian, on what was likely the busiest night of the year, held a desperate, distraught Laire close, rubbed her back, and—without knowing anything—promised her that everything was going to be all right.