His laughter was shaky and forced. "It's not quite that simple."

"Why not? All our lives we've followed the rules. College. Catholic wedding. Career. Kids." She paused. "That was where we got caught. We ended up like those animals in the Kalahari who get stuck in the mud and die." She leaned toward him, so close he could have kissed her if he chose. "But there's no map for us anymore. No right way. We're just a couple of people who have lived through tough times and come out in a new place. Take me to bed," she said softly.

He cursed. There was anger in his voice, and defeat.

She seized on that. "Please. Love me."

He groaned and reached for her, whispering, "Damn you," as his mouth found hers.

THE NEXT MORNING, ANGIE WOKE TO THE FAMILIAR CADENCE of rain hammering the roof and sliding down the windowpanes.

Conlan's arms were around her, holding her close even in sleep. She backed into him, loving the feel of him against her skin. His slow, even breathing tickled the nape of her neck.

They'd slept in this position for all of their married life, spooned together. She'd forgotten how safe it made her feel.

She eased away from him just enough to roll over. She needed to see him....

She touched his face, traced the lines that pain had left on him. They matched her own; every wrinkle was the residue of how they'd lived and what they'd gained and lost. Sooner or later, all of it took up residence on your face. But the young man was there, too; the man she'd fallen in love with. She saw him in the cheekbones, in the lips, in the hair that hadn't yet gone gray and needed to be trimmed.

He opened his eyes.

"Morning," she said, surprised by her scratchy voice.

Love, she thought; it touched every part of a woman, even her voice on a cold winter's morning.

"Morning." He kissed her gently and drew back. "What now?"

She couldn't help smiling. It was so Conlan-like. The whole we-have-no-road-map-anymore theory didn't work for a man who made his living looking for answers. She knew the answer for her. She'd known it the minute she saw him at the theater in Seattle, and probably long before that.

But they'd already failed once, and that failure had marked them, damaged them. "I guess we just see what happens," she said.

"We've never been too good at that sort of thing. You know us. The plan-makers."

Us.

That was enough for now. It was more than she'd had yesterday.

"We need to be different this time, don't we?" she said.

"You have changed."

"Loss will do that to a woman."

He sighed at the mention of their loss, and she wished she could take the words back. How did you undo years, though? Once, their love had been characterized by hope and joy and passion. They'd been young then, and full of faith. Could two grown people ever really find their way back to that?

"I have to be at work by noon."

"Call in sick. We could--"

"No." He pushed away from her and got out of the bed. He stood there, naked, staring down at her through unreadable eyes. "We were always good in bed, Ange. That was never the problem." He sighed, and in that sound was the reminder of all that had gone wrong between them; he bent down for his clothes.

While he was dressing, she tried to think of what to say to stop him from leaving. But the only words that came to her were: Twice I came into his office and found him crying.

She'd broken his heart. What could she say to him now that would matter? Words were such impermanent things; there and gone on a breath.

"Come back," she finally said as he walked toward the door. "Sometime. When you're ready."

He paused, turned to look at her. "I don't think I can. Good-bye, Angie."

And then he was gone.

ANGIE WAS DISTRACTED AT WORK. MAMA NOTICED HER behavior and remarked on it more than once, but Angie knew better than to say anything. Gossip as juicy as I slept with Conlan would burn through the family. She didn't want to hear sixteen opinions on what had happened, and more important, their fear would taint it. She wanted to hold on to the hope that he'd come back to the cottage sooner or later.

Instead, she focused on more immediate worries. Like the fact that Lauren had missed another shift and hadn't bothered to call. Angie had left several messages, but none of them had been returned.

"Angela."

She realized that her mother was speaking to her, and put down the phone. "What, Mama?"

"How long are you going to stand there, staring at the telephone? We have customers waiting."

"I'm afraid she's in trouble. Someone needs to help her."

"She has a mother."

"But sometimes teenagers don't tell their parents everything. What if she's feeling all alone?"

Mama sighed. "Then you will rescue her. But you be careful, Angie."

It was good advice. Common sense. It had kept Angie away from Lauren's house for two days. Each day the worry had grown, though, and Angie was beginning to have a bad feeling.

"Tomorrow," she said firmly.

EVERY DAY IT WAS HARDER TO FIT INTO THE ORDINARY world of high school. Lauren felt as if she were an alien, plopped down on this planet without any skills that would allow her to survive. She couldn't concentrate on her classes, couldn't keep a conversation going, couldn't eat without throwing up. Baby ... baby ... baby ran through her thoughts constantly.

She didn't belong here anymore. Every moment felt like a lie. She expected the news to break any second and the rumors to start.

There's Lauren Ribido

poor girl

knocked up

ruined

She didn't know if her friends would rally around her or cut her loose, and the truth was she didn't know if she cared. She had nothing in common with them anymore. Who cared about the pop quiz in trig or the scene that Robin and Chris made at the dance? It all felt childish, and though Lauren felt trapped in the gray world that wasn't yet womanhood but had moved beyond childhood, she knew she'd never really be young again.

Even David treated her differently. He still loved her; she knew that without question, thank God. But sometimes she felt him pull away from her, go off in his own place to think, and she knew that in those away times he was contemplating all that their love had cost him.

He would do the right thing. Whatever the hell that was. But it would cost him Stanford and all the benefits that came from a school like that. Most of all, it would cost him his youth. The same price that she'd already paid.

"Lauren?"

She looked up, surprised to realize that she'd laid her head down. She hadn't meant to. Now her teacher, Mr. Knightsbridge, was standing by her desk, looking down at her.

"Am I boring you, Lauren?"

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

She straightened. "No, sir."

"Good." He handed her a pink slip. "Mrs. Detlas wants to see you in her office."

Lauren frowned. "Why?"

"I don't know, but it is college time and she is the senior counselor."

Lauren couldn't have gotten an answer on her applications yet, but maybe she'd forgotten to fill something out or mailed a packet to the wrong address. Like it mattered now.

She gathered up her books and papers, put everything in her backpack, and walked across campus to the school's main office. It was icy cold outside. A residue of snow dusted the ditches and fields.

Strangely, it felt cold inside the office, too. Mary, the school secretary, barely looked up from her work when Lauren walked in, and Jan, the school nurse, looked away too quickly to be anything but rude.

Lauren walked down the hallway that was plastered with ads and coupons for colleges and academic camps and summer jobs. At Mrs. Detlas's office, she paused, drew in a deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in."

Lauren opened the door. "Hey, Mrs. D.," she said, trying not to sound nervous.

"Lauren. Sit down."

None of the usual banter and no smile.

This was going to be bad.

"I spoke to David this morning. He says he's thinking about bagging Stanford. He said--and I quote-- something's come up. Do you know what that something is?"

Lauren swallowed hard. "I'm sure he won't give up Stanford. How could he?"

"How could he indeed." Mrs. Detlas tapped her pen on the desk while she eyed Lauren. "Naturally, I was concerned. The Hayneses are an important family in this school."

"Of course."

"So I called Anita."

Lauren sighed heavily.

"She wouldn't tell me anything, but I could tell she was upset. So I sent Coach Tripp to the boys' locker room. You know how close he and David are."

"Yes, ma'am."

"So you're pregnant."

Lauren closed her eyes and swore under her breath. David had promised not to tell anyone. By the end of the day, the word would be out, if it wasn't already. From now on, everywhere she went, she'd be the subject of gossip, of pointed fingers and whispering.

There was a long pause, then Mrs. Detlas said, "I'm sorry, Lauren. More than you can know."

"What do I do now?"

Mrs. Detlas shook her head. "I can't tell you that. I can tell you that no pregnant girl has ever graduated from Fircrest. The parents tend to throw a fit when the word gets out."

"Like with Evie Cochran?"

"Yes. Evie tried to stay, but in the end it was too difficult. I believe she's with an aunt in Lynden."

"I don't have any relatives."

The counselor wasn't listening. She opened a manila envelope, read the contents. Then she closed the folder. "I've already spoken to the principal at West End High. You can finish out the semester there and graduate in January."

"I don't understand."

"You're here on scholarship, Lauren. It can be revoked at any time, for any reason. And you've certainly given us a reason. We looked to you to be a role model. That will hardly be true in the coming months, now, will it? We think it will be better for everyone if you graduate from West End High."

"There's only six weeks left in the semester. I can handle gossip. Please. I want to graduate from Fircrest."

"I think you'll find it ... unpleasant. Girls can be awfully cruel to one another."

Lauren knew about that. Back before Project Geek No More, when she'd looked wrong and spoke poorly and lived in the trashy part of town, no one had wanted to be friends with her. In her naivete, she'd thought she'd changed all that when she remade herself into a girl that fit in. Now she saw the painful truth. It had all been a veneer, a thin, clear layer of lies over who she really was. The real girl was visible now.

She wanted to be angry, to access the ambition and determination that had taken her through Fircrest's doors in the first place, but all that fire felt so far away.

And she was cold.

How could she argue with the role model stuff? She was a pregnant girl at a private Catholic school. If she was an inspiration to anyone now, it was as a warning.

Be careful or you'll end up like Lauren Ribido.

"Go to West End," Mrs. Detlas said gently. "Finish up the semester and graduate early. Thank God you have enough credits."

It's where you belong. Lauren heard the words as clearly as if they'd been spoken aloud.

But that was another lie.