Chapter 12: Ten Weeks Isn't Far Along

"What a coincidence," Bernice said again, as if I might have missed it.

Ethan was on his feet, with his napkin crushed in one fist.

"Mom. You said you were having dinner at the club."

"We changed our minds. Quinn wanted French."

Quinn smiled across the plants and gave me a small, sweet, apologetic wave.

I stood up, and my knees were steady.

"Excuse me," I said. "I need the restroom."

I picked up my clutch, and my phone was warm inside it.

The red dot was still counting.

The ladies' room had marble sinks and a velvet bench, and a vase of white orchids that nobody would ever smell.

I locked myself in the end stall and breathed.

Then I came out, and washed my hands, and watched the door in the mirror.

I waited by the sink.

Less than a minute later, the door swung open.

Quinn came in with her green silk dress swishing, and she shut the door behind her and leaned on it.

Up close, she was prettier than I'd let myself remember, and tired around the mouth.

"Hannah."

"Quinn."

"I don't want a fight."

"Then you shouldn't have followed me."

"I wanted to be civil." She tilted her head, and her bob swung. "You've been very brave about all this."

I turned off the tap.

"You're not pregnant," I said.

Her face didn't move.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You can't be. You had a procedure at twenty-four. A person told me. It's very final."