He glances at me and his expression softens. “The woman’s always been terrified of pregnancy. Not uncomfortable. Not ambivalent. Terrified.”
My stomach sinks. “What?”
“She has tokophobia. Severe fear of pregnancy and childbirth. Even small children scare her. Didn’t you guys talk about that while you were dating?”
“We... it came up. But I didn’t realize how severe it was.”
“Her mom died in childbirth. Nina was there. She was eight years old and watched her mother bleed out trying to deliver a baby that didn’t survive either. Her dad fell apart in the aftermath, so she basically lived with us until she and Callie graduated from high school.”
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Her reaction to Zoey. Her insistence on doubling up on birth control. The way she’d gone pale whenever the subject of children came up. I knew some of it, but only broad strokes about her childhood. Her father’s suicide—one of the formative tragedies we had in common—and her relationship with Callie’s family. But the depth of her trauma around pregnancy wasn’t something we talked about. We’d talk about our dads, about how men don’t get the help they need, about all the ways grief goes sideways when nobody teaches you how to carry it. But never this.
“She didn’t abort because we’re assholes who can’t figure out what we want,” Chris continues. “She aborted because she endured severe trauma surrounding pregnancy and never wanted to have kids.”
The words hit me sideways. Nina, alone with that. While I was giving her space.
For Nina, it wasn’t a loss. It was a nightmare. A living embodiment of her deepest fear.
“Jesus,” I whisper, trying to recalibrate all the complicated feelings I’ve been having since she told me.
“Yeah.”
We’re almost to her neighborhood now. The street is quiet, lined with jacaranda trees and older Craftsman houses converted to apartments. The apartments soon give way to more upscale single family residences with gates.
The car slows as we approach her building. Chris parks across the street, kills the engine. We sit in the sudden quiet, both of us processing what this means.
“We really are idiots,” I say finally.
“Yeah. We are.”
I look up at her building. The windows are dark except for one on the southeast corner. A soft glow that might be a lamp or a computer screen.
“She’s awake,” Chris observes.
“Probably hasn’t slept since it happened.”
We sit there for another moment, both of us staring up at that lighted window. Both of us knowing that whatever conversation waits for us up there, it’s going to change everything.
Chris doesn’t move to get out. His hands are still on the steering wheel, knuckles white.
“I shouldn’t have left,” he says quietly. “That night in Denver. After we—” He stops, takes a deep breath as if he’s about to unburden himself. “I lay awake after you drifted off, just staring at the ceiling. I could barely breathe. Everything felt too real. Too much.”
I turn to face him fully.
“I’ve spent so many years pretending to be whatever someone else needed. Playing a role. And that night with you—and before, with both of you—I wasn’t pretending either time.” His voice cracks slightly. “I was just me. And it was terrifying.”
The admission sits raw and exposed between us.
“So you ran.”
“I told myself I had reasons. But yeah.” He finally looks at me, eyes raw. “Being seen—actually seen—feels like dying.”
“You’re not a coward.” I reach over, cover his hand with mine. “It meant something. It still does.”
He stares at our joined hands. “I don’t know how to do this. How to want something real without destroying it.”
“You don’t have to know. You just have to try.”
Something breaks in his expression. Before I can process what’s happening, he leans across the console and kisses me. It’s not desperate like that night in Denver—it’s careful, deliberate. He’s mindful of my split lip, his mouth gentle against mine, an apology written in the careful press of his lips.
