My daughter is sleeping in her crib, her little belly rising and falling with the soft breaths of a restful sleep.

I tear out of the room and search for Meredith. Her bedroom is empty, but I find her in the bathroom. She’s nude, passed out in a tub full of water, her chin and lips immersed and slowly sinking deeper.

“No!” I lunge for her. Grabbing her under the arms, I yank her from the tub and against my body.

Her eyes flutter open before I can check her pulse. “You’ll take good care of her.”

“What have you done, Meredith?” The words break, each a crystal dish shattering as it falls from my lips. “What are you doing?”

I carry her to the bed, and then I see it. A note placed under an empty bottle of pills.

Dear Claire:

I wish you the best life…

I grab the bedside phone and dial 911.

You are the best thing I’ve ever made, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be—

I throw it across the room, as if reading it makes what she’s done real.

“911. What’s your emergency, please?”

“I think she’s trying to kill herself. I think she overdosed.” I grab the bottle and read the name of the prescription painkiller to the operator, and then I give Meredith’s address.

“Max,” she whispers, her hand settling against my jaw.

Her eyes float closed again, and I hold her against my chest, my fingers on her pulse.

19

THE SHRILL ring of my phone jars me from a sound sleep. I grope for it in the dark and answer without looking at the display.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Max.”

I reach across the bed and click on the bedside light. His voice sounds funny. “What happened?”

“I need you to come watch Claire. I wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency and you can get here faster than my mom.”

I’m already out of bed, looking for my clothes. “Sure. Of course. Your house?”

“Meredith’s apartment. The complex on College, unit 302. They’re taking Meredith to the hospital, and I want to follow.”

“What happened?”

His breathing is choppy, like maybe he’s been running or maybe he’s trying not to cry. I can’t tell.

“I can’t talk about it right now, Hanna.”

“I’m on my way.”

I dress in the bathroom and am halfway to the door before I consider that Nate might worry if he checks on me in the middle of the night and I’m not here. When I return to the bedroom, a sliver of moonlight is slicing across his bare chest. My heart stops for a minute at the sight of him—strong and solid, yet almost vulnerable in his sleeping state.

I bite my lip, not wanting to wake him up but not wanting to worry him either. Finally, I decide to leave him a note, and I’m heading toward the kitchen for a notepad when I hear him shift in bed.

“I wanted to let you know I’m leaving. I didn’t want you to worry.”

He sits up and drags a hand over his face before grabbing his phone. “What’s going on?”

“Max needs me.”

“Want some company?” he asks, his voice that sexy, half-asleep rumble. “Or do you prefer to be alone when you sneak off in the middle of the night with your ex-fiancé?”

I ignore his insinuation and add, “For Claire. I’ll— Why are you getting dressed?”

“I’m coming with you.” He pulls jeans on over his boxer briefs and then tugs a T-shirt over his head. “I’ll drive.”

Ten minutes later, we’re at Meredith’s door. Poor Max is so distraught that he doesn’t even notice or care that Nate is with me.

“She’s sleeping,” Max says. “She’ll probably stay asleep until morning, but I need to go.” His whole body is a knotted ball of tension.

I swallow back all my questions and whisper, “Go. Claire will be fine.”

He pulls me into a hard hug then gives Nate a nod and is out the door.

“What happened?” Nate asks after the door closes behind Max.

“Meredith was rushed to the emergency room. I don’t know anything else.”

IT’S LATE evening, and she’s settled into a room in the psych ward before they let me see her. Hanna has stayed with Claire all day and required no explanations—because that’s the kind of friend she is. That’s the kind of woman she is.

“Hey,” I say softly as I walk into the room.

Meredith is in a hospital gown, an IV in her hand. Her face is washed free of makeup. I can’t remember the last time I saw her without at least something on her face, and I’d forgotten that her lashes are nearly as blond as her hair. She looks so fragile, I’m reminded of the girl I loved as a teenager.

“You must think I’m a real idiot,” she mutters, staring at her hands.

The truth is, I’ve felt nothing but guilt since they loaded her into the ambulance and I had to wait for Hanna to arrive. I read the note.

If I’d read it outside of the context of her suicide attempt, I would have seen its contents as self-involved melodrama. But in the context, I see what I’ve been choosing not to for months. Meredith isn’t well. She’s depressed and desperate and irrational. And I feel guilty as hell for not noticing the signs. Was I responsible for pushing her to this?

“The doctor said I have postpartum depression.” She’s still not looking at me. “Which pretty much proves that I totally suck at this mothering thing.” She squeezes her eyes shut and tears roll down her cheeks, each one knocking down another piece of my bitterness toward her.