I’m pregnant, and it’s—well, it happened that night. The baby is yours.
Part of me was still back there, staring at Willow, trying to comprehend what she’d said. Another part was in denial, stuck in disbelief that it was true. And yet another part of me was ashamed of myself, disgusted that I’d run away and left her sitting there in the dark by herself after I’d blurted out that I couldn’t be the man she needed.
Above all else, that was what had gutted me. I’d been the worst of myself that night because all I’d been able to think about was how my dreams were being threatened. I only saw myself and how this pregnancy could potentially destroy my life.
I wondered what Willow was doing now. Had she made the decision to end the pregnancy? Was she even now on some sterile white hospital bed, curled in a ball in pain? I mean, an abortion probably involved some amount of discomfort, right? Was she alone and crying?
Or had she gone the other way? Had she told her parents? How in the hell would I face Coach, knowing that he was dealing with such a heartbreaking situation at home—and that it was all my fault? Of course, he wouldn’t know that, because I knew without a doubt that Willow would never tell her parents who her baby’s father was.
So I’d skate through the next months without any change, free and clear to pursue every intention I’d ever had, while Willow would be stuck carrying a baby that neither of us wanted.
And it was all my fault because I didn’t have the balls to stand up and admit what I’d done. My gut twisted, and the food I’d just eaten churned uncomfortably.
Abruptly, I rose to my feet, balling up my linen napkin and tossing it onto the table.
“Dude.” Sam frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go back to the barracks. I’ll see you later, at practice.”
* * *
Major Thomas was sitting behind his desk as I stood in the doorway and knocked.
“Lassiter.” Our company’s TAC officer smiled at me. “Why aren’t you at lunch?”
“Sir.” I stood at attention. “I finished, sir.”
He glanced at his watch. “Must not have been hungry.”
“I eat efficiently, sir.”
The major chuckled. “As you do everything, Lassiter.” He motioned to the empty chair across from his desk. “Come on in. Sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” I dropped into the seat. “I hope I’m not interrupting you. If you’re busy, I can come back.”
“Ah, there’s never a time when I’m not busy.” He smiled ruefully. “Nature of the beast. What can I do for you?”
I fidgeted. “Sir, I wondered if I could ask you about something. About someone, specifically.”
“Hmmm.” The TAC’s forehead wrinkled. “You can ask. Whether or not I answer is another story.”
“Yes, sir.” I took a deep breath and swallowed. “Thing is, sir, I was looking at some pictures from yearling year. Ah, you know, a bunch of us were thinking about the old days.”
The major’s lips twitched. “The old days. Three years ago, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” I leaned my elbows on the arm of the chair. “We’re in our last year, sir. Sometimes we . . . reminisce.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Major Thomas stretched back, his office chair squeaking in protest. “Time moves differently here. Plebe lasts at least ten years. Yearling and cow? Depends on the day, but it can be long. Firstie year flies by in a blink of an eye.”
“I guess so, sir.” I wasn’t really in the mood to spin nostalgic, even if that was the angle I’d used to start the conversation. “I saw a picture of a bunch of us, and Donna Whitmore was in it.”
“Hmmm.” All humor faded from his face. “Yes. It was at the start of your cow year that she left, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded.
“Mmmhmm.”
We were both silent for a few beats before he spoke again, his voice tight with tension.
