Jamie slides into the back seat with effort, one hand braced on the door frame, the other supporting his belly. I resist theurge to help. He hasn't asked for it, and I'm learning to let him set the boundaries.
I climb in beside him. The door closes. The city begins to slide past the windows.
In the dim light of the car, Jamie's profile is sharp. He's staring straight ahead, his jaw set, his hands clasped in his lap. He's wearing a dark blue, cashmere sweater and I want to kiss him again.
"This is the first interview I’m going to where I haven’t prepared," he admits.
"Yeah, me neither. I guess we just tell them the truth."
"Which version?"
"The one where we couldn't stay away from each other. The one where—" I pause. "Where I fell in love with someone who challenged everything I thought I believed."
Jamie turns to look at me. The streetlights catch his face as we pass, illuminating him in flashes. Light, dark, light again.
"You've never said that before."
"Said what?"
"That you fell in love with me."
"I'm saying it now," I tell him. "In case that's not clear."
Jamie is quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know if I love you," he says finally. His voice is soft, not cruel. Honest. "I don't know if what I feel is real or if it's just the match.” His hand finds his belly again, that unconscious protective gesture. "I'm about to have a daughter. I'm about to be responsible for someone who depends on me completely. I can't afford to get this wrong."
"You won't."
Jamie's breath shudders.
"We can take it slow, work it out as we go."
His fingers intertwine with mine.
"Okay," he whispers.
The car pulls up to the studio. In a few minutes, we're going to walk in there and everything will change. There will be no going back. No more secrets, no more hiding. The whole world will know about us, about our daughter, about the truth I spent months denying.
I should be terrified.
Instead, all I feel is Jamie's hand in mine.
"Ready?" I ask.
Jamie looks at the studio. At me. At our joined hands.
"No," he says. "But let's do it anyway.".
21. Jamie
The studio looks exactly the same.
Same worn carpet in the hallway. Same humming fluorescent lights. Same faint smell of stale coffee and nervous sweat that clings to every television green room in America. I walked this corridor eight months ago, alone, confident, ready to defend my work against whatever David Glass threw at me.
I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know that in twenty minutes, my entire life would pivot on a single intake of breath.
Carter's hand is warm in mine. His thumb traces small circles against my palm—a habit he's developed over the past hour, like he needs to keep confirming I'm still here.
