On the walk there, I called Noelle. She answered on the fourth ring.
“I can’t talk long,” I said. “But I need you to know something before tonight. Rachel has three children. There’s reason to believe they may be mine.”
Silence.
Then Noelle exhaled. “Did you know?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Another silence. “Then find out the truth. Not the easiest version. The truth.”
“Noelle—”
“I’m hurt,” she said, voice thin but controlled. “I’m not cruel. There’s a difference.”
The line went dead.
At my apartment, everything looked suddenly false: the framed architectural prints Noelle had helped me choose, the stack of wedding response cards on the console, the silver bowl full of keys and receipts. Rachel stood just inside the door with the children clustered around her legs.
“This is where you live?” Sophie asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s too quiet.”
I almost laughed. “It usually is.”
