Donovan's idea of "somewhere nice" was a dinner party on a freaking yacht.

I gaped as we boarded, a scarlet dress of Tilda's swishing around my knees. I had a feeling it was one of the longest dresses she owned, and she probably would have felt as out of place here as I did.

A few heads turned as Donovan guided me into the crowd. The expensive skirts and well-tailored suits separated me from them. They had been born into this. I wasn't just clawing my way among them by using a rich man; I was also using my sister's face like a mask.

A few people greeted Donovan with nods or handshakes. Some even included me. I liked to think that the way he clung to me as we made small talk meant something more than just forgotten sex. Because if not, then all I had was a void where the memories should have been. I held onto him just as tightly, secretly hoping for a second chance.

I was the definition of a terrible sister.

It wasn't like that was a newsflash. I was used to having her seconds, just like she'd been used to having mine. So many of them never knew the difference, and the ones that did often didn't care. When she got bored, they didn't have to move on. I was there, with her face and her voice and a need to never be alone. It was perfect.

But I wasn't going to pretend like dating girls wasn't a relief, because she never made a move.

I looked up as Donovan extricated his arm from mine. "Forgive me," he said, bending down to speak into my ear. "I'll be right back. I promise."

And then he was gone. I stared at his back as he wove through the crowd, further and further away. Why did it always feel like he was running, and I was chasing after him like a desperate gold digger? I hoped he didn't think that. I didn't want him because of his money. I wanted him because he reminded me of something I'd lost.

Is that really any better?

"Matilda?"

I swung around to find an old woman detaching herself from the crowd, peering at me as she tottered closer.

"Oh, heavens, it really is you!" She took my hands, squeezing painfully tight. "How long has it been?"

"Too long," I stammered, searching for Donovan's head above the crowd. I spotted him at the opposite end of the deck, leaning against the railing as he spoke to a woman whose hand rested on her swollen belly.

"He'll come back to you, don't worry. He always does."

I stared at the woman. She spoke as if she knew the details of our relationship—or of Tilda's relationship with Donovan—and something made me play along. I nodded.

"Where are your rings?" she asked, frowning down at my left hand.

"I—um..." My mind raced. "I was afraid of losing them in the water."

She nodded, guiding me to the nearest table. We sat, our hands resting on the pristine cloth. She still hadn't let go, and the smile she gave me was full of sympathy.

"It's that weight you've lost recently," she said. "Slimmer fingers. You should get them refitted."

I nodded along in agreement.

"How's...you know? Everything back home?" She raised her eyebrows, as if we shared some secret that I was supposed to know.

"It's good," I said with a cheerful smile.

"Are you sure? You still look stressed."

I looked down at my hands and shrugged, hoping it was an appropriate response. If I was a trained FBI agent, I could have gotten something out of her, pieced together the information for an accurate picture of Tilda's past. Instead, I stumbled along, wishing I knew what to say.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Is it Ciar?"

My eyes snapped to her. "What about Ciar?"

She tilted her head, a reproachful look in her dark eyes—the kind of eyes that seemed to know everything. I looked away, finding Donovan again. He hadn't moved. The blonde beside him laughed, grabbed his hand, and settled it on her stomach.

"Are they talking again?"

I whipped back around. My companion's gaze had followed my own, settling on the pair across the boat.

"Who?" I asked. Did she know this blond woman?

"Donovan and Ciar," she said. "Last we spoke, they'd stopped talking."

I sat back. I actually didn't know. Technically, I'd heard them speak to each other. But it was all one-sentence exchanges, or things vaguely directed toward more than one person.

I took a deep breath. "It's...complicated."

With another knowing nod, we fell into silence for a long moment. The chatter of the other diners swirled around us, filling my mind. I needed somewhere quiet to think through the implications of everything she'd revealed.

"Are you still trying?" she asked suddenly.

I frowned. "Trying?"

"Yes." Her eyes twinkled now as she glanced pointedly down at my stomach, then back up.

I got the hint immediately. "What? Oh, no. I'm—"

My lips formed the word, but it stuck in my throat on the way out. It shouldn't have even mattered, because I'd already heard it from enough doctors that its edge had worn off. But no matter how many times I repeated it under my breath, trying to convince myself that it was true, it always felt foreign.

Barren. Like a god damned inhospitable planet, floating halfway across the galaxy. One marked with a big red "X," because why bother stopping there if you knew you couldn't make a home anyway?

The old woman's gasp brought me back to earth. For a moment, her shining smile confused me, but as she clutched my hands and squealed, I realized that without sound behind it, the beginning of barren looked a lot like pregnant.

"Have you told him yet?"

I shook my head. I couldn't bring myself to pop her bubble of excitement. "Please don't mention it."

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head about that, dear. He'll be ecstatic."

I offered her a weak smile as she stood.

"It was lovely to see you again, Matilda. I was beginning to think you'd left us."

I leaned back as I watched her walk away. Tilda? A baby? Tilda had wanted a baby? I couldn't work the math out in my head. It was one of the few things we'd agreed on as we grew older: no kids.

Then again, maybe she'd changed her mind. I had.

When the first doctor told me, I'd simply thanked him and went on with my day. I hadn't lost anything. The little future I'd built for myself in my head had never included children. I'd never had a mother. How would I know where to begin being one?

It wasn't worth it, until one day at the drugstore, a few years into our marriage, when Mark had paused halfway through tossing a pack of condoms into our basket and asked me if we really needed them.

"No," I'd said immediately.

And the look on his face had destroyed me. Sliced me to ribbons. It was the same shining, bouncing excitement I'd just seen on this old woman's face, a silent "Really? You mean it?" printed in the cracks of his lips as they stretched into a silly smile.

He wasn't just excited about not having to wear the damn things. I knew he wouldn't have had the same look of wonder in his eyes if I'd gone on birth control.

I didn't have the heart to tell him my ovaries were as fucked as a snowball in hell. So we tried. He tried, for months. A year. We saw doctors. They told us what I already knew.

I pretended it killed me as much as it killed him. And it did, in a way. Because I knew there was always a chance that he'd look for someone else to give him what I couldn't.

I blinked. Donovan had broken away from the pregnant woman, and he scanned the crowd of people, looking for me.

Someone who, yet again, wanted something I could never give him.

My fingers dug into the table. Would he run away just like Mark?

You're getting ahead of yourself, Maisye. You slept together once as part of an FBI investigation and you don't even remember it.

I forced a smile as he spotted me.

"Everything okay?" he asked, slipping into the seat beside me.

I knew he knew the answer was no, so I offered an excuse instead. "Just hungry."

It was true; our extracurriculars had gotten in the way of lunch, on top of burning calories. Donovan, however, simply blinked at me, waiting for the real reason.

I sighed. "Tell me about Tilda. Tillie. What was she like?"

His concern slipped away, replaced by faraway nothingness. Lips pressed into a thin line, he regarded me almost warily. Like I had pulled him out of a moment, reminded him of something unpleasant.

"I'd rather not talk about that tonight," he said.

My heart tugged. He was her fiancé, her everything. If I wanted one thing out of coming to Boston, it was to sit down with someone like him. Someone who had known her inside and out. Swap stories about her. Hear about her life and her dreams.

What had she done after college? What had she done in her spare time? What movies made her laugh? Cry? What shows did she watch obsessively every week, and which ones did she only check in on sporadically?

I wanted to know all the little things.

But I wanted to know Donovan, too, so I just let out a small breath and asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

He leaned forward, a spark returning to his blue eyes, and pressed his mouth to my ear. "The way you look in that dress."

I turned as red as the fabric, his hot breath fanning a deep-seated fire.

"Or the way you looked in nothing but my shirt."

He was good. I'd give him that. And he was lucky, because the only reason I didn't push him about Tilda was because I wanted to hear him talk about those things, too.

I barely knew him, but I knew one thing: I needed the way he needed me.