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the bathroom. The kitchen adjoined the living room. All there was to it.
    The furniture was eclectic and scrounged from Goodwill. Oliver did not have a true couch, but instead a loveseat. And a plaid Laz-Boy, a reupholstered monstrosity from the 1980s.
    “I love this place,” Celia said.
    “You do?”
    Lopsided grin. “It’s you, Oliver.”
    Oliver averted Celia’s gaze. Otherwise, his gaze would hang with hers a heartbeat too long—several heartbeats too long. “We should go back outside and wait for the pizza.”
    “Can I use your bathroom?” Celia asked.
    “Sure. I’ll go on out and wait.”
    Celia’s lips tugged up in a radiant smile. “Oliver, I needed to get out of the house badly. You have no idea. Thanks for having me over.”
    “Yeah, no problem,” he said. Too bad in an hour or so, Celia would wish she’d never come.
    *****
    Celia unbuttoned her elephant maternity jeans and sat on the toilet. Her urination took a few seconds to get going. Hopefully there would not be blood. That had pretty much stopped, but yesterday brought some spotting.
    She kept replaying the shadow that crossed Oliver’s expression when she thanked him for the invitation. The shadow and Oliver avoiding her gaze had disabused her of any notions that dinner was purely social. Oliver had something to say about his father. Something bad. Celia would compartmentalize and keep functioning. She would get through it.
    *****
    Oliver was on the loveseat when Celia emerged from the bathroom. “Pizza’s here.” He indicated the box on the coffee table.
    The thought of eating, of cheese and grease and a secret, made Celia sick. But she forced a smile. “Smells great.”
    “What can I get you to drink?”
    “Do you have Sprite?”
    “Coming right up.”
    Celia sat and tried to steady her nerves. What would Oliver tell her? David had cheated? David was leaving her? Huge surprise. Huge secret.
    Oliver returned with two cans of Sprite, one tucked under his chin because of the cast. Celia grinned and lowered her gaze to the smothering of signatures. “Guess there’s no room for my John Hancock.”
    Oliver shrugged. “Sign on top of whatever.”
    Celia opened both of their Sprites. “You and I, sometimes it’s like walking through a minefield. We’re basically the same age. It’s weird, I know.”
    “It is, yes.”
    Celia sipped from her Sprite. “I broke my leg when I was twelve. Most of my classes in middle school were on the third floor. Pain in the ass. I had to crutch up and down several times a day.”
    “Hmm.”
    Celia searched her stepson’s face. He really was a handsome man. “Will you come by sometime? Meet the baby?”
    “I met him already.”
    Celia stiffened. “You met him for one second.”
    “Shit,” Oliver muttered. “That came out wrong. I meant—yes, of course. I’ll come by. Is he a good baby?”
    “He was good the first few days. Now he’s a crying beast.” Celia leaned in, the urge to confide in someone overwhelming her. Oliver would be a good person to tell. First of all, he was a man. And he didn’t want kids. He wouldn’t get that look in his eyes. That look of surprise, of disappointment.
    “I don’t feel like Caleb’s mother. Like a mother,” Celia admitted.
    A penetrating gaze. Shifting browns and greens. Oliver smelled good. Like sweat. Like a man. Celia had a sudden flash of him cutting wood—with his shirt off. His muscles rippled as he drove the ax into – Whoa. Where did that come from?
    Celia shivered, suppressed the image and continued: “I might as well be on Candid Camera . I’m acting. I hold Caleb, and I can tell he’s cute. He’s sweet. I pat him, I rock him, I breast feed him. But there’s a part of my heart that insists I’m missing something.”
    “Do—do you have postpartum depression?”
    “I don’t think so. I looked up the symptoms. Agitation or irritability. Changes in appetite. Feelings of worthlessness or guilt. Thoughts of death or suicide. A long