Chapter 8: The Truth About My Mystery Man

Cynthia's fingers tighten on my arm. She's read the answer on my face. I toss the test down on the table and grab my mug again. The coffee has finally cooled enough to drink, and I need something bracing.

Cynthia waits for me to speak first. It's funny - when I asked to come over and do this here, I never expected her to be so restrained. In fact, I'd hoped she'd be her usual, talkative self - it would help get me out of my head. But her supportive silence is doing its job, either way.

"I'm keeping it," I say. It's funny - up until this moment, up until the words spilled out of my mouth, I wasn't sure what the heck I was going to do. But now I can't imagine doing anything else.

"Of course," Cynthia says, nodding. She releases my arm and raises her mug to her lips. Her fuchsia lipstick still looks perfect, even after an eight-hour shift.

I need to ask her where she buys that, I think. It's odd, the things that run through your head at a time like this.

Cynthia shifts in her seat as