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I’m on the phone making an appointment with a woman I never expected to see in a professional setting. My friend Annie is a doula, and I’ve referred lots of my own clients to her. She’s fantastic. She’s also a calming presence.

Almost the moment I walk in, Annie sizes me up like the village wise woman, both eyebrows raising just a hair.

I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in half the stuff she sometimes says, but that look makes my heart ache in my chest. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, no…”

Annie winces, and comes to me, pulling me into a hug. “Come on,” she says gently, rubbing my back. “You’re fine. You’ll be just fine, okay? Come sit down.”

“I’m so stupid, Annie,” I mutter, barely keeping myself together. “I’ve been so, so fucking stupid.”

“Hush,” Annie says as she lowers me into a comfortable chair like I’m already eight months along. She speaks in this gentle, calming way she’s mastered from years of practice as she fixes us both a cup of tea — very likely something herbal and caffeine-free. Oh shit. How am I going to even live my life without four cups of coffee a day? For nine months?

“I’ll order you a blood test,” she says. “We don’t know anything yet, right?”

“What’s that mean?” I ask, and immediately regret it. “Sorry… sorry. I’m tense.”

“Take this,” she says, pushing a warm mug into my hand. “It’ll calm you down and it’s good for the… well, anyway. So… what happened?”

“Do I have to swear you to secrecy?” I ask, trying to make a joke.

Annie looks like I slapped her, though. “I would never — ”

“Sorry,” I say again. “Bad joke. I’m… not right, at the moment. Um… I met a guy, obviously.”

That, at least, gets a small chuckle from her.

“Jake Ferry… Reginald Ferry’s son,” I say, quietly, like there might be other people listening.

Annie’s eyebrows go way up at that. “The… billionaire Ferry? The one that opened up Ferry Lights?”

“Don’t judge me,” I beg her.

“I would never,” Annie says, God bless her cotton socks. “Wow. That’s… something.”

“A gross oversight and lapse of judgment?” I suggest. I don’t need her to confirm it. “I should have used protection, but you know the doctor told me that I wasn’t likely to be able to have kids after the ovary operation I had when I was eighteen. Still, I should be on birth control for fuck’s sake. I just… never thought it would be an issue… you know, I’m busy all the time. It’s never been an issue.”

“Does he know?” she asks me, tentatively, like I might bite. In fairness, I’d be just as worried in her shoes. I am not in a good mood.

My cheeks get hot, and I can’t quite say anything. Which for Annie is enough of an answer.

“Okay,” she breathes.

“If this gets out, if I tell him and… Annie, I’ll be the laughingstock of social media. People will say I slept with him and got knocked up on purpose to get a shot at his daddy’s money and after what he… I can’t be with him. I can’t.”

Christ, I never cry. What the fuck is happening to me? Is this what it’s going to be like for the next nine months? I need to be on my game, on point, for the next phase of Red Hall and…

Gloria. Jesus, that twit can’t keep her mouth shut about what soda I drink, much less that I’m pregnant. How long before I start to show? I can feel a clock ticking away to my self-destruct moment.

“Calm down,” Annie says, putting a hand on my back. I’m hyperventilating. “Deep breaths. In, and out… in… and out. Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. We’ll get the test done, and go from there. And Janie?”

I look up at her, my eyes hot and puffy from crying.

“Whatever happens, you’re going to be okay. Everything happens for a reason.” She leans in, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. Now come on, I’ll take you to the hospital. That’s the only way to be sure.”

Thank God for Annie Nealson.

“Please let it be ovarian cysts. Please let it be ovarian cysts.” As painful as it would be, and as much as I hate the idea of going under the knife, the doctor tells me it’s the other possibility when I stupidly tell him I’m not sure if I’m pregnant or not. Apparently there are a number of options, but most of them are worse.

If anyone up there is listening, I promise I will live a good and noble life of piety and celibacy if I can just not be pregnant with Jake Ferry’s baby.