Molly knows she should turn the space into a guest room or a home office for Hunter, make some use out of the extra square footage, but she’s never been able to bring herself to do it. No matter how many disappointments there have been over the past four years—all the negative pregnancy tests, all the times her period came unwanted, the solemn phone calls from Dr. Ricci bearing bad news—there is still a tiny flame of hope that flickers in a tiny corner of Molly’s heart, refusing to be beaten. To turn this room into anything but a nursery for their second baby would feel like an admission of defeat, once and for all.
Molly leaves the vacuum in the doorway and walks toward the windows, brushing her hand along the sills, where dust has gathered. She looks out at their little backyard, at the hydrangea bush that frames the outside edge of the view. She remembers how she’d meant to put a glider in this corner of the room, how she’d pictured it to be the perfect spot to nurse while gazing out at the fat, purple blooms.
Molly sits down on the floor and hugs her knees into her chest. For a fleeting, dishonest moment, she wonders if she’s even sad anymore. But no. She’s devastated. For herself, of course, but overwhelmingly for Hunter and Stella. As much as she tries to talk herself out of it, she can’t help but feel that they won’t truly be a family until she gives her daughter a sibling.
But there’s another chance, she reminds herself. She bows her head and closes her eyes, summoning the energy to imagine what might be happening inside her body at this very second, the life that could be brewing deep inside the parts that have failed her so many times before. With every fiber of optimism she can muster, she digs out that stubborn hope in her heart. And then Molly does something she hasn’t in longer than she can remember. She is not a religious person, but she prays.
Chapter Twenty-five
Sabrina
You’ve never mentioned her by name, but I have the sense that the way things ended with Liz haunts you. You don’t even know this woman anymore, not really, but the lack of closure makes you miss her. I know how these kinds of unresolved relationships fester.
The spring I first started frequenting Equinox, I would bump into Liz a few times a week. I’d smile and wave, and she’d do the same, though she never seemed eager to stop and chat. Liz is not exactly a chatty girl, is she, Molly?
I also made it a point to take Erin’s Monday and Wednesday Pilates classes—on Liz’s recommendation—and that’s where I started to gain traction. One night, after a particularly sweaty and arduous hour, Liz turned to me while we were lacing up our sneakers outside the studio.
“That was fucking brutal.” Her eyes were wide and coppery brown, flecks of hazel in the irises.
I nodded, wincing. “I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
“She’ll change your body, though.” Liz buttoned her jacket, a cream-colored trench. “My boyfriend can attest.”
I grinned. “If only men knew what it took.”
“Right?” Liz raised a dark eyebrow. “Zander literally lies on the couch eating Cheetos when he’s not at work, and he still has a six-pack. It’s annoying as shit.”
I sensed it, then—an opportunity. “Hey.” I glanced at my watch, hesitating. “You want to grab a drink? On me. I owe you for introducing me to Erin’s class.”
Liz checked the time on her phone. She looked at me and blinked, her expression indifferent. “Why not? There’s a place around the corner, El Toro, that does amazing margs. They’re not sweet.”
“Perfect.”
The upscale Mexican restaurant was candlelit and packed with corporate types in pressed suits, drowning their sorrows in happy hour. We grabbed two free stools at the bar. They were stylish but comfy, with high, padded backs.
“Two skinny margs,” Liz told the bartender when he tried to hand us menus. She interlaced her fingers and fixed her gaze on me. “So … Caitlin, right? What do you do?”
The question caught me off guard—I hadn’t adequately prepared for this moment with Liz. I’d nearly forgotten I’d first introduced myself as Caitlin and was grateful for the reminder.
“I … I work for my father,” I lied. “He owns an accounting firm in Palm Beach. I’m his bookkeeper, basically. I work remotely.”
Liz untied her ponytail and shook her head, her short, dark hair falling pin straight to either side of her face. I assessed her attractiveness; her features were small and sharp. She possessed a severe, unique sort of draw. I wasn’t quite sure I’d call it beauty.