She leans forward, her elbows on the table, then immediately leans back again because the waitress is sliding coffee cups in front of us. I expect her to say something, but instead she adds about a gallon of cream to her coffee, stirs, and then takes a sip. She puts the cup back down, then exhales slowly. “This has the potential to be seriously fucked up.”

“No kidding.”

“But if she moved here, why not say something to you? Why just keep popping up in the background like some freakish version of Where’s Waldo?”

“To torment me, obviously.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says, but she sounds dubious.

“So what’s your theory?” I say, leaning back. I want to take a sip of something warm, but I can’t do coffee, and I’d been too out of it to change the order to herbal tea.

“Nothing. I don’t know. You’re probably right. Your mom’s freakish enough to think that gaslighting you is a time-honored mother-daughter bonding technique.” She isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s concentrating on running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup.

“But . . .?”

Her shoulders rise and fall. “It’s just that you’re the only one who’s seen her.” She lifts her head to look at me. “I’ve been with you twice now, and I didn’t see shit.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“No, it doesn’t. But you’ve never caught up with her, and she disappears like Santa Claus.”

“She sold her house.”

“Lots of older women do. Maybe she wanted to live in a garden home and use the money she spent on landscapers to travel to Europe.”

“Or Los Angeles,” I mutter, but Jamie doesn’t hear me. “Okay, fine. She sold her house and me seeing her is just a coincidence. Just my whacky imagination.”

“Don’t act like that doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You know it does.”

She starts to count out the reasons on her fingers. “First you were putting together that Dallas proposal, so she was on your mind. Now, you know she’s moved, so duh. Come on, Nicholas. We both know you’ve got mommy issues. And that’s got to be on overdrive now.” She glances at the little yellow shopping bag on the seat beside me, then bites her lower lip. “I mean, doesn’t it?”

A sharp stab of guilt cuts through me, and I deflate. “I swear I was going to tell you at lunch—we didn’t start telling anyone until today. When did you hear?”

She screws up her mouth. “I saw on social media when you were in Dallas. That’s why I called, actually. But then you told me about your mom moving, and I thought I should just wait until you told me about the baby.”

“Oh.” I frown, feeling like a horrible best friend. “Listen, James,” I begin, but at the same moment, she reaches across the table to grab my hands, saying, “God, I’m such a bitch!”

She pulls me into an awkward across-the-booth hug. “Congratulations,” she squeals, then plunks back down into her seat. “Oh, my God, I’m going to be an aunt!”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“Are you kidding? Not even.”

I laugh, happy and relieved and contrite all at the same time. “I really am sorry,” I say, but she just waves the apology away.

“Oh, please! I should have told you I knew. I was just—doesn’t matter. I’m so freaking excited for you.” She props her elbows on the table and peers hard at me. “You’re excited, too, right?”

There’s genuine concern under the question, and it reminds me of just how well she knows me.

“I was freaked at first,” I admit. “But I’m over it. Now, I’m excited. Still nervous about—well, everything—but it’s a good kind of nervous.”

Even as I talk, I realize that I’m more confident than I was yesterday. “Morning sickness isn’t my friend,” I continue. “But it’s part of the experience. And I’m even okay with not drinking coffee,” I add, then take a sip of water.

“Oh, shit. I wasn’t thinking.” She drags my coffee to her side of the table, then adds cream. “I’ll just take that temptation away.”

“How about you?” I ask. “Are you excited or nervous or both?”

I expect her to bounce in her seat with typical Jamie exuberance, but all she does is stir the coffee. “You mean about the red carpet thing? It’s cool. Exciting, you know?”

“Um, yeah. Hugely exciting.” The waitress slides the sandwich we’re sharing into the middle of the table, and I grab a French fry, then use it to point at her. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, hell. It’s just that I thought the gig was the start of a promotion. It turns out it was the start of an audition. And I’m already failing, which means that the premiere is going to be my first and last time to walk a red carpet or do celebrity interviews or any of that stuff. And then I’m back to an anchor desk—which is a great job, don’t get me wrong, but now that they’ve dangled the entertainment reporter carrot . . .”

She trails off with a frustrated sigh while I try to filter through everything she’s just rattled off and make some sense of it.

“I’ve already asked Jane and Lyle.”

“Asked them?”

“To do an interview with me,” she explains.

“They said no?” That doesn’t seem like something either one of them would do.

“They said yes. The studio said no. I can catch them on the red carpet to chat about their outfits and how excited they are about the movie, but no one-on-one interview. Apparently, the studio’s already set up exclusives with another network.”

“So you’re telling me that you have to go out and set up your own interviews? That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” She looks more morose than I’ve ever seen her.

“Jackson knows Graham Elliott,” I say, referring to another A-lister.

“I thought of that,” Jamie confesses. “But he’s in Vancouver on a shoot. I thought about asking Bryan,” she adds, referring to her ex-boyfriend, Bryan Raine, “but just the thought gave me hives.”

“Besides,” I say, “you don’t want to give that asshole any free publicity.”