When I come to, I’m in a hospital bed. Caroline is at my side, massaging my hand and smiling.

“There you are. I’m glad you’re awake.” She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “But I’m also glad you got some rest.”

“What… Why am I here? What happened?” My mouth feels like a pumice stone. Everything aches. I smack my lips.

“You passed out in the conference room and you have a mild concussion.”

I try to sit up, and my hand goes to my forehead. My fingers skim over a lump above my right eyebrow. “Ow. What the hell?”

“You hit your head on the table when you fainted.”

“What? I’ve never fainted before. What’s wrong with me?”

By the time I get the words out, Caroline’s fingers are on the call buzzer at the end of a little cord that rests on the bed.

“Relax. We’ll get the doctor here.” Caroline strokes my arm. “You’re going to be fine.”

I rub my lips together. They’re chapped, and I bite a piece of skin on my bottom lip as I absorb the news that I’m in the hospital. “Did Rafa call? Has anyone heard anything from him?”

Caroline looks at her watch. “You fainted at around noon. It’s about four now.”

I sigh. That means it’s ten at night in Madrid. He’s probably out at some swank bar or something. This makes me even more miserable. “But did he call?” I turn in the hospital bed, attached by the IV in my arms, to look for my phone.

“Ah, ah, ah.” A woman in a white coat comes in and guides my arm away from the nightstand. “You need to rest.”

“I need my phone,” I say petulantly. “I have to check my email and my calls.”

The doctor ignores me. For that matter, Caroline’s ignored my question, too, which must mean that Rafa hasn’t called. Surely she’d tell me if he had.

“I’m Dr. Kramer. Is this your mother? Can she stay in the room while we talk?”

I look at Caroline, who is beaming.

“No, she’s not my mother, but she can stay. Caroline’s a dear friend.”

The doctor pulls up a chair. “Well, Justine. Here’s the situation. You passed out because you were dehydrated and exhausted.”

Of course. I’m an idiot for not taking better care of myself. I nod. “That makes sense. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately at work and in my personal life. I’ve been eating like hell. When can I leave? I have a lot to do.” Crap, did I miss the meeting with the real estate broker? I look around for my purse. Where is my damned phone?

With my free hand, I pull the thin blanket off my legs and flex my toes. My legs look swollen. God, do I have cankles? I groan.

“Justine,” the doctor says sharply. “Relax. You need to stay for a little while longer. Probably overnight for observation. We have more tests to perform. There’s something else.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re pregnant.”

I still and look around the room, wondering where the hidden camera is located. Because of course this is a joke. Me, thirty-four and pregnant—with Rafael’s baby? I gape at the doctor, then at the grinning Caroline.

“Congratulations, honey,” Caroline coos. She’s over the moon.

I cover myself with the blanket, slump back onto the pillow and shut my eyes.

What the hell am I going to do now?

I’ve never before craved a peanut butter, mustard, and pickle sandwich on white bread. Now, staring at the folder containing the ultrasound photo resting on my lap, I’m convinced that I’ve never thought of a better culinary combination. I’m in Caroline’s car and trying to avoid thinking about anything but food.

“Thanks for driving me home. And thank you for staying with me all night.”

Caroline pulls into my driveway, shuts off the ignition, and turns to me. “You know I love you like you’re my own.”

I nod, blinking back tears.

“Sweetie, it’s going to all be okay.”

I wipe my eyes, feeling unbecoming and slobbery. “It won’t. I’m so worried about telling Rafa. He’s going to be angry, I think.”

Caroline leans over the center console and wraps her soft, wrinkled arms around me. I bury my face in her shoulder and am swaddled in the comforting, spicy smell of Opium perfume.

“No, he won’t be angry at all. Don’t worry about Rafa, honey. He’ll do the right thing. Trust me on this. You’ll see him soon. Now, do you want me to come inside with you and make you a tea?”

I break away, shaking my head.

“You’ve been amazing, Caroline. Thank you. I don’t need you to stay. I’m going to have a snack and a shower, and then rest.”

“Okay, but you know you can call me if you need anything. And, Justine—”

“Yes?”

“Please trust in Rafael when you see him.” Her voice quivers a little.

I pause, my hand on the door latch. “I don’t know when I’ll see him.”

“Probably sooner than you think. And remember, whatever happened between the two of you, put it in the past. Forget about your father and the problems he caused you both. Rafael’s a good man and he loves you—and like most men, he needs to feel like he’s in charge and the protector. That’s all he’s wanted, is to protect you. And that’s all your father wanted, too—for you not to get your heart broken.”

I mutter something about how it’s too late.

“Honey, if your mother could have seen how much Rafael loves you, she would have given her blessing.”

I swallow tears and rub my stomach, a motion that’s become surprisingly familiar in the past few hours.

“Okay.” I sniffle.

“Remember that the two of you need each other. You always have, but especially now.”

Strangely, the idea that Rafael decided to let me go all those years ago so I could maintain a relationship with my dad no longer bothers me. He made what he thought was the right choice at the time, when he was young and stupid. Just as I had. We’d both let anger and stubbornness rule our lives. Everything about our past makes sense now—at least until the moment I rejected him in Miami a few weeks ago. That’s the only thing that’s illogical about our relationship—that I continue to be an idiot.

“If he comes back and still wants me, I’ll remember that. I’ll forgive him if he gives me another chance.”

I kiss Caroline’s cheek and climb out of the car, holding the folder to my chest. It’s nighttime, and I feel like I’ve been away from home for years, even though I’d only been in the hospital overnight.

I’m a different person now. I’m a mother.

I take the folder inside and set it carefully on the kitchen table. A bittersweet feeling fills me when I think about telling Rafa. In the past, I’d fantasized about how we’d get back together and how happy he’d be when I told him I was pregnant again.

I never imagined we’d be thousands of miles apart. I never dreamed I’d be filled with anxiety and dread while waiting to tell him. Yeah, it’s safer to think about eating. Thank God my appetite is back, and I say a silent prayer of thanks for the medicine the hospital gave me to stop vomiting. Right now, food is satisfying. Thinking about Rafa, not so much.

I pad into my bedroom and pull off my flats. I wriggle out of my bra, which has seemingly turned tight, and slip a comfy dress over my head.

I wonder where Rafa is right now, what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. Every time I imagine him in Madrid, I envision the inevitably gorgeous women who will follow. Stunning exotic beauties in gorgeous designer clothes who will sip martinis and say witty things and offer their bodies without demands, drama, or complications.

Women without cankles.

Women without failing businesses.

Women who won’t make him remember difficult moments of the past.

In the kitchen, I spread a dollop of peanut butter across two slices of bread.

I raise my hand to my face to wipe away the tears wetting my cheeks.

While lying in the hospital bed, I’d started a dozen emails to Rafa about the baby, but didn’t want to tell him the news in an impersonal message. Or over the phone, if I can help it. Of course he’s not answering his calls because he doesn’t want to talk to me.

Anyway, I have to let him know about the baby in person, which means I have to wait until he returns, whenever that is. I’ll go to Miami and be brave. We’ll have to work together for the good of our child, even if we aren’t together as a couple. I’ll stay in my house in St. Augustine, of course, and we’ll come to an agreement on custody. I’ll stand firm for my baby because I want him or her to be raised in a familiar place. A place with legacy and meaning.

I top the peanut butter with sliced pickles.

Pressing the thick sandwich down with the palm of my hand, I go to cut it in two, then stop. Why be dainty? I’m an unmarried, hungry pregnant woman in a green paisley sundress that resembles a cotton sack.

I take a huge bite of the sandwich. I close my eyes and emit a satisfied hum. The sandwich isn’t better than sex or mangoes, but it’s coming pretty close. A little blob of peanut butter leaks out of the sandwich and squirts on the front of my dress. I scoop it off with my finger and lick.

I’m taking my second giant bite when I hear the knock. Swallowing and wiping my mouth quickly on a napkin, I walk to the hall and flick on the porch light. I look out the small glass pane on the door. A surge of electricity shoots through me.

Rafael?