That silence—that space—is unbearable.
“I can’t do this,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “I won’t do this. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t.”
My voice cracks on the last word and I hate it. I hate how small it sounds. How scared.
Callie doesn’t reach for me or interrupt. She just drives, her eyes flicking toward me once, soft and unflinching.
“You don’t have to,” she says.
I flinch.
Because she means it.
She’s not saying it to calm me down or offer some empty reassurance. She means it like a promise. Like a reminder of every boundary I’ve ever set, and how she’s never once pushed against one.
And that breaks something in me. Because I’ve been trying to hold this in for days. Maybe since the minute I left Denver. Since the second I felt the first crack in my armor and realized what it might mean.
It’s not just that I don’t want this.
It’s that I can’t survive it.
“I haven’t even let myself say it out loud,” I whisper. “I’ve just been… avoiding. Moving. Working. Telling myself I’ll deal with it later.”
“You’re dealing with it now,” she says gently.
I nod. Once.
A long beat passes before I add, “I know I need to find an OB. I know the drill. Ultrasound. Confirmation. Logistics.”
Callie’s voice is calm. “I know someone.”
“Of course you do.”
We drive in silence for another stretch.
And then I say the thing that’s been chewing at the base of my spine since I hugged her hello.
“You haven’t asked whose it might be.”
Her eyes stay on the road, but I feel her attention sharpen.
“I figured it was Wyatt,” she says, slow. Careful. “You were both… pretty glowy the morning after the wedding.”
I huff a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “It was. Kind of.”
She doesn’t push.
“It was also Chris.”
This time she glances at me, brows lifting.
“You—” she starts, then stops. Recalculates. “That night?”
I nod.
She doesn’t ask if it was both at once.
She exhales. “Okay.”
