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“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “That was too direct. I’ve spent too much time with McCoys. They ruin subtlety.”

“No, it’s…” I take a breath. “Complicated.”

Her expression shifts into understanding. “Yes. These things often are.”

I should stop there.

I should stand up and thank her for the shade and continue home.

Instead, I hear myself say, “I don’t know what to do.”

Tessa goes still beside me.

The burn behind my eyes returns immediately, humiliatingly fast.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “That was inappropriate.”

“It wasn’t.”

“We barely know each other.”

“That’s okay.”

“It’s not. I don’t usually…” I waver, and I hate it. “I don’t usually tell people things.”

Tessa turns slightly toward me. “Then maybe you needed to.”

I laugh once, broken and quiet. “Everyone keeps saying things like that to me lately.”

“Annoying?”

“Extremely.”

“Usually means they’re right.”

I press my lips together. The words rise up, pressing against my ribs. I could still stop them…

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper.

Tessa’s eyes widen.

“With twins,” I add, because apparently if I’m going to detonate my privacy in public, I might as well be thorough.

For one terrible second, she says nothing.

My mind immediately organizes catastrophe.

One: shock.

Two: judgment.

Three: polite withdrawal.

Four: she’ll tell Nash.

Five: Nash will tell Clay.

Six: Clay will look at me differently.