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My stomach feels strange. Not sick, exactly, but it doesn’t feel great either.

There is nothing to feel. I know that. Clinically, there’s no bump, no movement, no secret message from my uterus. But the knowledge is there anyway, heavy and impossible.

My phone is on the coffee table. Face down. Responsible. Untouched.

For eleven minutes.

Then I grab it.

I don’t open Dalton’s thread right away. I stare at his name in the message list, like if I wait long enough, common sense might arrive in a cab and take me home.

It doesn’t.

I type.

Me: Are you awake?

I almost throw the phone away from me.

What is that? Are you awake? Very casual. Very normal. Very woman-who-is-not-spiraling-on-her-best-friend’s-couch.

The message delivers.

I wait.

Nothing.

Good. He’s asleep.

I set the phone down.

It buzzes, and my entire body reacts before my dignity can file an objection.

Dalton: Yes.

I stare at the screen.

One word. Of course.

Me: Do you ever sleep?

Dalton: Occasionally.

Me: That is not reassuring from someone involved in healthcare.

Dalton: Neither is texting me after midnight.

Me: I’m on Simone’s couch. Judgment is already happening.

A pause.

Dalton: Simone?

Me: My best friend. The one I finally told.

His reply takes a few seconds.

Dalton: How did she take it?