Rose holds onto her belly, her groans echoing over the soccer game on the television. Not my game. Not Rose’s, either. But we’re out of season. “I feel so fat,” she says.

  I glare at her sitting beside me on the couch, my eyes bouncing between her taut stomach and the freak show expanding my sweater. “Yes, please,” I say. “Tell us more about how fat you are.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She chuckles. “At least you have a partner eating half of whatever you do. I have to work hard to digest what I eat all by myself.”

  “Then, maybe you shouldn’t haven eaten four brats.”

  “Girls, be nice.”

  Mom walks in from the kitchen with a glass of ice water in her hand. She leans over and hands it to me. “Do you need anything else, Daisy?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No, Mom. I’m good.”

  “Are you sure? I can grab another pillow from your room.”

  John hops up from his spot on the floor. “I’ll get it!”

  “I don’t want—”

  But he’s gone, bolting eagerly down the hall.

  I grunt, wondering how I ended up here. Shortly after Peoria, I moved home to my mother’s house in Evanston. It was that or bunk with the happy couple. I figured a few awkward daily interactions with my workaholic mother was the lesser of those evils. With her schedule and mine at the magazine, we don’t run into each other very much at all. Today’s Fourth of July feast is the most time we’ve spent together in weeks.

  John dashes back in from the hallway with one of my pillows in hand. “Here you go,” he says, coming in behind me. “Sit forward, please.”

  “I can do it my—”

  He shoves it behind me and fluffs the edges. Violently. “How’s that?”

  “It’s fine.” I force a smile. “Thank you, John.”

  “I am right here if you need anything else,” he says. “I am here to learn. Here to prepare.”

  “Prepare?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

  “This is gonna be Rose someday,” he says. “I want to be the best partner she can get when that time comes.”

  Rose swoons. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”

  Yeah.

  So fucking sweet.

  “So, how do you feel?” John asks me. “What should I do? What do you need?”

  “To be left alone would be nice,” I say.

  John nods, taking the bullhorn-like hint. “I can do that,” he says before returning to his spot on the floor in front of Rose.

  Rose glares at me. I ignore her and she turns forward, her look of annoyance morphing to one of pride as she leans over to hug him. Her fiancé. Her partner.

  Must be nice to have one of those.

  I shake off the thought. I made that choice. I made the right choice.

  It’s for the best.

  It’s for the best.

  It’s—

  I wince at a sharp pain in my abdomen.

  “Daisy, you okay?” Mom asks.

  John’s head swivels on his shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” I blurt. “It’s just gas. Had it all day. Everybody, please. Watch the game.”

  Mom eyes me for a few moments before turning back to the television. “Have you two decided on a date yet?” she asks Rose and John.

  “Not yet,” John answers, one ear still on the television. “Jordan Kirby.” He scoffs. “What a knock-off.”

  “Next summer, maybe?” Rose says. “I should be done with grad school by then.”

  “That doesn’t give you a lot of time to plan a wedding, Rose,” Mom says.

  “We don’t need anything too extravagant,” she says. “Our friend, Alyssa, planned her wedding in like a month and it was perfect.”

  I snort. “Didn’t you guys break up at that wedding?”

  Rose stutters. “Briefly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The point is… I’m sure I can plan something fast, especially with her help.” She nudges my arm. “And yours. You’ll be our photographer, right?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “And my maid of honor.”

  “Okay.”

  “And your kid can be the ring-bearer… or the flower girl.”

  “I’ll have to check its schedule.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which what?”

  “Ring-bearer or flower girl?”

  I smile. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Rose releases a disappointed sigh before continuing on to Mom about her wedding. I stop and stare at my stomach. It was just a little joke that slipped right off my tongue without thinking.

  I’ll have to check its schedule.

  I already know what I’m having, but I don’t want anyone getting too attached to it. I don’t know where this kid will be after it’s born, let alone next summer.

  I stand up off the couch.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks, her senses on high-alert.

  “I’m going to walk around for a bit,” I say, raising a calm hand as John perks up again. “Just a little restless.”

  I walk off down the hall, feeling three pairs of eyes still on me while Rose’s voice hovers over the game. The baby shifts inside as I walk, drawing another uncomfortable pang inside. I lean against my bedroom doorway. With closed eyes, I take slow breaths until it finally settles again.

  “Being pregnant sucks.”

  I look up to see my mother standing in the hall with me, easily reading my body language.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I remember with you girls, I was pissed off all the time.”

  “We noticed.”

  “I meant while pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  “From day one to week forty, it just got worse. Your dad put up with it somehow.”

  Somehow was the nice way of phrasing that dad got through it by banging the neighbor’s housekeeper.

  “Sounds about right,” I mutter as I push off the door and pace into my room.

  Mom flicks on the light. “It was mostly just deflection,” she says, watching me. “The reality was that I wasn’t angry at all. I was just scared.”

  I look at her, noticing the knowing sparkle in her eyes. “I’m not scared, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “I pulled the same brave crap, too, kiddo,” she says, shaking her head. “I know what you’re thinking. How can I do this? I know nothing about being a mom. I’m gonna fail. Every first-time mom feels the same way.”

  I sit down on my bed. “Mom, I’m fine,” I say again.

  She raises a brow as she steps into the room. “The only one who saw through it at the time was my own mother. Finally, after thirty weeks of watching me snap, crackle, and pop at the slightest annoyance, your grandmother pulled me aside and told me to always remember my ABCs.”

  I frown. “ABCs?”

  She sits down beside me and holds out her fingers, counting down as she lists them off. “Do they still have arms and legs? Are they still breathing? Are they wearing clothes?” She smiles. “If you can answer yes to all of those questions at any given moment, then you’re doing okay.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that simple.”

  “Some days it will be, some days it won’t be. A. B. C. That got me through the whole first year with you girls.” She tilts her head. “And most of the teen years, too.”

  A lump grows in my throat. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m…” I lay a hand on my stomach, once again feeling the subtle shift of life inside. “I’m not going to keep it.”

  My mother chews on her cheek. “Well, do you still have arms and legs?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you still breathing?”

  I swallow tears. “Yeah.”

  “And I can see you’re fully clothed, so…” She softly grips my shoulder. “I’d say you’re doing okay.”

  I bite my lip, feeling it quiver. “I hope you’re right.”

  “A mother is always right, honey,” she says. “Even when she’s wrong.”

  She pulls me closer, resting my head on her shoulder. I lose even more of the control I thought I had. Stray tears stream down my cheeks and my body lurches as I try to hold back the sob begging to take hold of me.

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t exactly turn out the way you wanted me to.”

  “Honey, you turned out exactly the way you were supposed to,” she says, holding me closer. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted.”

  I scoff. “Maybe things would be better for me if I’d listened to you sometimes.”

  “And if I had listened to my mother, you and Rose wouldn’t be here.” She raises her head to look at me. “Daisy, you might be a rebellious disappointment to me, but I’m still proud of you.”

  “Wow.” I chuckle, wiping my nose. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “You stuck to your guns,” she says, rocking my shoulders. “Now, you have your dream job. You’re independent. I haven’t had to bail you out of anything since you were in high school — don’t think I haven’t noticed that. You took your own path. You’re one brave young woman.”

  I run my hand over my stomach. “Yeah. Real brave.”

  “It takes a lot of courage to do something hard,” she tells me, nudging my chin to look her in the eye. “But it takes even more courage to admit that you can’t do it. If you truly believe that giving this baby up is what’s best for it, then I will help you. It’s not my area, but I have some colleagues in family law. I can make some calls.”

  “Really?”

  She nods. “If that’s what you really want. I know better than to try and talk you out of anything. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a wonderful mother, Daisy.”

  I let the tears fall. “Yeah?”

  She pulls me in, and I bury my face in her shoulder. “There’s no doubt in my mind, honey.”

  I wrap my arms around her, clinging to her like a child, but there’s nothing else I’d rather be right now than that. Children don’t have problems or responsibilities. They don’t have to worry about paying bills or making sure there’s food on the table and they especially don’t have to worry about that stuff for another person. Growing up is possibly the worst mistake anyone can ever make.

  But there are some upsides to it. That sense of independence when you’re handed the keys to your first apartment. That feeling of satisfaction when you deposit your first paycheck. That gasp of excitement when you’re offered your dream job and that deep rumble in your heart when you make eye contact with the right person to share it all with.

  Maybe I would make a great mother — or even just an okay one — but I can’t gamble with this baby’s life to find out.

  It’s for the best.

  “Hey, Daisy!” Rose shouts from the other room. “Your phone is ringing!”

  I pull back and wipe my eyes. “I should get that.”

  My mother squeezes my shoulders. “You’re okay, Daisy,” she whispers.

  I nod, feeling a weight rise off me as I stand up.

  John appears in my bedroom doorway with my phone in his hand. “Here,” he says, holding it out.

  I sigh at his eager face. “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No. Go away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He leaves. I smile. I might actually miss that when it’s over.

  Mom follows him out, giving my shoulder another soft pat as she passes.

  I read the screen. Trisha calling. I think to let it go to voicemail, but I answer it. “Hey, Trisha.”

  “Hey, Daisy. Enjoying the holiday?”

  I sniff away a few lingering tears. “Yeah. You?”

  “I don’t get the luxury, honey.” She chuckles. “Hey, check your email for me, will you? I just sent you something and I need your input.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  I roll my eyes and walk to my desk. “What is it?” I ask as I wake up my laptop.

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  I find a new email from Trisha and click on the file inside. SI_Novak.

  “Is this the exposé?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  The PDF downloads. I open it, blinking several times to make sure I’m not imagining it.

  Home Run Baby.

  “Trisha, what the hell is this?”

  “Isn’t it adorable?” she asks. “The title came to me in a dream. Like a bolt of lightning to my brain. It’s perfect!”

  “Trisha, what the hell is this?”

  “Calm down, Daisy. This is our exposé.”

  My gut sinks as I scroll. “You published my pregnancy photos?”

  “Some of them.”

  “These were private moments!”

  “Those photos were taken with SI cameras, making them property of SI,” she points out with her calm, sing-song voice. “Read your contract.”

  “How did you even get them?!”

  “You forgot to delete one of the cards,” she replies nonchalantly. “You know, I’d heard about pregnancy brain, but I never thought—”

  “You can’t print this,” I say. “Take it down.”

  “No. Our editor loves it. Says it’s one of the most interesting pieces the magazine has ever had and she is very excited to see what else we come up with together. Your promotion is officially locked in after this, honey. Congratulations.”

  “Take it down!”

  “Daisy, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Why not?” she asks me. “You and Hunter should be proud of your story. This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day.”

  “We’re not even together anymore!”

  “Well, they don’t need to know that.”

  “Why would they even agree to print this?” I ask. “It’s a sports magazine.”

  “The SI subscriber base is forty-seven percent female, Daisy. Also, it’s ludicrous and offensive to suggest that men can’t appreciate a good love story.”

  I collapse into my desk chair, feeling a harsh stab deep in my gut. “Trisha, come on…”

  “Listen up, Daisy,” she says. “I’ve got a few years on you, so I’ve had my heart broken a few more times, and I’ve broken even more, so I know what I’m talking about when I say that you and Hunter got it going on. And that’s not just my opinion — that’s the opinion of every Bearhawk on that bus and I’ve got statements on that if you don’t believe me. Also, you’re an idiot if you think that baseball smacking your cranium was a big, old co-inky-dink. Shit like that doesn’t just happen.”

  “You’re the one who told Hunter this wouldn’t work out.”

  “I didn’t know all the facts at the time. Now that I do, I’m printing a retraction. That’s just responsible journalism, honey.”

  I sit still, seething with red in my vision. Pain. Anger. Embarrassment. It all blends together as I scan the words on the screen and the photos on the page — photos I took of our time together that no one else was ever supposed to see.

  “Daisy?” Trisha says. “You there?”

  I grit my teeth, breathing through the throbbing pain as it overwhelms everything else. “I gotta go,” I mumble before tossing the phone down.

  “Daisy, are you okay?” My mother asks from my doorway.

  I see drops of red on my chair beneath me and my vision blurs.

  “No,” I say.

  CHAPTER 35

  HUNTER

  I exit the bar, stopping to lock up behind me. Sounds of firecrackers pop in the distance, the scent of smoke lingering in the air from late-night fireworks.

  A group of Northies take up the alleyway, stumbling and shuffling at a slow, zombie-like pace. As I wait for them to pass, I look up into the black sky, hoping to count a few stars. City lights have made that impossible, though.

  A girl stumbles into me and grips my jacket to hold herself up. “Oh, hey, bar guy!”

  I stare down at her pink cheeks. It’s Jenny, the same blonde girl from earlier, obviously fueled by one too many of those whiskey sours. “Hey,” I say.

  She lays a finger against her lips to shush me, drawing giggles from the other girls behind her. “Hold still,” she says as she raises her hand with something pinched between her fingers.

  I feel the thin stem squeeze behind my ear. She takes a step back and smiles at me as her friends give her a playful shove down the sidewalk.

  I shake my head, ready to pull the thing loose and discard it, but I stop with the thing in my hand.

  A daisy.

  “Wait!” I call out to her and she spins around, almost falling over. “Why did you do that?”

  Jenny’s eyes grow wide, locked on mine for a few calm moments. Then, she throws her head back and laughs; her cackles echoing throughout the alley as she and her friends leave without answering my question.

  I stare at the flower in my hand. A perfect daisy with long petals of white and a bright yellow center. I can’t escape her tonight. The soccer game. This girl and her whiskey sour. That damn article. And now that same girl walks up and gives me a fucking daisy?

  Coincidence is a lot of things. Repetitive isn’t one of them.

  I head down the alleyway, crossing the street toward my apartment. My hand moves on its own, withdrawing my phone from my pocket. It’s late, maybe too late for a phone call, but I swipe to her number, anyway.

  “Hey, you’ve reached Daisy Hawthorne. Leave me a message if you’re into that kind of thing, you freakin’ weirdo.”

  I hang up without saying a word. She’ll call me back in the morning, maybe. She might not bother at all.

  Go to her.

  I shake my head. I don’t even know where she is now. Is she still in Chicago, crashing with Rose? Did she head back to Boston with Trisha already? The only other option would be moving back in with her mother in Evanston, but even I know how unlikely that is.

  No, I’ll sleep on it. By morning, maybe this urge to see her, to hear her voice, will have passed. If she calls me back, I’ll just tell her it was a butt dial. Those still happen these days, right?

  I reach my apartment and beeline toward my fridge the second I step inside. I grab the first bottle I see without looking. The scent of it sends me back in time and I freeze the moment it touches my lips.