“Where’s my birth control?” My foot tapped against the floor, but I couldn’t stop it.
“What?”
“My birth control. Where is it? Did you do something with it?”
He raised his chin and looked down his nose at me. “What would I do with it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not in my bag where it should be, and I’ve looked everywhere. Did you take it? Did you hide it?”
“Hide it . . .?” he asked. “You can’t be serious.”
It sounded crazy, but was it really? Bill had admitted, the day we’d gone to the suburbs, that he thought deep down, I wanted him to push me.
To start a relationship. To move in together. To get married.
If he didn’t move us forward, I’d stay right where I was. But that was what I wanted—to stay here until I knew for sure what the next step should be.
“I’m serious, Bill. If you took my birth control, I need to know.”
“Do you hear yourself?” he asked, reeling back. “I’m not a monster.”
“No, I know that, but—”
He strode past me and jerked open the top drawer of my nightstand. “I put it in here,” he said, pulling out the pack. Instead of handing it to me, he tossed it at my feet. “You left it there on the floor last night, and I didn’t want you to step on it.”
Oh.
Shit. What had come over me just now? Bill wanted me to choose pregnancy, but of course I knew he’d never trick me into it.
With an exhalation, I shook my head. “I’m sor—”
“You know what else?” he asked, moving by me and reaching into his suitcase. He unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a string of condoms, thrusting them toward me. “I packed these. Lots of them. I didn’t want to take any chances you might feel uncomfortable making love while we were out here. Which we haven’t done. Even though it’s the perfect setting.”
I’d gone too far just now. Bill wasn’t the bad guy here. I was the one changing the terms we’d agreed upon, asking him to wait for something he’d been honest about wanting from the start. I ran a hand through my hair, shutting my eyes briefly. “You’re right. I guess I’m just stressed. You’ve been bringing up the baby thing so much—”
“Don’t blame this on me.” He walked by me on his way out, adding, “That’s something your mom would do.”
Blood drained from my face as my throat closed.Oh my God. He was right. My mother’s paranoid, frantic episodes would come on fast and fizzle, ending with her tears and apologies. They’d grown worse over time, less sensical, more outlandish—especially in the months before she’d snapped.
I’d let my guilt over my kiss with David turn me into someone I didn’t recognize. Did that mean I could suddenly snap, too? It was a question never far from my mind, but I’d been able to control the possibility for so long by making the right choices. Until now.
I hadn’t been acting like myself for a while. Not since the ballet.
Not sinceDavid.
That night, I’d unknowingly stood on a precipice. I hadn’t realized until this moment that I’d taken a step over the edge. And since then, I’d begun to spiral down.
16
David Dylan had been staring at me all day—from the cover of anArchitectural Digestmagazine Jenny had left on the desk for Lisa and me. In an urbane suit, arms crossed as he leaned in the doorway of a beautiful, midcentury home, while wearing an expression somewhere betweensmirkandsmile, it was no surprise he’d landed the cover ofArchitectural Digest. He stood like a king in front of his latest masterpiece.
All day I’d avoided his stare, but as day turned to night, and the office emptied, my resolve to stay away weakened. With Bill back in New York on business for the week, and mostly giving me the silent treatment after Saturday night’s accusation, I’d been working late each night.
I scanned the three-page article. David’s firm, Pierson/Greer, was within walking distance from my office. I’d already known he was a pioneer in modern design, but apparently, he was one of the most in-demand architects in Chicago, too.
I closed the magazine and moved to my laptop to type his name in a search engine.
D-a-v-i-d D-y-
