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in a subtle and unconsciously elegant sort of way that had nothing to do with all the wannabe reality stars he’d watched strut around campus all day.
                  You need to get laid was his third and final thought on the matter before he slammed the door on his internal pervert and lifted his brows in silent question.
                  “I wanted to ask you a question about the class,” she said in a voice so polite and grave he wanted to laugh.
                  “Okay.”
                  The syllabus came out of her bag, turned to the second page, a particular section highlighted in yellow. She passed one tidy black fingernail across the words she’d felt the need to call attention to and flicked gray, troubled eyes up to meet his. “Here, where it says that it’s mandatory we clock time at the fitness center and have it signed. How mandatory, exactly, is that?”
                  For one fleeting moment, he was disappointed. He hadn’t been expecting to lay eyes on anyone like her today, and yet, here she was asking the question that ten other girls had asked already. He shrugged. “It’s required for every HPS class, so I have to make it mandatory – as in, exactly mandatory – “ a frown turned down the corners of her dainty bow of a mouth “ – but it’s no big deal. You spend thirty minutes on the treadmill twice a week and get one of the goons at the desk to sign your chart for you.” He threw in another shrug to demonstrate how unimpressive he found the whole idea of it.
                  “But, what if…well.” She scanned the syllabus again. “What if I don’t want to use the fitness center?”
                  “Are you on a sports team here?”
                  “No.” Which he’d already figured.
                  “Rec league? Hiking club? Anything?”
                  “No, no, and no.” She darted out a hand as he started to get to his feet, to do what with he didn’t know, but she thought better of it, sidestepping across the front of his desk instead, like she intended to cut him off if he headed for the door. “I just…is there any other way to get the credits? Without going to the gym?”
                  Jordan stood, pushed in his chair, and he did not scope out her legs and trim little ankles above her ballet flats, just like he did not care how fretful her expression had become. “Sorry, but you’re gonna have to use the gym,” he told her, and her face fell.
                  “Oh.” She dropped her head so she could stow the syllabus, a dark waterfall of hair tumbling over her shoulder and falling against her breasts. “Okay.” When she straightened, she looked resigned. Her lips twitched in a quick, polite smile. “Well, thank you anyway.” And she left silently on her little ballet shoes, her skirt swirling around thighs that he did not stare at.
                  When she was gone, Jordan gave himself a full-body shake. “Yeah. Really need to get laid.”

 
     
     
    3
     
    Now
     
                  J o had a problem. On Monday, in her sympathetic excitement over Tam’s first day, she’d put her inkling of wonder down as paranoia and ignored it. She’d been bubbling with pride and the sense that her man was doing something he would feel good about, that he was making progress toward that house and picket fence he whispered to her about in the wee hours when neither of them could sleep. But by Wednesday, the worry had begun. Today, Friday, she was due to pop open the first blister on a new packet of birth control pills and she’d never started the period that was supposed to be ending soon.
                  She’d stared at the ceiling the night before, listening to Tam’s breath whistle in and out of his lungs, their bodies overlapping in her little double bed, and she’d told herself