"No." He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "But we can have moments. Like this one. Just us together, stealing time before the world crashes in."
The words should be comforting. Instead, they feel prophetic.
A shiver runs through me, and Grant frowns. "You're cold. Should I adjust the heat?"
"No, I'm?—"
The door to my apartment slams open with a bang that makes us both jump apart.
My father stands in the doorway.
His face is a color I've only seen a handful of times in my life—a deep, mottled purple that speaks of rage so consuming it's become physical. His chest heaves with each breath. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
And his eyes. God, his eyes are wild with a fury from me to Grant and back again. He shakes his head and barks out a dry laugh.
"Dad—" The word comes out strangled.
He doesn't speak. Just strides into my apartment and slams his phone down on my coffee table.
"Explain this."
His voice is deadly quiet. Controlled in a way that's somehow more terrifying than shouting.
The phone screen is lit, displaying a photo.
It's us. Grant and me. In the park last week, sitting on a bench in a quiet area with very few people around. His arm is around me, and I'm leaning into his side, my face turned up toward his. He's kissing me—a soft, sweet kiss that made me feel cherished and safe.
His other hand is resting on my stomach—on the small, unmistakable swell.
Adrenaline rushes through my body while I try to think of what to say.
"Well?" My father's voice cracks like a whip. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Emma. Tell me this isn't what it looks like."
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare at the proof of everything I've been hiding.
"David—" Grant starts, his hand finding the small of my back.
"Don't." My father's finger jabs toward Grant, shaking with rage. "Don't you dare say a fucking word. Not yet. I want to hear it from her."
His eyes pin me in place. "Tell me you're not sleeping with my best friend. Tell me you're not pregnant with his child. Tell mesomethingthat makes this photo make sense."
The words won’t come. "I—we?—"
"The truth, Emma." His voice drops even lower. "Right now. The truth."
I force myself to stand straighter. To meet his eyes even though every instinct I have screams to look away. "We were on the same plane to Florence. It was—we didn't plan it. It just happened."
"What happened?" Each word is enunciated with knife-edge precision.
"We—" Heat floods my face. "We spent one night together."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Then my father laughs again. It's a horrible sound, devoid of any humor. "One night. One night, and now you're what? Pregnant?"
"Yes." My hand moves instinctively to my stomach.
"How far along are you?"
