Chapter Nine
Kendall
I never thought I’d find myself standing in a closet that costs more than my entire apartment, but here I am, surrounded by sequins, satin, and one terrifyingly judgmental full-length mirror.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind the room full of three women who look way too entertained by my misery.
Vivi arches a perfect brow as she holds up a sleek black dress. “You’re meeting your ex-husband for dinner in downtown Seattle. Honey, that’s not ‘just catching up.’ That’s revenge couture.”
“I don’t want revenge,” I mutter. “I just want him to see me and… maybe choke a little.”
Cammy bursts out laughing from her spot on the bed, where she’s sitting cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn. “So, you do want revenge. You just want it classy.”
“Exactly,” Vivi says, triumphant, as if I’ve just admitted something profound. “We’ll give him heart palpitations before dessert.”
Isla, curled up in an armchair with a glass of wine, tips her head toward me. “Honestly, you should. He dumped you for a cheerleader. If I were you, I’d show up in something that says, ‘I’m thriving and you’re balding.’”
That earns a snort from me. “He’s not balding.”
Though I won’t lie. That kind of karma would feel good. He’s always been obsessed with his hair.
“Yet,” Isla says. “But time’s coming for him. Let’s give it a head start.”
Vivi shoves another hanger into my hands, ignoring my protests. “Try this one.”
It’s emerald silk, the kind of dress that probably has its own insurance policy. I tug it on, wobbling as I zip it up, and step out into the bedroom like I’m walking into battle.
Cammy whistles. “Damn. Okay, girl… we’re getting somewhere.”
“Too much?” I ask, turning toward the mirror.
“Not enough,” Vivi says, circling me like a stylist at Fashion Week. “You’re petite. The slit gives you legs for days. Trey’s going to lose his mind when he sees I let another man benefit from my wardrobe.”
I laugh despite myself. “He’ll survive.”
Isla takes another sip of wine. “So will you. Eventually.”
“See, that’s the kind of optimism I need,” I say dripping with sarcasm, and the girls crack up.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine. That my stomach hasn’t felt like a rollercoaster all day, or that the faint smell of Vivi’s perfume doesn’t make my nausea spike.
The nap yesterday helped and I thought I was out of the dark, but now it’s starting to creep back.
“Okay, next.” Vivi claps her hands, snapping me out of it.
I duck back into the closet and wriggle out of the silk. My head feels fuzzy. My boobs ache. My patience is hanging by a thread.
“I swear, if I try on one more dress, my nipples might file for divorce,” I call out, voice muffled through the fabric.
Cammy snorts. “TMI, Doc.”
“Boob pain and mood swings?” Isla says, all faux-casual. “Sounds familiar.”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, stepping out in another dress—shorter this time, with dangerous cleavage Vivi insists is “tastefully slutty.”
“Those were my first pregnancy symptoms,” Isla says in a sing-song voice.
“It’s just my period coming. That’s all.”
Vivi blinks, pausing mid-lip-gloss application. “Wait, what?”
Cammy leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Hold up. Are we saying Kendall might be pregnant? Because I will open another bottle of wine for this.”
I freeze, one heel halfway on. “I’m not pregnant.”
Isla raises her brow. “Then why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
I roll my eyes, forcing a laugh that feels too sharp. “Please. I’ve just been busy. Probably hormonal. My period’s due any day now.”
“Hmm.” Vivi taps her chin. “You’ve also been kind of snappy. And you nearly puked at Serendipity’s over onions.”
“That was the smell of caramelized butter,” I protest.
Cammy grins. “You do realize butter doesn’t make normal people gag, right?”
I open my mouth, close it again.
“Just saying,” Isla mutters.
There’s a long pause—too long. I can practically hear the gears turning in their heads.
Finally, I cave. “There was one night,” I admit quietly.
The silence that follows could rival the Stanley Cup playoffs.
“One night?” Vivi repeats, eyes widening. “With who?”
I groan. “It doesn’t matter. It was… complicated. We used protection.”
Cammy leans forward, popcorn forgotten. “Was this before or after the quarantine scare?”
“Cammy!”
“What? I just need to know if you’re the girl who got frisky in quarantine.”
Isla bursts out laughing. “You did, didn’t you? With who? Some random guy on the plane?”
I glare, cheeks burning. “I’m not answering that.”
Vivi gasps. “Oh my God, it was Aleksi, wasn’t it?”
I hear the moment they all let out an audible gasp as everyone comes to the same conclusion.
I drop my head into my hands. “You’re all insane.”
“Insanely supportive,” Cammy says sweetly.
“Insanely nosey,” I mutter.
Isla sets her wine glass down and stands, rummaging through her purse. “Well, nosey or not, we’re finding out.”
“Finding out what?”
She straightens, holding up a small pink box like it’s the Holy Grail. “Kaenan and I are trying for baby number three. I keep a test on me. You’re welcome.”
Vivi squeals. “This is happening!”
“It’s not happening.” I protest, backing up a step. “You can’t just ambush someone into taking a pregnancy test.”
“Sure we can,” Isla says. “That’s called friendship.”
I stare at the box in her hand. Three minutes, and I’ll know. Three minutes to unravel my entire life.
“Maybe it’s just stress,” I say weakly. “The season was insane, I haven’t been sleeping—”
“Or maybe it’s Aleksi’s baby,” Vivi interrupts gently.
The room goes still again.
She doesn’t mean it to sting, but it does. Because now that the words are out there, I can’t stuff them back down.
I picture his smile, his laugh, the way his hand felt steady on mine even when everything else was chaos.
If it’s his…
My throat tightens.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
Isla’s voice softens. “Then take it home. You don’t have to open it until you’re ready.”
I nod, taking the box like it might explode.
“Good,” Vivi says briskly, grabbing another hanger. “Now that we’ve emotionally traumatized you, let’s pick a dress that makes your ex hate himself.”
Cammy lifts her popcorn in a toast. “To revenge, bad decisions, and maybe babies.”
The girls laugh. I even manage a weak smile. But when I turn toward the mirror again, the reflection staring back looks different—flushed, uncertain, afraid.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if the flutter in my stomach is nerves… or a little baby with Aleksi’s blue eyes and my smile.
The rain finally stopped—Seattle’s idea of mercy.
Puddles still dapple the asphalt outside the restaurant, slick and mirror-bright under the glow of streetlights. The scent of wet pavement mingles with exhaust, the kind of city cocktail that feels both alive and suffocating at once.
The valet line moves slowly, brake lights casting red ripples over the wet ground. A couple in the car ahead of me laugh about something.
It gives me exactly one extra minute to gather myself—to pretend I’m fine, that this is just dinner, not some twisted social experiment in emotional manipulation at its finest.
The restaurant’s front windows are all warm light and motion: waiters in pressed white shirts, a hostess greeting guests with a perfect practiced smile. I can hear the clinking of crystal and the hum of conversation slipping through the glass.
It’s high-end, but of course it is. Tarron always did like the kind of places that came with wine lists heavier than medical textbooks.
The kind where the napkins are real linen and everyone pretends to know the difference between “notes of praline” and “hints of rose water” or some kind of rubbish I could never understand.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and freeze.
Vivi’s soft curls still hold. Isla’s jewelry gleams under the dash light. The smoky eyeliner Vivi insisted on makes my eyes look bigger, bolder, like someone who isn’t terrified.
I look good. Too good, maybe. Like someone who’s trying too hard not to care.
The valet waves the car in front of me forward.
One more deep breath.
My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I’ve just sprinted from the hospital to the arena again, balancing a medical kit and a dozen crisis reports. Except this time, the thing I’m trying to stabilize is myself.
The glove compartment looms in my peripheral vision of my fifteen year old car, closed but not forgotten. Isla’s pregnancy test is still inside. I don’t open it.
Instead, I reach for my lipstick—Vivi’s favorite shade, a soft coral that promises confidence even when you’re running on fumes. I swipe it across my lips in the visor mirror.
My hand doesn’t shake, but my breath does… just a little.
“You’ve survived worse,” I tell my reflection quietly.
It’s not even a lie.
I survived a messy divorce, professional humiliation, and a cheating husband who turned my life into tabloid fodder. I survived starting over in a new city where no one knew my name or my shame.
But somehow, this feels harder.
Maybe because it might turn out not to be just about me anymore. I might have someone else to consider now.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. A reflex. A protective instinct I don’t have to train, it’s just there.
It’s not anything, I remind myself.
It’s probably just stress. Or hormones. Or Vivi’s overly perfumed hair spray still clinging to my lungs.
The valet line moves again.
My turn.
I shift the car into park as a young valet jogs toward me, his jacket collar turned up against the drizzle that’s threatening to start again.
He smiles politely as he opens my door, holding out a hand. “Welcome to Bergtolli’s, ma’am.”
I take one last look in the mirror.
Lipstick perfect. Hair smooth. Smile… a little faulty but I can work with it.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
Then I open the door and step out into the cool night air. The kind that hums with equal parts possibility and disaster.