I take a breath. I could tell her about the tabloid stories, about the betrayal, about waking up one day and realizing the person you built your life with has been using you as a stepping stone to better things. But that is not why I am here tonight.
“I’ll tell you every detail of my marriage and divorce if you want,” I say, “but not tonight. Tonight I want to talk about us.”
She looks back down at her plate, jaw tight. The jokes and casual questions fall away. I can almost see her steel herself.
“I’m keeping the baby,” she says, voice steady, like she practiced that sentence in the mirror. “I need you to know that.”
The relief is immediate. “Okay,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m glad.”
Her head snaps up, eyes searching my face. “You are?”
“Yeah,” I say. “This is not what either of us planned, I get that. But I’ve always wanted kids. And I want to be involved. If you’ll let me.”
She studies me like she’s suspicious of my intentions. “I can do this alone,” she says finally.
“I know you can,” I say. “You seem like the most capable person in any room you walk into. I have no doubt you could do it alone.”
Her gaze flickers, then drops to her hands. She twists her napkin again, the paper already soft from how many times she’s done it. “Why?” she asks quietly. “Why are you so…sure? About being involved? About this? You barely know me.”
“Because I like you, Natalie. There was a connection between us, and I think you felt it too. And I know you said that night was supposed to be one time only, but now we have a reason to actually get to know each other. I’m not going to waste that.”
She looks away. “I’m not interested in a relationship.”
“Okay.” I won’t push her any more on the topic tonight.
“So what does co-parenting look like to you,” she asks.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confirm. “But in my head, it looks like doctor’s appointments together. Both of us at the big stuff. Being in the room when the baby is born, if you’re okay with that. A schedule we build together.’”
She nods slowly, like she’s turning the idea over, checking it for cracks. “I have to tell my dad,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say.
“Are you worried about your job?” she asks, looking up.
“A little,” I say. “But I’m more worried about him being hurt that we didn’t tell him sooner. “
“Me too,” she says softly.
Silence settles between us for a moment.
“Okay,” she says finally, like she’s making a decision with herself as much as with me. “Co-parents. Doctor’s appointments together. We figure everything else out as we go.”
“That works for me,” I say.
We clear the table together, moving in that careful dance people do when they’re hyper-aware of each other’s proximity. My hand brushes hers as we bothreach for the same plate. I don’t pull away immediately. Neither does she.
The contact lasts maybe two seconds, but I feel it everywhere. The warmth of her skin against mine. The way her breath catches, so quiet I almost miss it.
She pulls back first, fingers curling into her palm like she’s trying to hold onto the feeling or push it away. I can’t tell which.
We finish in silence, moving around each other in her small kitchen. Every time I pass behind her, I’m aware of how close I am. Close enough to catch her scent. Close enough to see the way her shoulders tense when I reach past her for a dish towel.
She’s not unaffected. That much is clear.
When the last dish is put away, I walk over to the chair where my jacket hangs and shrug it on, taking my time. Letting the sleeves settle over my arms, the fabric stretching across my shoulders and chest.
I don’t miss the way her eyes track the movement. The way they linger on my biceps, on the line of my shoulders, before she catches herself and looks away.
