Mom stands, concern clear on her face. “Then fall apart. You’re allowed to fall apart. Just don’t give up on her yet.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm. “I need to go for a run.”
“Jake, it’s twenty-eight degrees out there.”
“I need to clear my head.”
I need open sky. Fresh air. Something other than these four walls and the spiral of my own thoughts.
“At least eat something first?—”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
I’m already moving toward the stairs, toward my old bedroom where my running gear is. I can feel her watching me, can sense all the things she wants to say but doesn’t.
The cold hits my lungs like knives.
I head toward the beach path, the route I’ve run since high school. Surfside in February is dead—summer homes shuttered, the beach empty except for a few brave souls walking dogs. The wind off the Long Island Sound is bitter, slicing through my running jacket.
My feet find the rhythm. Left, right, left, right. Breathe in, breathe out.
I think about the nursery at my house. The crib I assembled, the mobile I hung, the bookshelf I filled. All of it waiting for a baby who’ll visit but never really live there. Not the way I imagined.
I think about Natalie’s face when she saw it. The tears in her eyes. The way she said “You did this for our little girl” like she couldn’t believe someone would.
I think about waking up without her these past few days. The bed too big, the house too quiet, the mornings too empty.
I think about the next eighteen years. Coordinating schedules, splitting holidays, being polite and careful with each other. About dropping my daughter off and watching Natalie close the door. About birthday parties where we’re both there, but not together. About some future version ofthis where she brings a date to our daughter’s soccer game and I have to shake his hand and pretend I’m fine.
About my daughter calling someone else Dad.
The thought makes my chest tight, makes it hard to breathe, and I’m running faster now, trying to outrun the images in my head.
The path curves inland, away from the water. There’s a section here that cuts through some trees, mostly pines, the ground uneven where roots have pushed up through the pavement over the years.
I’m not paying attention. Not to where I’m putting my feet, not to the patches of ice from last night’s freeze, not to anything except the spiral of thoughts I can’t escape.
What if this is it? What if I did everything right and it still wasn’t enough? What if she never?—
My foot hits something.
The world tilts sideways.
I’m falling and there’s nothing to grab, nothing to stop it. My body hits the frozen ground hard—shoulder first, then my wrist as I try to brace myself against the blow.
The crack is audible.
Then my head.
The impact sends white light exploding through my vision. Pain, sharp and immediate, radiating from the back of my skull.
A low groan escapes me before I even realize it’s coming. My chest heaves, breaths choppy and uneven, shallow. Nausea coils tight in my gut, threatening to turn me inside out.
The sky above me is gray. The trees are spinning, or I’m spinning, I can’t tell which.
I try to move and the world lurches violently. Everything tilts. My fingers twitch, flexing weakly like they’re testing whether they still work. My hand moves toward my pocket but finds nothing. Did I bring my phone? Can’t remember.
This is bad.
