Small steps. Maybe that's all I can do. Small steps toward being less of an asshole.
I walk over to the elevator, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder. I step into the entryway.
And freeze.
Sloane is leaning against the door.
She looks terrible. Her curly hair is pulled back messily, her face pale, dark circles under those green eyes that have haunted my dreams. She's wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and she looks smaller somehow, more fragile than I've ever seen her.
Our eyes meet, and something in her expression makes my chest tight.
"Tucker," she says, her voice rough like she's been crying. "We need to talk."
My heart pounds. I want to ask a thousand questions—how she got past building security, how long she's been waiting, what changed her mind about talking to me. But something in her face stops me.
This isn't about second chances or explanations.
This is something else. Something bigger.
"Okay," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the way my hands are shaking. "Let's talk."
I swipe my key fob to open the elevator and gesture for her to enter first. We ride up to the top floor in silence, and she walks past me into my apartment. She doesn't look around, doesn't seem to notice or care about the space. She just moves to the windows, staring out at the city with her arms wrapped around herself.
I set down my bag and wait. Every instinct is screaming at me to fill the silence, to apologize again, to plead my case. But I force myself to stay quiet. To give her the space to say whatever she came here to say.
Finally, she turns to face me.
"I'm pregnant," she says.
The words hit me like a Russian offense. For a moment, I can't breathe, can't think, can't process what she just said.
"What?"
"I'm pregnant," she repeats, and now I can see she's trembling. "With your baby. And before you say anything, I'm keeping it. I've already decided. But I also need you to know that you don't have to be involved. I have money. I can handle this on my own. I just—" Her voice cracks. "I thought you had a right to know."
Pregnant. Sloane is pregnant. With my baby.
Our baby.
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My mind is racing—how, when, what does this mean, what do I do, what does she need?—
"Say something," she whispers.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. "Are you okay? Are you healthy? Have you seen a doctor?"
She blinks, clearly not expecting those to be my first questions. "I... yes. I mean, I took a test this morning. I haven't seen a doctor yet, but I will. I'm fine."
"When? When will you see a doctor?"
"I don't know. I just found out today, Tucker. I came herebefore I even—" She stops herself. "It doesn't matter. The point is, you know now. And I meant what I said. I don't expect anything from you."
"Don't expect—" I can't even finish the sentence. "Sloane, this is my baby, too."
"I know. But I also know you didn't sign up for this. We barely know each other. And I've already decided I'm keeping it, so if you don't want to be involved?—"
"Stop." I reach for her hands before I can stop myself, and she lets me take them. "Just stop. I need a minute to process this, okay? But don't for one second think I don't want to be involved."
She searches my face, looking for something I hope she finds. "You aren’t exactly father of the year material.”
