“That sounds so great.” Sabrina stretches her legs long on the towel, leans back on her elbows. “And really, who needs a pool? The FCCC pool is overrated. I’d take this beautiful public beach over that tub of chlorine any day.”
“Oh, same. I’m a total beach girl.” Molly sips her wine. It’s a little warm from sitting in Sabrina’s car, but it’s making her limbs feel pleasantly loose, her head light.
“So you guys have been here for a few years?”
Molly nods. “We were in Brooklyn before. Hunter loved growing up here—his family is, like, fourth-generation Flynn Cove or something, and the town is such a part of him. He lost his father when he was just out of college, and he always thought he’d come back and settle down near his mom.” Molly adjusts her Ray-Bans on the bridge of her nose, gazes out at the ocean. “I resisted for a while—all my friends are still in the city, and I loved it there—but the schools here can’t be beat. So when Stella turned three, it just felt like the right time to make moves.”
Molly omits the part of the story that involves Jake—the weekend morning she spotted him from a distance at the farmers’ market in McCarren Park. His head was bent over a carton of strawberries; she could only see the side of his face, but it was a profile she’d recognize anywhere. Stella was in the stroller, and Hunter was busy inspecting fistfuls of swiss chard, and Molly had beelined for the park’s exit so quickly she’d nearly plowed down an older couple browsing artisan cheeses. Later, back at their apartment, she told Hunter to call the Realtor in Flynn Cove, the one he’d been mentioning since Stella’s first birthday. He was so happy that he didn’t question her abrupt change of tune. But Molly knew she couldn’t stay in a place where running into Jake would never stop being a risk.
“That makes sense.” Sabrina nods, pouring them more rosé. She peels off her white tank top, revealing a black bra that could double as a bathing suit, and her perfectly taut stomach. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “My body hasn’t seen the sun since last summer.”
“Of course not.” Molly pauses. “Can I ask you a question?” She turns to face Sabrina, fueled by the wine, by her own curiosity and the desire to talk about something real, for once. It feels like every conversation she’s ever had with women in Flynn Cove is about house renovations and wallpaper or what the kids are up to and where everyone is vacationing in August.
“Duh.” Sabrina flips onto her belly, swinging her heels.
“I don’t mean to pry, but I was thinking the other day, after I ran into you at Dr. Ricci’s…” Molly draws in a breath. “When we first met at Yoga Tree, you told me you and your husband were newlyweds. So you can’t have been trying to conceive for that long, right?”
Sabrina swallows. “We got married in January but started trying awhile before that, actually.”
Molly is caught off guard. “Oh?”
Sabrina drops her chin. “I had a bad eating disorder for much of high school and college. I lost my period for a while. I had a strong hunch that conceiving would be difficult, given what I’d put my body through, and my OB had always suggested the same. So we actually started trying last fall. We figured if I got pregnant right away, it would still be early enough that I could hide it at the wedding. But I didn’t, of course. So now it’s been … eight months. I know that isn’t that long, and I’m thirty-one—relatively young—but still. If there’s a problem, I’d rather know sooner.”
“Oh, Sabrina.” Molly feels a pull of empathy. “I’m sure everything is fine, but I understand. Every month feels like an eternity when you’re trying. And it’s smart to be proactive.”
Sabrina nods. “If I’m not pregnant by the end of the summer, we’ll do IUI. Ricci says we’ll need to before insurance will cover IVF.”
“The insurance stuff is such a pain in the ass,” Molly commiserates. “Ours doesn’t have infertility benefits at all. It’s been … a huge investment.”
“It will be worth it in the end, I’m sure.”
Molly isn’t so certain. “You’ll be in good hands with Ricci,” she says instead. “Her practice has such a high success rate.” Over 70 percent, in fact—one of the highest in the country—yet Molly remains in the minority of patients whose body just refuses to work the way it should. This time, at least.