That evening, Chester came carrying a whole box of my favorite pastries.
He sat across from me, his expression perfectly composed. "Eat something. The baby must be hungry."
Only then did I pick up a piece and take small, careful bites.
But watching him act as though nothing had happened filled my mouth with bitterness no pastry could mask.
"When did it happen?"
Chester froze. He poured me a cup of tea to cover his discomfort, then said in a flat voice, "On your birthday."
The ground dropped out from under me. A month ago, on my birthday, Chester had vanished without a word. I searched for him the entire night, up the mountain and down, calling his name until my voice gave out.
He didn't come back until the next morning, dusty and disheveled, claiming he'd gotten lost looking for a birthday gift for me.
Then, like a boy presenting a treasure, he pulled a snow lotus from behind his back.
I hadn't slept all night, but seeing the effort he'd gone through, I couldn't bring myself to scold him. I took the flower and carefully potted it.
Now he was telling me that on my birthday, while I was searching every trail in the dark, he had been in Shelagh Fox's bed. My stomach turned.