“Are you thinking the baby won’t make it?”

Armor. I put on my armor.

I scoff, like that’s a ludicrous suggestion. “That’s crazy. There’s no way that would happen. I mean, how could it? We’ve done our time, I’ve fucking paid for it. That doesn’t happen. Does it?”

Michele sighs deeply, and fixes me a look I’ve seen before. One I know well. Kindness, laced with sympathy. She feels sorry for me already?

“Trey,” she says in a soft, gentle voice, “it’s unlikely it would happen again, but there are never any guarantees of that sort. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that prior loss is a hedge. That it preempts the possibility of any future problems. Because that’s not true. Anything can happen at any time, though I hope your baby will be fine.”

I draw a sharp breath, and push my palms hard against the couch. “It won’t happen. I won’t let it, Michele. Everything will work out fine.” The more I repeat it, the more it becomes true. “There’s no way that could happen. The universe won’t let it. Everything will be picture perfect.”

I try to impress this upon Michele for the rest of the session, and by the time I leave, I nearly believe it. I press hard on the down button in the elevator, then rest my forehead against the panel and close my eyes. It will all be fine. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Or in my case, four times.

See? That’s the proof there. There’s no way on earth it could happen again.

I have immunity now. Absolute and utter immunity from loss.

The cool of the panel feels good against my skin, cocooning me in a protective bubble. Because I am safe. Even when I leave Michele’s building and the late August heat smacks my face, it doesn’t faze me because: Everything. Is. Fine. Here.

A cabbie slams on his horn, the crude sound blasting into my ears, but it doesn’t bug me. Because I know how to protect myself.

I have a shield from pain.

I turn the corner, and a burly guy smoking a cigarette crashes into me, nearly knocking me against a building, but I sidestep him nimbly. See? Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.

I make my way to Third Avenue and turn left, heading north, heading somewhere, passing familiar shops. Florists peddling bouquets that rich husbands bring their beautiful wives to say they’re sorry for working late, but then they do it again the next night, then the next, the lure of the deal, the boardroom, the negotiation more potent than her. Then they buy diamonds from the jewelry shop on the corner here. Or send them to this spa for the day, where it’s tranquil and calm, as the women lie with cucumbers on their eyes, drifting off to the memories of pleasure.

Then I walk past doormen I have seen before, town cars pulling up, ladies spilling out. And then, finally, the maroon-uniformed man greets me with a nod, and holds open the door, since he’s known me for years.

And I’m honestly not sure how I got here, but this is where I am: my medicine cabinet, where I keep my pills. This is where my robot feet have taken me, where my cool, perfectly modulated heart is beating. Across the rose marble lobby, into the elevator. Doors close, I press the button, fifteen floors later, a whoosh, and here I am. The plush brown carpeting, the cool quiet of the hallway, the doors ready to reveal naked bodies. What’s behind door number one? How about door number two?

Or maybe, just maybe, 15D?

That one. Yeah. The fucking painkiller that’s going to make everything fine, sliding down my throat like a couple of Vicodin. There’s only one thing that can that can erase uncertainty, that can take away pain, and it’s calling to me in its siren song that blots out the sounds and noises of old New York.

I step out of the elevator onto Sloan’s floor.

Harley

The key slides into the lock. Of course the key slides into the lock. The key is made for this fucking lock.

But my heart is sputtering, and I can hear it loud in my ears. I still feel like I’m slipping a credit card into a door, all clandestine and furtive, because I might have a key, but this is not my home anymore.

I used to come and go as I pleased. Not only when I was younger, but also my first two years in college. I’d stop by for dinner, or pop by in the mornings, or crash here at night every now and then.

The door groans as I open it, inch by inch. I glance down the stoop to the sidewalk, across the street, up and down the block, making sure no one sees or hears me.

The house is silent, except for the low purr of the dishwasher. She always sets it to run mid-day so the dishes are done when she returns home. My heart aches the tiniest bit as I remember this detail about her; a meaningless detail in the scheme of things, but one of the many pieces that add up to her. How she likes order. How she likes neatness. I know so many things about her. Too many things. Except not enough, and that’s why I’m here, sneaking in after my last class of the day.

“Hello?”

I call out, but am greeted by my own echo. Instinct kicks in, and I leave my purse on the table in the living room where I always leave it, then I find myself heading for the kitchen to grab a soda. But I stop in the doorway. Nature is a powerful force, and I fight back. I’m not here to make myself at home with a Diet Coke. I’m here to find things she kept from me.

“Anyone home?” I try again, just in case.

One of the last times I came here in the middle of the day I ran into her latest suitor. Naked. I cringe at the memory of Neil’s furry parts. I don’t even know if she’s with him anymore.

I head straight for her office. Her laptop is gone, but that’s not a surprise. She probably took it with her to the office today. I take a deep breath and picture myself as some cool, calculating Angeline Jolie soulless spy. I imagine slipping on leather gloves, then methodically exploring each drawer with ruthless efficiency till I find what I need.

I open the top desk drawer, and flip through papers, Post-its, scissors, and tape.

Nothing.

The next drawer is crammed with old bills. Another one contains folders full of her pay stubs over the years, then her royalty statements from her publishers for her bestselling books. I narrow my eyes at those, because her editor is a witch.

But that’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary. No letter from my grandparents. No telltale note from my dad. Nothing special, just the necessary documents to run her business. I scan her bookshelves, run my fingers over the edges, hunting for a card, or something poking out between pages.

I don’t even know what I want it to say. But I know I want more. I want something more than her.

The books are only books though. Stories of politics. Tales of war-room negotiations. Tell-alls about campaigns marred by bad behavior.

I try the drawer under her fax machine, even though I rummaged through it the other day and it only included paper. I yank it open, but there’s still only paper.

And a package of batteries, now.

Double A batteries.

My stomach curls. She always bought them online. Kept herself well-stocked in batteries. And the things her batteries go in aren’t in her office. They’re in her bedroom.

Her room.

The one room I stopped going into when I was a teenager. I didn’t hang out in her bathroom anymore to prep for parties; I didn’t help her pick clothes for parties. I had my own room, my own bathroom, and we’d meet in the hall.

If I were her, and I were trying to hide something from me, I wouldn’t hide it in the office. That’s a harmless room. And I wouldn’t stow it away in the kitchen. It would be in her bedroom. Sure, the card I found the other day was hidden under the laptop; but that was a way station, I bet. She hadn’t yet shuttered it away.