"I was in the neighborhood," I say, immediately regretting the transparent lie. Her raised eyebrow tells me she's not buying it either. "Actually, that's not true. I was worried about you after the meeting. You seemed..." I trail off, taking in her pale complexion, the slight puffiness around her eyes that suggests recent tears. "Not well."
"I'm fine," she says automatically, one hand unconsciously moving to her stomach before dropping back to her side. "Just a bit under the weather still."
"May I come in?" I ask, gentling my voice. "Just for a minute."
She hesitates, glancing back into her apartment as if checking for something—or someone—before stepping aside. "Sure. Sorry about the mess."
There is no mess. Her apartment is pristine, with clean lines and thoughtful touches that reflect her designer's eye. Everything in its place, except for a rumpled throw blanket on the couch and a half-empty mug on the coffee table.
"I brought these," I say, holding up a paper bag from the bakery down the street from my office. "Ginger snaps. My mom always said they help settle an upset stomach."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at the thoughtfulness, or the personal detail about my mother. "That's really kind of you." She takes the bag but doesn't open it. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea?"
"I'm fine." I remain standing, suddenly uncertain. This felt less intrusive in my head. "I don't mean to barge in. I just... atthe meeting today, when you seemed to be struggling a bit, it reminded me of our first meeting. When you were sick."
Her cheeks color slightly at the memory. "Not my finest moment."
"We all have our moments," I say with a small smile.
She gestures to the couch. "Do you want to sit?"
We settle on opposite ends of the sofa, a careful distance between us. In this light, I can more easily see the strain in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Whatever is going on, it's not good.
"Camille," I start, abandoning pretense. "I know we barely know each other, and I have no right to pry into your personal life. But I can see something's wrong. If there's anything I can do?—"
"There's nothing," she cuts in, her voice tight. "But thank you. Really."
I should leave it alone. I should respect her boundaries, thank her for her time, and go. That's what a normal person would do. But I've never been very good at walking away from someone in pain.
"Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn't directly involved," I offer. "No judgment, no advice unless you want it. Just... a friendly ear."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, as if assessing my sincerity. Something in her seems to crack, just slightly. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question catches me off guard with its raw honesty. "Because you seem like you could use some kindness right now."
Her eyes fill suddenly with tears. She blinks rapidly, trying to contain them, but one escapes, trailing down her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb. The touch is brief, barely there, but I feel her tremble.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, more tears following the first.
"Don't apologize." I hand her a tissue from the box on her coffee table. "Whatever it is, it's obviously significant."
She takes a shaky breath, twisting the tissue between her fingers. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. My mind immediately jumps to Alex, to Antigua, to the way she reacts when his name comes up. I try to keep my expression neutral, though my heart is suddenly pounding.
"That's..." I pause, unsure what to say. "Unexpected?"
A small, broken laugh escapes her. "You could say that."
I don't ask if it's Alex's. I don't need to. The timing, her reaction, the way she looked when Tristan mentioned his name—it all fits. I feel a complicated mix of emotions: concern for her, anger at Alex for what I assume was his callous handling of their relationship, and something else I'm not ready to examine.
"Have you told—" I stop myself. "Have you told anyone else?"
"Just my friend Izzy," she says, wiping at her eyes. "I haven't figured out what I'm going to do yet."
I nod, understanding the weight of the decision she's facing. "Whatever you decide, you don't have to go through it alone."
She looks at me with surprise, as if the concept of support is foreign to her. It makes me wonder about her family, her friends, the people who should be rallying around her right now.
