I stand as she approaches, fighting the urge to reach for her. To pull her against me and promise that whatever's wrong, I'll fix it.
But I know that’s the worst thing I could do right now.
So I wait, letting her come to me on her own terms.
"Hi." She stops a few feet away, twisting the strap of her bag between her fingers. Up close, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. She looks like she hasn't slept.
"Hi." I gesture to the chair across from me. "Sit. Please. Do you want coffee? Tea?"
"Water. Just water."
I flag down a server and order two waters while Emma settles into her chair. She sets her bag on the floor but doesn't lean back, doesn't relax. Every muscle in her body seems tense, ready to flee.
The server brings the water, and Emma wraps both hands around the glass as if she needs something to hold on to. I watch her take a sip, then set it down carefully.
"Emma." I keep my voice gentle, quiet. "Whatever you need to tell me, just say it. I'm here."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the fear in her eyes makes my heartrate spike. "I don't know how to—I've been trying to figure out the right way to say this, but there isn't one. There's no right way."
"Then say it the wrong way. I don't care about the words. I just need to know what's going on. Please."
Her hands twist in her lap. "Do you remember Florence?"
The question is so unexpected that I almost laugh. Almost. "Yes, Emma. I remember Florence."
She closes her eyes, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. When she opens them again, there are tears on her lashes. "We were careful. You were careful. We used protection, and it should have been fine, but apparently ninety-nine percent effective isn't the same as?—"
Understanding hits me like a freight train.
No.
The word is instinctive, immediate, my brain rejecting the possibility before it can fully form. But Emma's still talking, her words tumbling out faster now, like she has to get them all out before she loses her nerve.
"I took a test and then I went to the doctor yesterday to confirm and she did an ultrasound and I know this is—I know this isn't what either of us planned, and I know the timing is terrible, and I know your ex-wife and my father and everything is already so complicated, but I couldn't not tell you because you have a right to know and?—"
"Emma." I reach across the table, catching her hands in mine. They're ice cold. "Slow down. Breathe."
She sucks in air like she's been underwater. Her fingers grip mine with surprising strength.
"You're pregnant," I say, making it a statement instead of a question. Trying to wrap my mind around the words.
She winces and then nods.
I'm going to be a father. Again.
The thought arrives with a strange sense of detachment, like I'm observing someone else's life. I already have a daughter who hates me half the time and barely tolerates me the rest. Who I've failed in ways I'm still trying to understand.
And now there's going to be another child. Mine and Emma's.
David's going to fucking kill me.
The thought crashes through my detachment like a wrecking ball.
I slept with his daughter, and now she's pregnant.
The betrayal is so massive, so complete, that my mind actually staggers under the weight of it. David has a temper—a volcanic one at that. He's going to see this as the ultimate breach of trust and he’ll be completely justified in that.
But looking at Emma's pale, terrified face, at the way she's holding my hands like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning, I realize something with absolute clarity.
