It’s strange not to see him. Not to shave and slather on my favorite lotion for him. Not to spray my sheets with “lavender dream” linen spray for him. The house feels so empty when I get off work. I make tacos for myself and think of taking some downstairs. But that would be weird…right?

The two-week wait has never been my strong suit, even without this loneliness. After ovulation, it’s two weeks before a woman gets her period. I counted on Gabe not to know a lot about it, so I kept having him over the first week. But this week, when there’s no chance of me getting pregnant—none at all—it felt dishonest not to tell him.

I eat my tacos by myself and then go for a bike ride, swinging by Mom’s house to check on her. She’s got some chicken soup on the stove, even though she’s not supposed to be up cooking.

“Stay and have some with me,” she says, sounding tired.

I do—and it’s not so bad. We watch ESPN to satisfy Mom’s later-in-life sports obsession, and she only acts disparaging and gossipy once: a story about poor Mr. Morrison next door, whom she feels positive has gotten hair plugs.

Then I stand to go, and she holds her hand up. “Wait, I do have one more thing.”

I raise my brows, expecting her to pass me something she ordered from QVC. Instead she shakes her head, her face gone grim.

“What?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you—how dare you not tell me you’re living with that Gabriel McKellan?”

“What?” I frown, acting surprised to buy myself a few seconds. “I’m not living with him.”

“Well, you are so! That Ms. Emery across the street told me he’s on the first floor. Says he’s up your back stairs all the time.”

Up my back stairs…

For some reason, that makes me laugh so hard I throw my head back, glimpsing the long crack in Mama’s ceiling.

“Mama. Give me a break.”

“I’d like to know what’s going on, at least stay up on all the gossip.”

“Nothing is.” The lie is knee-jerk. As soon as it leaves my mouth, I start to question keeping it from her.

“You aren’t in bed with him?”

My jaw drops. “Mama! I can’t believe that you would even ask that.”

“Well he’s good-looking. And rich.”

“You’re giving me whiplash! I thought he was overrated and his books were boring. Or he’s a jerk.” Since I failed to return home from the class trip, Mama has hated on Gabe when the mood suits her. I think, for the years after all of that, it was her way of trying to support me. “And wasn’t it you saying a few weeks back that you heard he was involved in some kind of scandal?”

“Oh—I did, and I know what it was now.” She leans forward, looking like a dog after a juicy bone.

“Mom.” I almost laugh, because the petulance of my tone sounds like a teenager. But really.

“We don’t need to talk about him.”

Her eyes light up. “So he has been up your stairs. I can’t believe that you would do that, Marley.”

“Do what?” I ask sharply.

“That boy—and he’s still a boy to me—is still bad news.”

“Oh, is he?” I laugh softly to cover weariness.

In a rare moment of insight, my mother shakes her head, her lips pursed. “Yes. For you, he is.”

“And why do you say that?”

She shrugs. “I’ve wondered that same thing for years, Marley. What was it about that curly-headed boy? I think you simply wanted to rebel from me.” She gives me a prim, slut-shaming kind of look.

I laugh at that, because that’s more what I expected from this little heart-to-heart. Mama making it about her.

“Okay, Mom. You got me. It’s about you.” I roll my eyes. Because clearly, I’ve regressed to a fifteen-year-old.

“It’s about gossip, Marley Marie. These old ladies will eat you up for brunch if you’re not careful.”

“I’m worried,” I deadpan.

“Word will spread. You won’t have any patients.”

“It’ll cure the flu and strep, huh?”

“They could ask for someone else,” she tells me pointedly.

I throw my hands up. “I’m not paid by patient.”

“Well, I guess that’s good.” She says this seriously.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Thank you for the soup. I hope you have a nice night, Mama.”

“Watch your back,” she warns.

As I pedal back home, under curtains of fluttering moss, beneath the tall and shifting trees, I have to laugh. My mother knows I’m having sex with Gabe. She warned me about gossip.

Welcome back to Fate, Marley. Belated welcome back.

Wonder what she’ll say when I’m knocked up.

* * *

Symptoms can be deceiving.

“Symptoms.”

Every time, between ovulation and my period, I have what could be pregnancy symptoms.

Maybe my boobs are sore because I’m pregnant—or because I wore that tight new bra.

Maybe I’m moody because of baby-making hormones—or maybe because the day has really been annoying as all hell.

Maybe I have a headache because I’m pregnant—or because I only had one cup of coffee today.

Maybe I’m tired because the baby is implanting in my uterus right this very second—or maybe just because I stayed up listening to the pipes swoosh.

That last one is true. I was up last night listening to the freaking pipes. So, at work this morning, I can barely spell my own name, but I do know Gabe flushed the toilet at 1:45 a.m., showered at 3, and had a sad nightmare at 5:30. At 6, as I headed out for a run, I smelled the stench of cigarette smoke near the front porch.

I came close—so close—to knocking on his door and asking me to run with me. I even lingered by the front walk for a minute. But I kept moving. Because my mom is right to some extent: Gabe can be bad for me. Not inherently bad, but bad because when I’m with him, I like him. He gives me that crooked smile, and my heart melts and sags down to my knees, and—bam—I’m open to him. Open for him. And not just my legs. I just…I don’t even know. I want him.

Gabe fever. A bit like baby fever, but brought on by lust for baby daddy.

At work, I think of swinging by his house with dinner, but I tell myself I can’t. The truth is, I have no idea where he is emotionally. Scratch that: I do have an idea. Almost every time, after we do the baby-making thing, he dresses quickly and he goes.

Bless him, he’s got to be still dealing with the fall-out of what happened. I know he is, because I hear him with those nightmares, through the floorboard. The few times we’ve done missionary style, I see that hard fire in his eyes, and I can tell it’s more than basic lust. The man is haunted—and who wouldn’t be?

I go home from work and try to think of something I could cook and take him. Oh, I just had extra. But…that’s obvious. And most likely unwanted.

At work on Wednesday, our receptionist, Carolina, waves me closer when I come to grab a patient chart.

“I’ve got a question,” she whispers between her cupped hands.

I smile. “Shoot.”

“I heard a rumor,” she says slowly. Shit. My stomach flips as she smiles. “Is it true that Gabriel McKellan is your ex?”

I smile, shaking my head—playing it off. “Where’d you hear that silly story?”

“Oh, you know. Around.” She zips her lips, and I smile. “Maybe. Why do you wanna know?”

“He’s a great author. I heard someone say he moved back here to Fate, and I thought, oh could he be single. Then my cousin told me you were married to him.”

“It was a long time ago,” I tell her, tapping the folder against my thigh.

“So was he…you know?” She licks her lips, and I laugh, mostly from surprise.

“Carolina! That was years ago.” A cop-out, but dear Lord, I need a cop-out.

“You know what I heard?” she asks.

I sigh, still smiling in an effort to be patient. “What did you hear?”

“My friend who works down at the drug store said he came and printed pictures of a little girl. His daughter. So I asked my other friend, and she said it’s not his. Her mother-in-law told her it’s all over the tabloids, how he thought he had this daughter, but it wasn’t his.”

It’s a struggle not to grit my teeth. To keep my face neutral as I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s really sad if it’s true. Fate is going to be the worst place for him,” I say with a pointed look at Carolina.

“Yeah. It’s true.” She has the grace to look a little bit ashamed of her big mouth.

I hold the folder up in parting wave. By the time I’m off work that afternoon, I have an idea.