I stare into my glass.

“He was doing the same thing to me that he’s been doing to Marcy, his wife. Cheating.”

I guess it really is that simple.

“All these years, he said he was on the verge of a divorce. God, Jemma. I have to rethink three years of my life,” I gasp.

“Oh, honey.” Jemma shifts from outrage to compassion.

“He wasn’t ever going to get a divorce, was he?” I ask, although I know the answer.

“Of course not. Give up Marcy’s money? Lose the country club membership? Never going to happen.” I regret telling her those little details about Joe. I feel so stupid.

We sit in silence, sipping our wine.

“What about this new guy?” she asks. “Not married?”

“No idea, but he wasn’t wearing a ring.”

“Let’s Google him—where’s your computer?”

I pull it out and flip it open.

Nick Grafton, I type.

Page after page of entries come up:

Nick Grafton, Funeral Director.

Nick Grafton, Marathon Runner.

Nick Grafton, Hollywood Stunt Man.

“Not an unusual name, I guess. It would take hours to sort through this—days, even. But look, here’s his picture.”

“Wow.” Jemma’s impressed, her voice drops low. “Look for a wife, keep scrolling.”

There are several group shots, obviously taken at public events, but nothing conclusive. Never the same woman twice.

And he’s not smiling in a single photo.

I refill our glasses.

“The only thing that really matters now is the baby. Li is due in eight weeks.” We’re in the safety zone. Crossing thirty weeks, according to the doctor, means that even with a preterm birth, the baby should be fine.

“Think it might be time to buy a few baby things?” Jem asks gently. “Just some basics? A bassinet, maybe? Some clothes? Some little t-shirts or whatever babies wear?”

“It seems too much like tempting fate. What if something goes wrong? So much could still go wrong. Li is just a teenager. She’s homeless. Who knows what that first trimester was like. She didn’t get medical care until the fourth month. And she can still change her mind. I’m not going to have a peaceful moment until the final papers are signed. And it’s going to be an open adoption. Now I have to worry about this fiasco with Joe becoming public knowledge.”

“It’ll be fine,” she says.

“And last week I was supposed to meet her for an ultrasound. Went to the clinic. Waited for two hours. She no-showed, then texted a bunch of apologies that night.” I frown into my drink. “I hope she’s safe. I hope they’re both safe.”

“It won’t go wrong,” she reassures me. “In two months or so you are going to have a tiny new person here to take care of and love every day. Everything’s going to change, forever. You won’t even remember that you ever knew a guy named Joe Blow.”

“Don’t call him...” I start, but give up. The name fits.

Joe Blow.

Chapter 7

Nick

Maman says she is coming for my fall concert.

The text arrives like any other text, resting in my phone, and only now have I seen it. Something in my chest snaps, like a toothpick pressed too hard on the ends, breaking unevenly.

Leaving the possibility for splinters.

Great, I lie, texting back to my daughter Amelie. A dual major in music and computer science, Amelie managed to thrill both her parents by juggling the impossible. This is her senior year, and she has a solo concert. My ex-wife and the mother of my children, Simone, has missed every single other concert in this child’s life.

The fact that Amelie has a chance for a spot at Juilliard and Eastman has piqued Simone’s interest. Status is like a bat signal for her. To fly all the way from Paris and force herself to spend time in the U.S. is all about bragging rights.

She is coming without Rolf, a second text reads.

I nearly drop the phone.

Great, I text again, this time telling the truth.

He’s such an ass, Amelie adds.

“He is such an ass,” I grumble aloud, surprising myself with my own voice. With my youngest, Jean-Marc, off to NYU for his early start this summer for his freshman year, and twin daughters here in Boston at their respective colleges working on campus before their senior year, the kitchen is quiet.

Too quiet.

My index finger goes numb and I look down, finding purple fingertips and bulging forearm veins. I’m gripping the granite countertop edge so hard, I might snap it in two.

Daddy? Are you there? Are you okay? Don’t make me resort to calling, Amelie types.

I chuckle. God forbid they use their phones for actual calls.

Fine. Just beat up a guy at work today. Typical day at the office.

I press Send and start to make a shot of espresso.

“One,” I count aloud. “Two. Three. Four.”

Ring!

Huh. I should beat people up more often.

“Daddy!” It’s Amelie, breathless and intense. “You beat someone up? Was it over a woman?”

Kind of.

“No. Just a drunk jerk who came into a meeting and tried to harass a woman at a presentation.”

“You’re a hero!”

I haven’t heard that tone of admiration in her voice since I scored tickets to a One Direction concert a few years ago, before she declared Harry Stiles “so yesterday.”

“If you say so,” I reply, laughing.

“Tell me everything. Elodie is going to be so jealous that I got the story first!”

Twins. Life with twins means that everything is a competition.

“Nothing special. Chloe’s ex-boyfriend sent her flowers and was drunk when he insisted on seeing her, and—”

“Chloe? I love her name! What’s she like?”

Hold on. This conversation just shifted from Daddy the Hero to Chloe in three seconds.

“She’s fine. Smart. Sophisticated. One hell of a presenter.”

“I don’t mean that! I mean—is she your type?”

“Amelie!”

“What?”

“She’s a work colleague.”

“Oh.” She sighs. “That means she’s old and ugly.”

“Hardly,” I mutter, then wince. Oops.