“Let’s do it,” I say. “But I want to help with the demo.”

  Franco nods. “All right—done. Let me make the call to get the roll-off dumpster over here.”

  Jesse gestures at the kitchen with a broad sweep of his hand. “We gotta clear out in here, then. Dishes and stuff out of all the cabinets, mainly. The fridge can stay as is, we’ll demo around it.” He looks me over—assessing, rather than anything inappropriate or untoward. “You’ll want to change, if you’re gonna help with demo—that shit gets messy. Jeans and a tee you don’t mind getting messy, and probably a ball cap so you don’t get your hair dusty.”

  So I change into get-messy clothes and Jesse and I get to work boxing up my dishes and pots and pans, as well as the food from the cabinets and all the cleaning supplies under the sink. By the time we’re done, Franco is back with three sledgehammers and three sets of safety goggles, and announces that the dumpster will be here within about ten or fifteen minutes, and that we might as well get started.

  He and Jesse unplug my fridge and move it across the kitchen, plugging it back in and leaving it basically in the middle of my kitchen near the pile of boxes containing the contents of my kitchen. Once the fridge is out of the way, they haul my stove away.

  “Wait—where is my range going?” I ask.

  Jesse gestures at the appliance. “Well, are you in love with this one?”

  I shrug. “Not really. I replaced the appliances when I first moved in, but I went for the bottom of midrange, in terms of price. So…the appliances aren’t great.”

  Jesse traces a giant rectangle in the air. “The island is going to be the new hub of your kitchen. Induction cooktop up top, with side-by-side ovens beneath it, more storage space on both sides, and a bar overhang with stools facing the living room. It’ll be pimp, trust me.”

  I laugh. “Well, if you say it’s gonna be pimp, then by all means, let’s do it.” I gesture at the microwave and dishwasher. “So we’re replacing all the appliances with high-end then? What do we do with the old ones? They’re only a few years old and in great condition.”

  Franco, speaking over his shoulder, says, “Sell them on eBay, if you want, or if you’d rather, I’ve got a connection that handles donating used appliances to families in need. Your choice.”

  I grin. “Donate them, by all means. If I’m getting this amazing remodel for so little, then I’m sure as hell gonna pay it forward a little.”

  Franco grins back. “Atta girl. I’ll get ahold of my friend and arrange a pick up once we’ve picked out your new stuff.”

  Jesse hands me a sledgehammer and set of goggles; I don the goggles and grip the sledgehammer in both hands, leaving the heavy head resting on the floor at my feet.

  Jesse gestures at the wall. “First swing is yours, babe.”

  I swing away, and the head of the hammer bites into the drywall with a shudder and a crunch, leaving a giant hole in the wall. I laugh, yanking the hammer out and glancing at Jesse, who just shrugs and gestures at the wall.

  “Go nuts,” he says. “Make a hole.”

  I glance at Franco, who is holding a pair of massive crowbars; he just grins. “Demo is the fun part,” he says.

  I heft the hammer, let the handle slap down into my palm, and then wind up and swing hard—and this time, the hammer goes through the wall completely, sticking out on the other side. I wiggle, tug, and then give it a hard yank, and the hammer comes free, taking a giant chunk of drywall with it. I can see daylight through the hole I’ve made, and now Jesse moves up to the wall a few feet away and swings his hammer with far more accuracy and power than me—his bites all the way through on the first swing, and then his second swing brings almost an entire sheet of drywall down. Franco tosses one of the pry bars onto the floor and uses the other to start ripping the upper cabinets off the wall, making quick work of it—within five minutes, he has a huge chunk of cabinetry on the floor.

  I hear a beeping outside, and then a deafening metallic screech, a hydraulic whirr, and a thump—the dumpster is being delivered. Without missing a beat, Jesse finishes making a hole in the wall big enough for him to step through, and then sets aside the hammer and starts carrying chunks of drywall outside.

  The afternoon passes that way, and by six in the evening, there is no more wall separating my kitchen from my living room—we left pairs of studs far left, middle, and right for ceiling support, until they can get a brace up and the new beam in place. The three of us are leaning against my counter, covered in dirt and dust, sipping beers, admiring our handiwork.

  “Good start,” Jesse says.

  Franco gestures at the wall where the built-in fridge is going to go. “That’s next. Rip out the bathtub-shower, knock out the wall.”

  I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist and then take a sip of beer. “Tomorrow?”

  Franco nods. “Yep, along with the rest of the cabinets and counters in here, and the floor.”

  I hesitate. “Will it be just you two, then?”

  Jesse shrugs a big shoulder. “Dunno. No telling with James, and Ryder is working on a big contract for a new event center. When we need electrical work, he’ll pop by and knock that out real quick, but that won’t be for a week or so yet.”

  I nod. “I see.” I look around at my half-demolished kitchen and abruptly start laughing. At quizzical looks from both guys, I wave at the rubble and remains of studs where the wall was. “I just realized I have no idea how I’m going to make food.”

  Franco laughs. “I’d say have your favorite delivery on speed dial until this is over.”

  I groan. “Oh, hell no.”

  Franco eyes me. “No?”

  I shake my head. “I eat in as much as I possibly can.” I slap a hand against a buttock. “My metabolism is a stubborn piece of shit. Delivery food will go straight to my ass, so I like to make my own food. I prep meals a week at a time.” I open my fridge and show them the stacks of Tupperware containers. “One for lunch and dinner for six days of the week. I don’t eat breakfast, and I eat what I like on Sundays.”

  Franco nods, swallowing a sip of beer and pointing at the fridge with his can. “Impressive that you find the time to do that working the hours you do.”

  I shrug. “I usually get at least one day, if not two, off every week. I spend a couple hours cooking and prepping for the week. Little enough effort to expend, especially if it keeps my ass from ballooning into something with its own damn zip code.”

  “Speaking of an ass with its own zip code,” Jesse says, “I should get home to Imogen. She’s gonna be craving corn chips and peanut butter about now, I’m guessing.”

  “Jesse! Not nice!” I frown and laugh at the same time. “And I thought cravings only happened in the first trimester?”

  “She told me she’d rather I tease her about it than pretend like nothing’s changed. So I tease her. She knows I’m kidding, and it’s on her request.” Jesse shrugs and shakes his head. “And as far as the cravings go? Hell if I know. That’s what the books she made me read said, but they also said some women experience cravings for specific things the entire pregnancy, and for Imogen, it’s been corn chips and peanut butter.” He laughs again. “Funny thing is, I tried it, spreading peanut butter on corn chips, and it’s actually pretty fucking good. I’ll probably keep doing it, honestly.”

  Franco makes a grossed-out face. “Corn chips and peanut butter? Are you kidding me?”

  “Hey man, don’t knock it till you try it.” Jesse touches two fingers to his forehead and salutes. “Have a good night, kids. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”

  Franco hesitates a few minutes longer, lingering over his beer, and I realize he’s got something on his mind. I kick his steel toe boot. “What, Franco? I can feel you working up to say something.”

  He rolls a shoulder. “It’s…” He sighs. “Audra is the kind of girl who won’t ever ask for anything, you know? Like, she’ll rarely ask for help, even from Imogen who she’s known for fucking ever.”

  I nod. “I get that about her. I’m the same way, so I sympathize.” I wiggle my can at Franco, offering another, but he shakes his head. “Is there something going on?”

  He hesitates again. “She’ll probably kill me for this. But she’s so damn stubborn and I just feel like she needs support but won’t ask for it.”

  “She sick or something?”

  He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.” Another long hesitation. “Imogen being pregnant has Audra all twisted up.”

  “She wants a baby?”

  He nods. “Yeah. She never thought she would, and neither did I. So when she floated the idea of trying, I was kinda shocked, but open to it.”

  “I guess I kind of had her pegged as someone who didn’t want kids.”

  “Because she always has been that way. But us being together has sort of changed us both. Softened us, opened us up some, you know?” He tosses his empty can into a nearby open contractor-grade garbage bag.

  “So where do I come into this? I feel like you wouldn’t be talking to me about this unless there was some issue.”

  He nods. “She went off birth control and we’ve been trying for a while.”

  “Nothing doing?” I surmise.

  “Right. And she recently went to her doctor to see what’s up.” He pauses, considers his words. “Fact is neither of us are exactly young anymore, you know? And her doctor basically said it wouldn’t be impossible, but unlikely for her to conceive, and a pregnancy would be difficult and risky at her age, even if she did.”

  “I see. That’s tough.”

  Franco nods. “She’s struggling with it. She needs to talk it out, and I know Imogen knows something’s up, but I think it may be more than a one-woman show, you know?”

  I smile at him. “Absolutely. I’ll talk to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 10

  A week and a half later, Audra, Imogen, Laurel, and I are at Imogen’s house. I talked to Imogen, and we decided this was a conversation for the whole crew, so we talked to Laurel, and decided to blindside Audra with a dinner party intervention.

  We planned an Italian night, so Audra and Laurel are working on a lasagna, Imogen is making an antipasto salad, and I’m doing cheesy garlic bread. Out of deference to the fact that Imogen can’t drink, being pregnant, we made it an alcohol-free dinner party, serving sparkling water instead of wine.

  Which, considering the seriousness of the subject at hand, is probably a good thing.

  We collaborate on a fabulous nineties music playlist to cook to, put Friends on in the background, and basically just have fun. Dinner is delicious, and drama free. Dessert is a tiramisu purchased from a local bakery—because we’re committed to the theme, but not that committed; tiramisu is hard.

  Finally, we’re all sated, full of salad, lasagna, garlic bread, and tiramisu, and we’re sitting around Imogen’s living room sipping herbal tea and watching Friends. We’re all having so much fun.

  Imogen eyes me, and I eye her back, and she gives me a significant look and I return it.

  Finally, Audra snorts. “You two are so fucking obvious, it’s adorable.” She gestures at the four of us. “What’s this intervention about? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had more fun than I thought was possible without booze, but you two have something up your dorky little sleeves.”

  I laugh. “We’re that obvious?”

  She laughs. “You’ve been making weird eyes at each other all evening. If I didn’t know you two were both slutting it up for sexy men, I’d think you were going lesbo together.”

  Imogen blinks. “There are so many offensive elements to that statement, I don’t even know where to start listing them.”

  “I’m not slutting it up for anyone, thank you very much,” I say.

  Audra arches an eyebrow. “What, no repeat of the kitchen incident?”

  I narrow my eyes at her; I only told her about that. “Nope.”

  Laurel leans forward on the sectional. “Kitchen incident? What incident?” She eyes Imogen. “Do you know of any incident?”

  Imogen shakes her head. “Nope.” Her eyes go to me. “Do tell, Nova.”

  I give Audra the finger. “Nice redirect, bitch.”

  She just cackles. “Can’t corner me, slutty-buns.”

  “James and I had a little…moment of intimacy,” I say. “In my kitchen, a couple weeks ago.”

  “You slept with him?” Laurel says, squealing.

  “In your kitchen?”

  I groan. “No, I did not sleep with him.” I hesitate. “We just…fooled around.”

  “And?” Imogen presses.

  I shrug. “And…he’s not there, yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  I focus on Phoebe, who’s doing the “Smelly Cat” song. “Meaning…we talked again in his kitchen, a few days later, and he just needs time.”

  “Needs time for what?” Laurel asks.

  “To figure out…life,” I say. “To figure out singlehood and moving on.”

  “Oh.” Laurel nods. “That makes sense.” She stares at me, scrutinizing, searching. “And you?”

  “And me, what?”

  “Where are you in the whole thing?”

  I shrug again. “I don’t know. I like him. I really enjoyed…what happened with us. I’d like more, but only if he’s all in. And he just can’t commit to that. At least, not the last time we talked, which was almost a month ago, now.”

  “A month?” Imogen says.

  I nod. “He’s been MIA and totally beyond communication, at least for me. I see plenty of Jesse and Franco though, and they say he’s around and still going on those mysterious long lunches. Two or three days every week.”

  “Are you okay with that?” Imogen asks. “Him being incommunicado? And not being ready?”

  I make a face and shrug a third time. “I mean, do I have a choice? It’s not something you can force.” I groan. “And why are we talking about me? This was supposed to be about Audra.”

  Audra looks around at everyone. “Why is this supposed to be about me? I’m fine. Everything is hunky-fucking-dory in Audra’s life. Legit, I’ve never been happier.”

  I sigh. “I talked to Franco.”

  She goes…opaque. “Okay?”

  “Let me just preface this with the fact that the only reason Franco even talked to me about this was because he loves you and he’s worried you’re not dealing with this very well.”

  “With what?”

  Imogen moves from her seat in a deep leather recliner to curl up on the couch next to Audra. “Sweetie. I’ve known you more than half our lives. You don’t have to put up a front. It’s me—it’s us.”

  Audra is still opaque and shut down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I sigh. “Audra…I talked to Franco.”

  She tilts her head back and sighs, rubbing her face with both hands. “I’m gonna kill him.”

  “He knew that,” I say. “But yet he still talked to me about it. Which means you know he has to have a serious concern if he’s willing to risk pissing you off.”

  Audra blinks, her expression still carefully blank. “Just so we’re all on the same page here—what exactly did Franco talk to you about?”

  I glance at Imogen—being Audra’s best friend, it’s probably best for her to take point on this.

  Imogen wraps an arm around Audra, who stiffens, goes rigid as a two-by-four. “I’ve known something was up with you for weeks, and I had a pretty good idea what it was about even before this. So don’t think you were snowing me with your ‘everything is fine’ routine. Don’t forget, I know you, bitch.”

  Audra snorts. “What the actual hell are you babbling about?”

  “You being infertile,” Imogen says.

  Audra visibly flinches. “Fuck.” She sniffles, and her expression abruptly crumples. “Goddammit,” she whispers. “Goddamn you, Franco.”

  “You can’t blame him,” I say. “He’s worried about you.”

  “He shouldn’t be,” Audra snaps, but her voice is weak, quiet, and unconvincing. “I’m fine.”

  Imogen outright laughs, but it’s a loving laugh of amusement at Audra’s stubborn insistence on pretending she’s fine. “Honey. Franco only came to us because when you get like this, it’s damned near impossible to get past your walls. He loves you, but men just aren’t equipped to handle shit like this. It takes a best friend to handle something like this.”

  “Three best friends,” Laurel says.

  Audra sniffles again. “I’m not infertile,” she says eventually. “I’m just old.”

  Imogen tightens her grip on Audra’s shoulders. “You’re not old, Audra.”

  “I’m almost forty-two, hon. Kinda old. And definitely too old to be thinking about having a kid.”

  Imogen hesitates at this. “Audra…since I’ve known you, you’ve had one hard and fast rule for life, and that’s that you’d never have kids.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “So, when did that change, and how, and why haven’t we talked about it?”

  Audra shrugs, dropping her eyes. “It was gradual. I mean, I also swore I’d never fall in love, and here I am, in love with Franco and his stupid sexy body, and his stupid romantic heart.” She sniffles. “I fell in love with his stupid ass, and got all soft and mushy about everything, and started thinking.”

  “Oooh, thinking—that’s dangerous,” Laurel quips.

  “No kidding. So, yeah. I fell in love, and got all mushy and soft-headed,” Audra says, sniffing a laugh. She reaches out and rubs Imogen’s big, round, taut belly. “And then this happened.”

  Imogen rests her hand over Audra’s on her belly. “Ahhhh. I see.”

  Audra nods. “So, it’s your fault.”

  Imogen laughs. “Blame Jesse.”

  Audra flattens her palm against Imogen’s belly, eyes going wide. “He’s kicking!”