One month later . . .

Grandma Joan and Samson had flown with me to Paris, whether it had been to make sure I actually took the trip or to catch me if I fell, I didn’t know. Grandma Joan said it was because my mom wanted her to visit. She wasn’t thrilled about it and said she didn’t want to see my mother canoodling with a child. She’d actually used the word “canoodling.” As it turned out, Mom’s new boyfriend was older than Freddie. Not by much, but older nonetheless. Sam used the trip as a way to clear his mind. He hadn’t been feeling well either, and didn’t want to be home while all the fighting was going on. We’d stayed at the Chateau that first weekend and took the train to Paris on Sunday. Sam had a flight to catch Monday, and I had my apprenticeship at Prim, which I’d accepted.

I stopped crying on the fifth day. Or maybe it was the sixth. I had a perfectly beautiful studio apartment with a lovely view of the Eiffel that was only a few blocks from Prim. Despite the cold I couldn’t seem to kick and the way my heart felt like it was going through a grinder every time I thought about Rowan, which was every night, but I’d managed to keep my head straight and pay attention to all the things I was being taught during training.

My mild cold grew into the flu, which came with the worst nasal headaches ever. By my third Friday at work, my new boss, Yamira, gave me a warm wine to try.

“Just drink it and relax this weekend,” she’d said. “Instead of exploring the city, order in. You’ll have plenty of time to explore once you feel better.”

I took the wine gratefully and went home with every intention of unwinding. That was, until I checked my email and saw a message from Rowan. Every nerve in my body contracted as I clicked it and opened it to find pictures. Not just any pictures. Wedding pictures, which appeared to have been taken in Rogers Williams Park. His face was stoic in all of them. That was the one thing that made me not want to hurl my tablet. I’d told him how I felt and it hadn’t worked out quite the way I’d planned, but I didn’t regret it for a moment. I’d cried for him, for the loss of what could have been, but I was fine. I’d been completely fine up until I saw the pictures, but as I clicked through them because, of course, I had to click through them, I zoomed in on her dress, and my blood went cold.

I knew that dress.

I’d looked at that design countless times before trashing it because the ends of the sleeves were too pointy for the lacy material I’d intended it for. And there was Camryn, blonde, skinny, supermodel-like Camryn, wearing my scrap work. How did she find that? Where did she find that? I racked my memory, trying to figure it out until I realized—the coffee shop. He must have taken the paper, folded it into his pocket, and kept it.

Did he think this was flattering? Having his new wife use a dress I designed? A strange ache developed deep inside me. I dropped my tablet, brought one hand to my mouth and the other over my stomach in hopes that I wouldn’t be sick all over the living room. My gaze found the tablet where it had landed face up on the rug, and my heart pounded erratically against my ribs as I stared at the picture. Her ring looked huge. She probably picked it out herself. Was he wearing a ring? I covered my mouth harder, fighting the revulsion that threatened to pour out of me. Once I had been sure I wouldn’t throw up, I scooped up the tablet, wrote him an email telling him to go fuck himself, and turned the thing off. Surprisingly, it only took me a few days to get over it. Normally, it would’ve taken longer. Maybe it was the city, the lights, and the romanticism about it, but Paris seemed to be good for my soul.

That had been three weeks ago, and I hadn’t heard from him since. A few hours ago, I’d forced myself to finally go sit at the doctor’s office that Yamina recommended and got a full checkup. I explained to them my symptoms, what I’d taken, which wasn’t much aside from warm wine, and I waited. Waited. In the end, they told me I had the flu and sent me home with a Z pack. I went to the little pharmacy in the corner of my apartment and stood in line waiting to fill the antibiotics, grabbed some things I thought of last minute, and went home.

When I got home, I curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around my legs, feeling like utter shit, thinking about the damn dress and Rowan, until a knock on my door pulled out of my funk. I stood quickly, the dreamer in me envisioning Rowan on the other side of it, kneeling and groveling for forgiveness. Forgiveness I’d still give to him if he asked.

What I found when I opened the door was Celia. All the sobs I’d already gotten passed came rushing back at the sight of her. We threw our arms around each other. I cried, and she held me the way only a sister can. Then she dropped her hands and, like only a sister can, gave me a rigorous inspection I clearly did not pass.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” I sniffled, wiping my face. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Surprises aren’t meant to be announced.” She smiled, picked up her duffel bag, and walked inside. “Cute place.” She walked around, light on her feet, bouncing from here to there, her long, black hair swishing with each movement. “Really cute place,” she added as she pulled the curtains back and saw the Eiffel.

“I know. You want anything? I don’t have much.”

She waved a hand, turned those warm brown eyes back to mine. “You aren’t playing hostess. I’m here to take care of you. What’s going on?”

And I told her. I told her about Rowan, which she knew about. I told her about the email and the dress and everything that was on my mind. I told her that most of all, I missed him. I missed his arms and his scent and his warmth and the way his eyes lit up when he was going to say something he knew would make me want to punch him. And between it all, I cried and sniffled.

“Sorry. I thought I was done crying.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She put a hand on my shoulder and then dropped it, her face contorting with confusion and anger. “He fucking sent you their wedding pictures? Why the hell would he do that?”

“Not wedding pictures. They got married in court. This was a photoshoot they had recently.” I tried to shrug it off nonchalantly, but felt a new wave of tears fill my eyes as I thought about the pictures. “Probably because they were going to be printed in some publication and he wanted me to see them first.”

“She copied your dress design, though? You can sue for that.”

“It isn’t like it was . . .” I shook my head, too weary to explain copyright laws and things of that nature. I’d looked it all up and came up with the conclusion that nothing could be done. What was the point of trying? “Whatever. It isn’t like the fabric was right for the design and the lace up top didn’t fall over her shoulders like it should have. It wasn’t my best design.”

“Still,” she said and sighed, turning her lithe body toward mine. “Have you taken the meds?”

“Not yet.” I pointed at the bag on the counter. She stood up, walked over to her duffel bag and crouched down to open the zipper.

“Don’t be mad.”

“What did you do now?” I sighed, thinking about the time she bought me a bouquet of daffodils because she’d forgotten I was allergic to it. She couldn’t possibly have flowers in there though. Instead, she fished out a pregnancy kit. My jaw dropped.

“What is that for?”

“For you because we need to get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh my god, Celia, you’re being ridiculous.” I stood quickly and walked to the kitchen, taking the meds out of the bag. “This is all I need.”

“Just. Please,” she said, waving the box around. I rolled my eyes and took it because I knew my sister. She’d go on and on about this if I didn’t comply. I pulled my hair into a messy bun and ripped the box open, taking out the stick. Unease rolled through me as I looked at it. How many women had looked at this very thing and wished for things, or not wished for things. I wasn’t entirely sure what side I fell on. I’d landed the apprenticeship of my dreams and was striving.

“What is happening?” Celia asked, saying the words slowly as I flushed the toilet.

“I’m not pregnant.” I set the test down beside me as I washed my hands.

“It was that fast?”

“No. I’m just telling you what I know. I have the flu.”

“Tessa.” It was her warning tone. Her mouth was slightly parted, eyes wide as she stood over the stick. “I am seriously freaking the fuck out now. I mean, seriously, I fucking . . . I mean, Jesus. I’m at a loss for words! When am I ever at a loss for words?”

“Hopefully soon,” I grumbled, walking out of the bathroom. She followed, picking up the stick with two fingers, as if afraid being pregnant—which I absolutely was not—could rub off on her, placed it on the coffee table and sat on one side. I sat beside her, watching the stick.

“You probably shouldn’t take whatever antibiotics they prescribed if this is positive,” she said. “Oh my god, what if this is positive?”

My stomach squeezed. “It won’t be positive. It’s been like, forever.”

“Still.” She looked as if she were having difficulty breathing. “Oh my god, Tess.”

“Shut up, Celia. Just shut up.”

We both sat at the edge of our seats, eyeing the stick, which was developing some kind of line.

“Did you read the instructions?”

I glared at her. “No, asshole. Didn’t you? You had the box while I was peeing on the stick.”

She jumped from the couch and sprinted to the box, bringing it back with her. She looked between the instructions and the stick, eyes mega-wide.

“What?” My heart dropped.

Her gaze lifted to mine, eyes still wide. “Holy fuck.”

“No.” I took the stick in my hand, snatched the box from hers, and compared them. “No.”

“Tess,” she whispered. “I think you’re pregnant.”

I shut my eyes, clutching the stick and box in my hands. My knees buckled and seemed to unscrew completely before I landed on the couch with an oomph.