“See?” I’m crying harder now, my tears stinging my chapped lips. “That’s how good it was. And now I have to say goodbye to him and his—”
“Compelling intellectual depth?” Marcus supplies helpfully. “His massive—”
“Marcus!” Cori glares at him. “Not helping!”
“I’m just saying—” He glances over at the Polaroid taped to our pathetic, buzzing fridge. It’s the one from Central Park with Leo and Emma and me, all of us grinning like an actual, tax-paying unit of society. “Look at the photo! The man is a specimen! Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”
“I’m literally pregnant, Marcus,” Cori says, her voice flat.
“Irrelevant. Your eyes work regardless of your uterine status.” He turns back to me with genuine curiosity. “Wasit big?”
I nod solemnly, my chin wobbling.
“I fucking knew it. It’s always the quiet, academic ones with the…most massive data sets.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, burying my face in my hands. “Because I’m going to have to kiss him and his massive data set goodbye.”
I’ve tried to keep it together at Leo’s apartment, for his sake. But I’ve seen pictures of Rebecca. A couple weeks ago, Emma wanted to put photos from her disposable camera into an album, and I was helping her. We were on Leo’s living room floor, pictures spread everywhere, when Emma reached for this old photo album on the bottom shelf, one with yellow sticky pages and crinkly plastic film.
“Oh, look! That’s my mommy!” Emma had said excitedly.
And there she was. Rebecca was stunning, and it made my stomach feel like it was full of lead. She had golden hair that looked like it was spun by Rumpelstiltskin himself falling in perfect, effortless waves, round, youthful cheeks, and bright blue eyes that actually seemed to sparkle even in a grainy photo. Emma’s eyes. She was standing next to Leo at a beach, wearing a white sundress, looking like she’d been born in a field of daisies or had just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
They were two beautiful, symmetrical people meant to produce beautiful, symmetrical children.
“She’s a goddess,” I whisper, the salt from my tears stinging my chapped lips. “And I’m just…the stupid nanny who accidentally fell in love with her boss, and I’m about to get my heart handed back to me in a paper bag.”
Cori sets her taco down—a true sign of an emergency—and grips my shoulders. “Annie. Look at me.”
I look at her. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. Her little belly bump is visible now under her baggy Nirvana t-shirt, just starting to round out.
“Leo isnotgoing to leave you for Rebecca,” she says firmly. “Do you know how I know?”
“Because you’re my best friend and you’re legally obligated to lie to me?”
“No. Because Rebecca left him. She also abandoned her kid, Annie. And yeah, maybe she’s gorgeous, and maybe she’s perfecton paper. But you’re just as pretty. You’re seriously so beautiful, and you don’t give yourself enough credit. She left Leo to handle everything alone. Andyou—” She pokes me gently in the chest. “You showed up. You stayed. You didn’t run when things got hard.”
“But what if that’s not enough?” My voice breaks. “What if he meets up with her and realizes he still loves her? Nostalgia’s a hell of a drug, you know.”
“Then he’s a colossal idiot,” Marcus says, his mouth full of carnitas. “And we’ll find you someone else. Someone with a slightly smaller brain, perhaps, but someone else nonetheless.”
I lean my head back on Cori’s shoulder and she pats the top of my head like I’m a sad puppy.
“You’re gonna be a good mom,” I say quietly.
Cori laughs a little. “You think so?”
I nod against her. It’s the truest thing I know. Cori’s the one who remembers to water the sad little fern on the windowsill, who talks me down when I spiral. She’s patient and sturdy and kind and she doesn’t fall apart when things get messy—unlike me, currently sobbing into a mystery-meat taco.
“When are your parents coming to help you move your stuff?” Marcus asks, reaching for another taco.
“The week after Thanksgiving,” Cori says, still stroking my hair. “They want me home before Christmas.”
“We’re not allowed to talk about that yet,” I say firmly.
“We have to talk about it eventually—”
“Not yet.”
