“I’m just saying, if you were, it would explain a lot.”
“Explain what?”
“The mood swings. The tiredness. The glow?—”
“That’s just good skin care, and I look tired because I’m the mother of two seven-year-old boys.”
She giggles, taking another sip, and I glare at her umbrella-studded drink.
“Honestly,” Luna continues, leaning back, keeping her eyes closed, “if you’re trying to keep it quiet, just order a mocktail instead of staring at mine like you want to lick the condensation off the glass.”
I groan again. “Now I really need a drink.”
“Not if you’re pregnant.”
“I’m. Not. Pregnant.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, patting my knee, though the smirk never leaves her lips. “But what other situation would you and Bex need to keep secret?”
The fact that our marriage is over and I know it’ll break your heart?
I don’t say it. I just exhale.
Then it hits me. The comment in the spa. Luna wasn’t worried aboutTay, she was worried about me.
Oh, God. If Luna heard this from Josie and Babs, who else thinks I’m… in a family way?
The thought makes my pulse spike as I catalog the damage automatically. Babs may have brought this to Luna, but maybe the solution is in the problem.
“You realize,” I say, “That ‘keep my little secret,’ means actually keeping it secret, right?”
She does her best to feign sincerity. “Who would I tell?”
But I know her. “Nothing about it to the boys. I mean it.”
“I promise.” She holds up one hand. And okay. I trust her.
This is what happens when you start telling lies. You end up having to cover those lies with more lies. Only, I’m not really lying, just postponing…
I”m mentally convincing myself I’m not a totally horrid person when a waiter strolls by with a tray of pastel-colored drinks in coconuts.
I definitely need one of those. Or three.
“Could you bring me a piña colada?” I ask.
“Virgin!” Luna calls out.
And just as I go to overrule her, I catch myself.
If I imbibe copious amounts of rum today, my little sister is gonna think I’m poisoning my unborn child.
The one I’m not carrying. With the husband I’m supposed to be divorcing.
“Virgin,” I agree. Reluctantly.
But honestly, that’s the least of my problems.
And as it turns out, even without the alcohol, the combination of warm sun and gentle motion rocks me into that hazy space between half-awake and dreaming.
