“Okay.”

“Evie, babe . . . you’re going to be an aunt!”

Trying to make the words make sense, I shook my head. “Uh . . . how . . . what? I don’t have . . .” I was an only child. Greer knew that.

“Oh my God, you’re slow tonight. I’m pregnant, Evie! Yay!”

I blinked in confusion. “Are you joking? To cheer me up?” Because Greer had told me more than once that she didn’t want kids. Or to get married. She’d been dating Andre for two years, but it was a very relaxed relationship.

“No!” Greer giggled. “Andre and I have been talking about it for a while and I’m thirty-four, I’m not getting any younger, and well . . . we decided to try. And I’m pregnant!”

Holy Mother of God.

Greer and I were two of six friends who had met at Northwestern and stayed in Chicago after college. Over the years, my friends had dropped like flies. First marriage, then kids, until the only times we saw one another were at their kids’ christenings and birthday parties, and once every couple of months for dinner when they found a babysitter.

The knowledge that Greer never wanted to settle down and have kids had made me think we wanted the same things and I wasn’t alone.

Now, my last friend standing was going down with the baby ship.

“That’s great!” I forced a happy tone and cursed myself for my utter selfishness. “What a surprise!”

“I was going to tell you at lunch on Saturday, but I thought you needed this news now.”

“I’m so happy for you!” Those words weren’t a lie. I wanted only happiness for Greer. But I felt conflicted about her news. “Well, I’m gonna hit the hay. I’ll let you know about tomorrow. And we’ll still do Saturday lunch, right? To celebrate your news. Tell Andre I said congrats.”

“I will, babe. And yes, Saturday, definitely. To celebrate both our news.”

We hung up.

Striding over to my bed, I flopped down on my back and stared up at my cracked ceiling. I could hear the murmur of my upstairs neighbor’s TV.

Greer was pregnant.

If I was honest with myself, I was scared I was about to be left behind.

My phone buzzed again, and my heart beat at triple speed at the sight of the Snapchat symbol.

I opened it up.

AARON T

I’m sorry. I’m not ready for something serious after all and I know that’s what you want. Sorry I was a dick about it. You deserve better. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

Fresh tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but I would be honest one last time.

ME

I’m sorry too.

Sorry for the last four weeks of wasted emotional energy.

When the status remained as delivered, I tapped on his profile and noted I could no longer see his Snapchat points. He’d deleted me from his friends list.

Well, that was final.

Despairing, I lay in the dark trying to figure out if I was sad over facing another romantic disappointment or if my pride was merely hurt.

Maybe both.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “Things will pick up tomorrow.”

Two

There you are, Evie.” My editor, Patrick, lifted his hand and curled his fingers, gesturing me to follow him.

My boss had jolted me out of concentration mode. Outside of work hours, I offered freelance editing services to self-published authors to supplement my income, and one of my clients was a crime writer. An old friend of mine from Northwestern worked with the FBI, and I’d emailed him three days ago with facts I needed checked. The author had gotten her info online, and I just wanted to make sure it was correct. I’d received my friend’s response minutes after coming into the office. Fascinated with the information he’d sent me, I’d forgotten I was at work.

Patrick’s sudden appearance caused giddiness to fill me, swamping the melancholy that lingered. I strode through the open-plan office, smiling at my colleagues as I made my way toward Patrick’s office. My desk sat in front of the glass cube that housed his space.

Picking up speed, I hurried to follow him inside.

“Close the door.”

Despite everyone being able to see what was going on in the office, once that door closed, the cube was soundproof. It was pretty cool. I glanced around. Patrick’s desk sat near the bank of windows that looked down over East Washington Street downtown.

Boxes containing my boss’s belongings filled the space.

I’d worked for Patrick for ten years. He was a good enough boss. Thanked me for my work. Seemed to appreciate me. However, we’d had our differences over the years, mostly because he’d never championed me the three times an editor job opened up at the magazine.

Now he was retiring, and as I was his loyal, long-standing editorial assistant, everyone at the magazine predicted that I would get his job.