“Rusty said he issued Ben a ticket last week.”

I jerk my line of sight from my passenger’s side window and look at Rachel. She’s driving me home after what up until now was a pretty enjoyable baby shower. She flicks on the turn signal, and the tick-tock sound grates on my nerves almost as much as the fact that Ben hasn’t said a word.

“And just so you know,” Rachel says, leaning into the wheel to take a right, “I slapped him a good one upside the head for doing it.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I deflect, especially since I’m not sure why Ben hasn’t mentioned anything about it. “At least Rusty loaded up all the baby gifts and got them into the back of your car. Which was nice, by the way. I do hope you don’t plan on wrecking it,” I tease, plastering on what Rachel would know is a fake grin if she took her eyes off the road and looked over at me.

“Ha!” She lifts her foot off the accelerator, but only because we’re approaching the town square, where the speed limit takes a sharp dip, and the cops are known to hide, just waiting for speeders—like Ben. “I’m trying to be careful. You know I hated what happened to your car. And Rusty should have never given Ben a ticket without a warning. He was only going sixty in a forty-five. I don’t see the big deal. With nothing but cornfields for miles, there’s hardly even a house on either side of the road.”

I don’t mention the fact that corn doesn’t grow in December. I get her point. Even so, a pang of disappointment hits as I sit and wish Ben would have been the one to tell me. “You’re right. It’s no big deal. I’ll remind him not to speed.”

And ask him why he didn’t mention anything the day it happened. Maybe he forgot. He does seem to have a lot on his mind. With my due date approaching, I’m sure he just didn’t want me to worry about it. I roll it off my shoulders as Rachel takes a left onto the road that winds around the perimeter of the lake.

“I think it’s sweet how Ben’s moved you in with him. How he’s there for you. How he’s hopped in and started getting to know everyone around town. Honestly, Addison, I don’t know how you turned him down. Heck, I’d marry the man if he asked me. The baby making you loco, or is it that new cough of yours preventing oxygen from entering your brain?”

I laugh through the moist cough she’s talking about. “My respiratory status has nothing to do with it. But I do think the baby’s running out of room. It’s been getting harder and harder to breathe these days. And I know you, Rachel. You would not marry Ben. Your heart’s been with Rusty since grade school.”

“Well, Rusty hasn’t asked, and we’ve been kinda serious for what, something like ten years now? I don’t think he’s ever gonna ask.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” I counter. “It’s been done before. You won’t be the first to break tradition.”

“Because, like you, I want to know he loves me and wants me. If he does, don’t you think he’d have asked?” Rachel says, her tone turning sad, her eyes fixed on nothing but the winding road ahead.

“I see your point. It doesn’t help that we’ve been fantasizing about our wedding day since we were old enough to dress up and pretend.”

She reminds me of the fake wedding ceremonies we did at recess, which makes me laugh. We were only in second grade, voicing a rather fragmented set of made-up vows under the wooden fort at the far edge of the playground. Rachel had no more squeaked out “Do you take Dalton” when he slipped the oversized ring he’d made out of grass onto my finger. Rachel didn’t get to finish her lines because impatient Dalton went ahead and shouted his untimely and inappropriate, “I do.”

“I almost forgot about Fort Chapel. Thanks for the memory and for throwing me an awesome baby shower.”

“You’re welcome,” Rachel says, driving up and over the last hill before the house.

I open my mouth to add on to my words of thanks, when suddenly a nauseating flutter begins taking over inside my belly. My thoughts grow fuzzy. My skin turns ice cold. My eyelids close in hopes of erasing the vision I’ve seen. But when I open them, Ben’s arms are still around some woman. To make matters worse, I recognize her as one of the women from my Internet search, her pretty smile and those talons of hers all over Ben in more pictures than I want to remember.

“Addison,” Rachel says, a solemn tone overly evident in her voice, which clues me in on the fact that she’s seeing what I am.

“I don’t know who she is, but do me a favor and drive around the lake.” Maybe she’ll be gone by the time we make a second pass. Maybe she’s no one of consequence. Though why would Ben be embracing her the way he is if she’s not important to him?

I don’t know. First a speeding ticket. Now some exquisitely dressed brunette in his arms. What else is there that I don’t know about this baseball phenom named Ben Peterson?

I need to breathe. And think.