“I finally made it,” I say, and my voice breaks completely this time. “I finally got everything I wanted, and now it’s all going to fall apart.”
He’s quiet for a second. Long enough for me to feel stupid for saying it out loud.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
The question stops me cold.
What do I want to do?
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Jake reaches out, slowly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. His hand lands on top of mine where it’s pressed against my stomach. Warm. Solid. Steady. The contact sends a jolt through me.
“Whatever you decide,” he says, his voice low and certain, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together.”
That certainty in his voice hits something deep and unsteady in me. Part of me wants to lean into it. To believe him. To let myself be held up for a second when everything feels like it’s tipping sideways.
Another part of me is absolutely terrified of what “together” might mean. Because together sounds like feelings and responsibility and future, and I am barely keeping my own future in a straight line.
“Where do you live?” he asks, pulling his hand back before I can decide if I miss it. “I’ll take you home.”
I hesitate, but the thought of summoning a stranger to make small talk with while my life is unraveling is laughable, so I give him my address.
We find his car, and he unlocks it with achirp. He opens the door and helps me as I slide into the passenger seat. The city moves past the window—shops, billboards, palm trees, the same streets that felt hopeful and bright this morning and now feel like they belong to someone else.
We don’t talk. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either. It’s fragile. Like if either of us says the wrong thing, it’ll snap whatever thin thread is holding me together.
My brain keeps circling back to that night. We used a condom. I know we did. I remember him tearing open the wrapper and rolling it on. I’m on birth control. Have been for years. Sure, I miss a pill here and there, but that’s why there was backup. That is literally the point of backup.
Jake pulls up in front of my house and puts the car in park. The engine idles. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For taking me to the clinic. For staying. For driving me home.” My voice wobbles. “For…all of this.”
“Of course,” he says simply.
I reach for the door handle, but he says my name.
“Natalie.”
I turn back.
“I meant what I said,” he tells me. His eyes are steady, clear. “I’m here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. Okay?”
I nod, because my vocal cords are apparently on strike.
He pulls his phone out. “Can I get your number?” he asks. “So we can…talk. When you’re ready.”
I give it to him. A second later, my phone buzzes in mypocket.Unknown number.I save the contact and tuck my phone away like that somehow makes this all manageable.
“I need time to think,” I say.
“I know.” His voice softens. “Stay there.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s out of the car, circling around to my side and opening my door. He offers his hand, and I take it, letting him help me up. He walks me to my front door, slow and patient.
“Thanks again,” I say when we reach the top step. “For everything.”
He reaches out, gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger for half a second longer than strictly necessary. My breath catches.
