“You should go,” she says after a moment, voice low.
“I know.”
We stare at each other.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I hate that I hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’ll keep showing up. Until you tell me to stop.”
Her jaw tenses. “That’s not fair.”
“No, but I never promised fair. I just promised real.”
She doesn’t reply, and I take a step back.
“The food’s still hot,” I say. “I’m sure each of your personalities will enjoy the selection.”
“I’m sure they will.”
I glance over my shoulder once before I leave, waiting, hoping formore.
Nothing.
The second I’m in the hallway, I stare at Emma’s closed door, wondering if I should push. Should ask her how she's feeling. Should tell her I'm trying to figure things out.
But I don't.
Because Emma needs certainty, not my confusion.
And until I can give her that, the least I can do is give her space.
Even if space is the last thing I want.
Even if all I want is to be back in that Chicago hotel with Emma in my arms, before everything got complicated.
Before I had to figure out if I'm capable of being a father.
Or if I'm just another man who's going to fail the people who need him most.
Chapter fifteen
~EMMA~
Saturday morning—eight days after the terrace disaster—I'm sitting in a pastel-painted waiting room that smells like lavender and anxiety, trying not to throw up into a potted fern.
My first official OB appointment.
The one I told Donovan about in a stiff, professional email because apparently that's what we do now—communicate like colleagues instead of the people who made a baby together after screwing in an Miami hotel suite.
ME (Sunday, 3:47 PM): First OB appointment is next Saturday at 10 AM. Dr. Sarah Chen at Manhattan Women's Health. You don't have to come.
That last line was important. A very clear “I’m not expecting anything from you” that I meant with every fiber of my being.
His response came six minutes later.
DONOVAN: I'll be there.
