KIARA ARRIVES in Boston the next day. I take the day off and wait for her in my apartment. When she arrives, she takes one look at my face, before pulling me into a hug.
“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” she says five minutes later. “I’m worried, Lena.”
We’re seated on my couch. Kiara’s holding a cup of lemonade.
“I’m not dying,” I mumble. “And I’m not in debt or being chased by a serial killer.”
My first instinct is to make a joke when I feel cornered. It’s a bad habit. Kiara’s eyes narrow and it’s pretty clear she’s not impressed.
“You curled your hair. It’s pretty,” I say in an obvious attempt to buy myself more time.
“Thank you. But stop stalling,” she says.
My chest heaves as I let out a small sigh. Not wanting to draw it out any longer, I say the words.
“I’m pregnant.
