I walk away, but the image stays with me.
***
"I saw a couple today," I tell Gretchen that night. "In the park. She was going through chemo, I think. And he was just... there. Holding her hand like it was the most important thing in the world."
Gretchen sets down her wine glass. "Yeah?"
"I keep thinking about them. About how they'd obviously been through something awful together. But they were still there."
"Bay." Her voice is gentle. "What's really going on?"
"I don't know." I pull my knees to my chest. "Trevor said Daniel's still in therapy. Twice a week. For almost a month."
"I know."
"You knew?"
"Trevor mentioned it."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you didn't ask." She moves to sit beside me. "What do you want, Bay? Not what you think you should want. What do YOU want?"
"I want to know if he's actually changed." The words tumble out. "I want proof, not promises. I want to know if this is real or if he's just going through the motions."
"And if he has changed?"
"I don't know." My voice breaks. "Does that make me weak? That I even care?"
"It makes you human." Gretchen takes my hand. "You can hate what he did and still love who he was. Both things can be true."
"I should just move on. Raise this baby alone. Forget him."
"Should is a useless word. What does your gut say?"
I close my eyes. Listen to the answer I've been avoiding.
"My gut says I need to know. One way or the other. I need to see if he's actually changed."
"Then maybe you need to find out."
"How?"
"That's up to you. But sitting here wondering isn't helping either of you."
***
Late that night, I lie on Gretchen's couch, hand on my stomach, thinking.
Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of Daniel respecting my space. After weeks of harassment, he finally listened.
That means something, doesn't it?
Or does it mean he gave up?
Trevor says he's in therapy. Real therapy. Twice a week for a month.
That's not nothing.
