The apartment tilted, then settled back into place in pieces: the chipped mug in the sink, the grocery list under my magnet from Fort Stewart, the envelope of cash on the table that was supposed to buy protein shakes and prenatal vitamins, and Brett’s muddy boots on the rug Marcus bought me before he deployed. Monica stood by the table with my wallet open in her hands. She was wearing white jeans in February, which felt like exactly the kind of choice Monica would make before walking into someone else’s home and calling them disgusting. Her nails were glossy pink, her mouth pinched into that little smile she used whenever she knew she had an audience. “Gold digger,” she hissed. Then she spat on me.It landed warm and wet on my cheek, just below the place her mother’s handprint was already blooming. For a second I couldn’t move. I heard the refrigerator humming. I heard Brett laugh under his breath. I heard one of the twins flutter low inside me, like a tiny fish startled in dark water. I wiped my face with the sleeve of Marcus’s old Army hoodie. “Please,” I said. My voice sounded thin, not like mine. “Just leave the grocery money. I need it for the shakes.” Brett pulled the bills from the envelope and fanned them out like he was counting chips at a casino. “Looks like a lot of shakes.”