Opal stood back, observing us with the analytical gaze she’d developed since becoming a therapist. “How’s the counseling center treating you, Sarah?”
“Busy as always,” I replied. “You know how it is—everyone needs someone to talk to.”
Gage lingered at the edge of our circle, his hands in his pockets. Colette’s younger brother had grown into his features since high school, no longer the gangly boy who’d slip notes into my locker when he thought no one was watching.
“Nice to see you,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine a beat too long.
“You too,” I replied, suddenly aware of Bennett watching our interaction.
Colette clapped her hands. “Now that Sarah’s here, I can show you all the nursery mock-up. The designer finished the renderings yesterday.”
She led us upstairs, chattering about organic paint and sustainably harvested timber. Bennett fell into step beside me, his fingers brushing against mine.
“Notice anything?” he whispered.
“Like what?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
He shook his head. “Never mind. Later.”
The second bedroom had been transformed into a vision in soft pinks and creams. A crystal chandelier hung over a hand-carved crib. The walls featured a hand-painted mural of a whimsical forest, complete with deer and rabbits. A plush armchair sat in the corner, beside a bookshelf already filled with children’s classics.
“It’s stunning,” Sierra gasped.
“Absolutely,” I agreed, though a question nagged at me. This level of luxury seemed at odds with Colette and Alaric’s usual taste—and their budget. Alaric worked in publishing, and Colette ran a small nonprofit. This room alone probably cost more than they made in three months.
“Most of it was donated by vendors who support the Maternal Health Initiative,” Colette explained, as if reading my thoughts. “They want to showcase their products.”
“That’s convenient,” Opal remarked, her therapist’s skepticism showing through.
Colette’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “It’s networking—the best kind.”
As the others admired the custom wallpaper, I noticed Bennett standing in the doorway, his phone out. He was taking pictures of the room, zooming in on specific details. When he caught me watching, he quickly pocketed the device.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Games were played, advice cards filled out, and gifts piled high on a table that seemed to groan under their weight. Through it all, Bennett remained on the periphery, watching, texting, his usual social charm nowhere to be found.
During a lull in the festivities, I cornered him by the drinks table. “What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing,” he said, but his eyes continued to scan the room. “Just tired.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re acting weird. You’ve barely spoken to anyone.”
He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. I just noticed some things that don’t add up.”
Before I could press further, the photographer called for a group photo. We arranged ourselves around Colette, who positioned herself front and center, hands cradling her belly like it contained the most precious treasure in the world. As the photographer counted down, Bennett stepped back, his attention caught by something—or someone—across the room. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled out his phone again, typing rapidly.
I followed his gaze to a man standing near the gift table, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. He watched Colette with an expression I couldn’t quite place. Concern? Confusion?
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Sierra.
She shrugged. “Maybe one of Alaric’s colleagues or a family friend.”
The photo session ended, and Colette’s mother took center stage. Patricia Whitman was a formidable woman, her blonde hair cut in a severe bob that framed her surgically enhanced features.
“When Colette told me she was finally expecting,” Patricia began, glass raised, “I thought of all the silence we’ve endured, all the waiting. This baby girl is truly a blessing after long silence.”
The room erupted in applause. Beside me, Bennett stiffened.
“We have to go,” he said abruptly, his voice low but urgent.
“Now? What? We can’t just leave in the middle of—”
“Sarah,” his fingers wrapped around my wrist, firm but not painful. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that startled me. “Trust me, we need to go.”
“Bennett, this is my best friend’s baby shower. I can’t just—”
“I’ll explain in the car. Please.”
Something in his tone—not panic, but absolute certainty—made me relent. I made quick apologies to Colette, blaming a hospital emergency. She pouted but accepted my excuse, extracting a promise that we’d have lunch soon.
As we drove away, the lavender balloons still visible in the rearview mirror, I turned to Bennett. “This better be good.”
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “It’s not good, Sarah. It’s not good at all.”
The silence in our car felt physical, like a third passenger wedged between us. Bennett drove with mechanical precision, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Outside, spring sunshine painted everything in cheerful colors that seemed to mock the growing tension.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” I finally asked, breaking the silence. “Or should I just guess?”
Bennett’s jaw tightened. “Give me a minute to figure out how to say this.”
“Say what? That you embarrassed me in front of everyone I care about? That you pulled me out of my best friend’s baby shower like we were fleeing a crime scene?”
He didn’t respond, just flicked on his turn signal with unnecessary force as we merged onto the highway.
“Bennett,” I tried again, softer this time. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping. “Not until we’re halfway home. I need you focused, not distracted by traffic.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached across the console to squeeze my hand. “That’s not my intention.”
We drove in silence for another fifteen minutes, the suburban landscape giving way to open countryside. When we passed the midpoint marker—a rusty billboard advertising a long-closed diner—Bennett finally spoke.
“Colette’s not pregnant.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “What are you talking about? We were just at her baby shower. I saw her belly.”
“You saw something,” he agreed, his voice clinically detached. “But it wasn’t a seven-month pregnancy.”
“That’s… that’s insane.” I twisted in my seat to face him fully. “I’ve known Colette since we were six years old. I think I’d know if she was faking a pregnancy.”
“Would you?” His eyes flicked to mine briefly before returning to the road. “When was the last time you actually touched her stomach?”
The question landed like a slap. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. I pictured every interaction with Colette over the past months: the announcement dinner, the gender reveal party, the shopping trips for maternity clothes. Each time, there had been hugs, but always at angles, always brief, always controlled.
“She doesn’t like people touching her belly,” I said defensively. “Lots of pregnant women don’t.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Stop it,” I snapped. “This is ridiculous. You can’t possibly think Colette is faking this. What would be the point?”
Bennett sighed. “The man at the gift table? That was Dr. Nathaniel Harmon. He’s an obstetrician at my hospital.”
“So, maybe he’s her doctor.”
“He’s not. He works exclusively at Mercy General. Colette goes to St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center. You told me that yourself when she first announced.”
I frowned. “Maybe she switched doctors.”
“Sarah.” Bennett’s voice was gentle now. “He recognized me. We made eye contact, and he looked concerned—deeply concerned.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know exactly, but after that, I overheard Alaric on the phone in the hallway near the bathroom.” Bennett’s hands tightened on the wheel again. “He said, and I quote, ‘She’s starting to believe it herself. We need to speed this up.’”
A chill ran through me. “That could have been about anything.”
“Then explain the medical reports I saw in Colette’s home office last week when we were helping them move furniture.”
“You were snooping through their papers?” I was aghast.
“They were out on the desk. Blood test panels, Sarah. Not consistent with pregnancy.”
“You had no right—”
“I’m a doctor. I know what I saw.”
Anger flared inside me, hot and defensive. “So what, you think this is all some elaborate hoax? That my best friend is walking around with a fake bump, pretending to be pregnant? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”
“More than crazy,” he agreed. “Possibly pathological.”
“This is… this is…” I sputtered, searching for words. “This is jealousy. You’ve always been weird about my friendship with Colette.”
Bennett’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? Ever since we got married, you’ve made comments about how much time I spend with her, how she calls too late, how she always needs something.”
“Because she’s manipulative,” his voice rose for the first time. “She uses you, Sarah. She always has.”
“Pull over,” my voice was ice.
“What?”
“Pull. Over.”
Bennett guided the car onto the shoulder, putting it in park but leaving the engine running. We sat in charged silence, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound.
“I don’t want to fight,” he said finally. “I’m telling you what I observed because I’m worried. For you, for her even.”
I turned to stare out the window, fighting back tears. “You’re wrong about this.”
“I hope I am.” His voice was soft now. “But think about it. Really think. When did she announce? January. That’s seven months ago. Has her body changed the way a pregnant woman’s would? Not just her stomach—her face, her ankles, her overall weight.”
I thought about Colette at the shower: her slender arms, her defined jawline, her slim ankles in those strappy heels. Pregnant women retained water. They gained weight in their faces. Their bodies changed beyond just their bellies.