Page 26 of Desperate Games

The ache that hasn’t gone away since.

And yes, the stupid little part of me that let myself hope that maybe—just maybe—that night was the beginning of something more.

“And now,” I say, dry and bitter and too honest, “I cry when the pregnancy test comes up negative.”

The room goes silent.

Even Gigi the stuffed elephant on the shelf looks stunned.

Michaela’s mouth drops open.

Lucy winces in sympathy.

Leanna makes a soft, oh-no sound.

Aella stares at me like I just peeled off a mask and revealed my squishy, soft underbelly.

But Clementine? She doesn’t even flinch.

“Oh, Andrea,” she whispers, reaching for my hand.

“I know,” I say too fast, trying to laugh it off. “It’s stupid, right? Me, wanting to be a mom. Like some kind of Pinterest-worshipping cliché.”

“No,” she says. “It’s not stupid. It’s brave.”

“Maybe a little reckless,” Aella adds with a smirk, “but hey, what’s a little reproductive chitchat between cousins?”

“Not the first woman in this family to take fate into her own hands,” Clementine says firmly.

“I mean, there is a precedent for that sort of thing,” Lucy mutters. “I think half of us were conceived out of chaos and hot tempers.”

“Except me,” Leanna offers, deadpan. “I was an oops baby after Mom and Dad thought they were done.”

“You were not!” Her sister yells.

“You’re the one who told me that,” Leanna counters.

“Oh my God, I was being a brat, sis.”

We all snort.

“Andrea,” Michaela says gently, turning to me, “being a parent isn’t a light choice. It’s hard and scary and endless. But it’s also the most beautiful, soul-crushing love I’ve ever known. If it’s what you want—really want—then don’t let anyone make you feel small for dreaming it.”

I nod, even as my throat tightens.

“Look, I’m not saying go rogue and start hoarding sperm,” Aella says, “but Remy Falco has world-class genes. I mean, have you seen his forearms? If I wasn’t so hung up on Sammy, I’d let him hand-deliver triplets into my uterus.”

“Jesus, Aella,” Lucy groans.

“What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being creepy and supportive,” I mutter, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my blouse.

“Oh, I can be both,” she winks.

“You’re not alone,” Clementine reminds me softly. “Whatever happens. Baby or no baby. Love or no love. We’re here.”

Before I can cry all over her Chanel throw pillows, someone starts calling our names from the patio.