“She would tell me, ‘Be more open-minded. You’ll surprise yourself,’” Daphne said. “Wise advice for us all, perhaps.”
The autumn night air nipped at us, so Daphne lit the firepit with the push of a button, and conjured up warm chocolate chip cookies from her kitchenette. The hotel had also stocked her living room with a hoard of old board games, and we ripped through a round of Yahtzee, before moving on to Cluedo (and my accompanying rant about how Americans were correct to rename it the more sensible Clue, which both Nick and Freddie had heard multiple times, and Daphne politely tolerated). The entire experience had a cozy, quaint feel. Freddie was obviously fond of Daphne, and as the night progressed, I waited for that spark of chemistry that would make Nick and me jump to our feet with excuses to leave them alone. But even when they touched each other—a pat on the back, a teasing smack, a light hug—I saw none. It was like drinking a flat soda: You can only taste the echo of the real thing, in a way that makes you want to give up and go find it. So we stayed, and played until the wee hours, until I arrested Colonel Mustard one last time.
“Bloody cheek of him,” Freddie complained. “How can it possibly be Colonel Mustard again? What is that, three times tonight?”
“It’s always Colonel Mustard,” I said. “That’s just a fact. It’s like guessing C on your multiple-choice exams.”
“Wait, is that true?” Freddie asked. “I could have used that information sooner.”
“Oh, please,” Nick said. “You paid people to take your exams.”
“Once!” Freddie protested in Daphne’s direction.
“It’s harder to do that when you’re homeschooled,” Daphne said. “My tutor would have noticed if suddenly the cook was doing my mathematics in a wig.”
Freddie drained his drink. “Another round?”
“It’s hideously late,” Nick said, standing up and rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I’ve got to be up in a few hours. We should let you get to bed, Daphne.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have another,” Daphne said.
“As you should,” Freddie said. “I’m too sozzled for Stout’s driving, so I’ll pass out in the spare bedroom.”
Daphne walked us to the door. As Nick turned away and pressed his phone to his ear to ring Stout, she gave me a hug.
“Freddie seems like he’s been good for you,” I said, returning the hug.
“Good for me, and good for my alcohol tolerance,” she said. “Or perhaps bad for it. But it does feel as if I’m catching up on what I was too timid to try when I was younger. Staying up all night, drinking too much. Eating greasy breakfasts.”
“Nick and I have a ton of experience in all those things, so call anytime,” I said.
“This was nice, wasn’t it?” she asked hopefully. “I could get used to this. It felt so…natural. Do you think…” She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder at Freddie, abject longing on her face. “Do you think he enjoyed it, too?”
I knew what she wanted me to tell her. As I looked into the happy face of this woman who’d cut herself off from the world for so long and was starting to find a way back in, I couldn’t imagine dashing her dreams by telling her what I really thought—but I couldn’t stomach lying to her, either.
“We all had a blast,” I hedged, with sincerity.
“Daph,” Freddie called out, the effects of the drink audible. “Your bubbly’s going to lose its fizz.”
She threw her arms around me again and then pulled away and went to him. They clinked glasses, and as he sipped, Daphne turned and raised hers at me with wide, excited eyes, in clear anticipation of something I wasn’t sure she’d get. Then she took his hand and they disappeared onto the balcony, alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lifting up my shirt, I stared down at my stomach, which had puffed up enough that it spilled over the waistband of my jeans.
“Hello, friend,” I said, patting it. “Your day is about to get a bit worse.”
Then I pinched the flesh and jabbed the needle straight into it.
I’d gotten good at giving myself this fertility drug, which was a hormone cocktail designed to help my body cook up some extra eggs. I kept it in the mini-fridge in our upstairs sitting room, and every day I’d load my dosage into the pen, screw on the slim, short needle, and shoot myself up—sometimes on its own, and sometimes mixed with another drug meant to