Page 53 of The Fake Affair

“From your boss or your boyfriend?”

“Mom—”

“Because last week you were telling me how wonderful things were going with...” She frowns. “What was his name again?”

“Logan,” I say, the name catching in my throat.

“Right. Logan.” She eyes me carefully. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

If she only knew, but I have a feeling mom’s intuition will kick in soon enough.

My old room looks exactly the same—debate team trophies, college acceptance letters framed on the wall, and the worn copy ofKing Learon my bedside table—Dad’s last gift before the heart attack.

“I made up your bed,” Mom says, hovering in the doorway. “And there’s soup warming on the stove. The kind you liked after breakups in high school.”

“I’m not—” But I can’t finish the lie. “Thanks, Mom.”

She doesn’t push. She just squeezes my shoulder and leaves me alone with my thoughts. And the morning sickness that has nothing to do with her soup.

Later, after a shower and change of clothes, I find her in the kitchen. She’s stress-baking, another habit I inherited.

“Your boss called the house,” she says casually.

My heart stops. “What?”

“Mr. Fraser’s office. Wondering where you were.” She kneads bread dough with more force than necessary. “Funny, since you said you had time off.”

“I meant to call?—”

She sighs. “Honey, whatever’s happened, running away isn’t the answer.”

“I’m not running.” But the fetus growing in my belly says otherwise.

“Really?”

I swallow hard. “This is different.”

“Is it? Because you’ve been talking about this Logan man during every call. You always found a way to sneak him into conversations.”

Had I really said all that? Given away so much without realizing it?

“And now you’re here, looking like your world’s ended, avoiding calls fromboth him and your boss.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“I can’t.” My voice cracks. “Not yet.”

She nods, accepting this like she accepted every other time I needed space to figure things out—after Dad died, after my first heartbreak, after I decided to leave Cedar Grove for Manhattan.

I stare at the chocolate chip cookies she's putting in the oven, and even though they look delicious, my stomach turns uncomfortably. “Be back in a moment,” I mutter, going green, and run to the bathroom.

I try to keep it as quiet as possible, but it's hard when everything I used to love is now making me sick. When I come back, Mom's pouring hot tea into a cup.

“Bella, whenever you're ready to talk,” she says, sliding a cup of ginger tea across the counter, “I’m here.” It isn't lost on me that she used to make this whenever I'd come home from school with an upset stomach.

I stare at the tea—her cure for upset stomachs since I was little. Of course, she’s noticed the morning sickness. She’s a nurse. Looks like mom’s intuition kicked in sooner than I expected.

* * *

I’mat the diner I used to waitress at back in high school. The Wi-Fi password hasn’t changed in ten years:“BestPieInJersey.”

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