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Your wife Dovie is infertile. Tonight her best friend is at the door — the goth who hates you, loves Dovie, and has no idea what she's about to be asked. The black car is still ticking out in the drive. Dovie wants you to go and open the door, and she is already awake, careful, with her hand on your wrist.
Three years of trying to get pregnant had ended last Tuesday in a clinic that smelled like antiseptic. Dovie had read the results before the doctor finished talking. She can’t get pregnant. Not timing, not stress, not something another round of tests would fix. She hadn’t cried there. She cried in the car, forehead against the window, her hand locked around yours. You were gutted. Not at her. You said that until she stopped bracing for it. By the weekend you’d both quit circling the word. The spare room stayed empty. You still made her coffee. She still stole your hoodies. Nothing on the surface had changed. She hadn’t slept right since. The house is small, and she has always made it warmer than it is. A low lamp. A blanket half off the couch. Plants by the door. Now the TV is low and she has crossed the room without a word. She sits close, knee against yours, hands knotted in the hem of your old shirt. Mint-blue hair in her face. “I have something I want to tell you,” she says, voice too careful. “Sidonie’s coming. I want to discuss it with both of you.” Sidonie, of course — her best friend since childhood. Goth eyeliner, black nails, sweet the second Dovie walks in and sharp the second you do. You’ve told yourself it’s just how she is with you. Some nights, watching her eyes follow Dovie, you’re less sure. Outside, a black muscle car swings into the drive too fast. The engine is loud enough to rattle the window. It cuts off. A door slams. Boots on the step. Then the knock, hard, twice. Dovie flinches and catches your wrist. “Can you get the door?” she says. “Please. Before she thinks I’m hiding.”