And still, some part of me is mourning.
Because I know how this story goes.
He told me, plain and clear, that children aren’t in his plan. That there’s no room in his life for them.
And now I’m pregnant.
I close my eyes.
I didn’t plan this. I took my pills. I was careful.
But that won’t matter if he thinks it’s my fault.
I know I’m in love with him. There’s no question about that. And I know he cares about me. I know what we had.
But wanting me isn’t the same as wanting a baby with me.
I drag in a shaky breath and force my eyes open.
The doorbell rings.
Who could it be? I haven’t ordered any packages here since I moved in with Jake.
I stand slowly, blanket slipping off my shoulders.
The bell rings again. Impatient.
I move toward the door on legs that don’t feel steady. My palm is damp against the knob. I don’t know why I already know before I open it.
I just do.
The door swings inward.
Jake stands there.
For a second, the whole world goes still.
He’s in dark jeans and the gray hoodie I like, the sleeves shoved up, hair slightly messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His face is set in that hard, determined way I’ve only seen when he’s made up his mind and no force on earth is going to move him.
Our eyes lock.
Shock hits first. Then fear. Then something so achingly tender I almost double over from it.
Love.
Mine. His. Both. I can’t tell anymore where one starts and the other ends.
“Jake,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze moves over my face, taking inventory. Red eyes. Tear tracks. The sweatshirt I threw on, not caring what I look like. The fact that I’m here.
Then he lifts one hand.
And in it—
My stomach drops so hard I think I might be sick.
