"I have something to tell you," I say.
My voice is hoarse, but steady.
He nods, once.
I look down at my lap, then up at him again.
"I'm pregnant… with twins."
I expect a reaction—shock, anger, disbelief, anything.
Instead, he just looks at me, the blue of his eyes flat and unreadable.
He doesn't move, doesn't blink, just lets the statement settle in the air like the aftermath of a gunshot.
I wait, counting the heartbeats.
The silence stretches, then snaps.
He opens the driver's door and steps out into the fog.
For a moment, I think he's walking away, leaving me here tofinish the drive alone.
But then he circles the hood, opens my door, and crouches down so we're level.
He puts his hand on the side of my face, just above the bruise at my jaw.
His palm is warm, but his thumb is cold and a little sticky with dried blood.
He leans in, so close I can smell the sweat and salt on his skin and presses his lips to my forehead.
He holds it for a long time, as if he's trying to memorize the shape of me with his mouth.
When he pulls back, his face is different—softer, but also harder, if that makes sense.
The lines around his eyes are deeper, and there's a new tension in the set of his shoulders.
"Did they know?" he asks, his voice so low it barely registers.
I nod.
"They did."
He closes his eyes, just for a moment.
Then he stands, brushes the dirt from his knees, and gently shuts my door.
He walks to the back of the car, lights a cigarette, and stares into the night.
The glow of the ember pulses in time with his breath.
I watch him through the window.
The fog swallows the smoke as soon as he exhales.
He was mindful enough to do this outside, with me in the car.
That alone surprises me, but he also came.
