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wraps around and squeezes tighter than appropriate every time. I’m always at a loss over where to put my hands. I pat her back lightly as I throw death glares at Rachel.
    “Let’s dance, you handsome man,” G says. I swear my heart freezes in terror when I feel her wiggle against me. Oh, god . I hold myself still while G continues to move. My eyes blaze into Rachel’s back until she finally turns and looks at me.
    When she sees me, I swear an evil glint of appreciation crosses her features. I’m half terrified she’s going to leave me to get myself out of G’s surprisingly strong grip. I keep my eyes on hers, and though I mean to glare, I can’t. She walks over with Gracie—the blonde-haired angel with her mama’s eyes—already babbling a mile a minute.
    The terror in me is replaced with joy, and not just because G releases me when I reach for Gracie. For a brief second, Rachel and I are looking at each other as we pass the baby, and there’s a yearning inside of me that’s so deep I feel it pulse all the way to my core.
    Then Rachel’s eyes are off me. She’s talking to her grandmother, leaving me to play with Gracie. I set her on her feet after tickling her, amused as always at the way her tiny fist wraps around my finger and tugs me from one place to another. At one point, G shimmies and shakes again as she mentions her hot date with Walter. I have to breathe deeply or risk losing my lunch.
    I gently tug Gracie’s hand until we’re facing away from her mama and great grandmother. She reveals a toothy grin, and I smile back, grazing a hand down her perfect cheek, her skin already hinting at a golden tone.
    Unlike her mother—whose expressions I can hardly, if ever, read—Gracie always shows me a smile and what she wants. While Rachel and G talk about Gracie’s day and pick up the toys scattered everywhere, Gracie and I play. I scoop her up and pretend to fly her around the room. She pulls me over to show me all of her treasures.
    When Rachel packs Gracie’s Lovey and blanket into her bag, I make my way over to her to take it. That’s when I hear her ask G if she can take Gracie this Saturday night.
    “Hot date?” G asks with a small eyebrow wiggle that makes me want to laugh until Rachel answers in the affirmative.
    “A date, at least.”
    I stop in my tracks, causing Gracie to stumble and look up at me with a frown. Whether Rachel purposely looks at me or our eyes meet because she’s avoiding looking at G—who is now shaking those hips again, dear god, does she ever stop moving?— I don’t know. But I do know my face must convey my shock, because she stares at me and raises her brow when all I can do is gape back at her.
    “What?” she finally asks.
    I try my best to keep my voice even, uninterested, instead of tense like I feel. “Who are you going out with?” Because we go to the same school, and I sure as shit would have heard if you were going out with someone from there .
    She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and then practically makes my heart stop when she adds, “A guy. You don’t know him. He’s older.”
    Older? I want to yell. Older like last time—when you let someone take advantage of you and left you to pick up the pieces? I don’t say any of this, mostly because I still have my wits about me enough that I know it’s not my place. Still, I can’t help but ask her another question.
    “Where did you meet him?”
    When she hesitates, I go from wondering if she’s even met him to knowing full well she hasn’t. Goddamn you, Rachel, don’t do this. Don’t go out with someone you don’t know; don’t go out with someone who could hurt you.
    My subconscious adds: don’t go out with someone who isn’t me.
    Not yours , I remind myself, not yours .
    “Around,” she finally says as I talk myself away from the ledge. “What’s with the third degree?”
    I shrug and before I grab the baby’s bag from her, I mumble something about the fact that she doesn’t usually go