I almost told him. Three times, the words were right there, pressing against my teeth.
I'm pregnant.
But each time, I swallowed them back down. It wasn't fair to burden him with this. Not when he was still healing from Sarah. Not when I hadn't figured out what I was going to do. Not when the secret still felt like the only thing I could control.
So I listened instead. Nodded in the right places. Let the morning unfold the way Saturday mornings always did—familiar and comforting and just a little bit heartbreaking.
Owen left around noon, after helping me fix a loose hinge on the pantry door that had been bothering me for weeks.
I stood on the porch and watched his truck disappear down the driveway, dust rising behind it in a golden cloud. The afternoon sun was warm on my face. Spring was settling in properly now, the trees fully leafed out, the garden starting to bloom.
The secret sat low in my belly, invisible but present, like a stone I was learning to carry.
I wondered how long I could keep this up. A few more weeks, maybe a month. But eventually, my body would give me away. Eventually, I'd have to tell someone.
Elena would notice first. She noticed everything. Then Mrs. Patterson, with those sharp eyes that saw through every wall I built. Then Owen, who would probably feel hurt that I hadn't told him sooner, who would probably wonder why I didn't trust him with this.
But for now, the secret was mine.
Heavy. Terrifying. But mine.
I turned and walked back inside. The kitchen was quiet, still holding the warmth of Owen's presence, the faint smell of coffee, and the flannel-and-soap scent that always lingered after he left.
My grandmother's portrait watched me from above the doorway. Stern face. Kind eyes. The woman who'd built this place with her own hands, who'd raised a daughter and then a granddaughter, who'd never let anything break her.
“I can do this,” I said out loud.
I didn't believe it yet.
But I would.
CHAPTER 8
Owen
Something was wrong with Grace.
I knew it in the same way I knew when a fire wasn’t really out yet—when the smoke thinned but the heat was still there, waiting.
I knew her moods. Knew the way her shoulders crept up toward her ears when she was stressed, like she was bracing for impact. Knew the particular tightness around her mouth when she was holding something back, when words were stacking up behind her teeth with nowhere to go. I knew the difference between her real smile and the one she put on for guests, the one that never quite reached her eyes.
Something had changed. More than just the breakup.
She was drinking tea instead of coffee. Grace had been a coffee person since college—three cups a day minimum, the stronger the better, the kind that could strip paint. Now the pot sat untouched on the counter while she nursed chamomile like it was medicine. Like something she needed instead of something she wanted.
She was pale in the mornings. Not just tired pale—everyone was tired—but that faint greenish cast that meant somethingwasn’t sitting right. I’d catch her slipping away between breakfast courses, hand pressed flat to her stomach like she was steadying herself, disappearing into the bathroom and coming back with damp skin and a smile that asked me not to notice.
So I noticed. And said nothing.
She was wearing looser clothes. Grace had always dressed practically, but lately everything hung off her like she was trying to take up less space. Oversized sweaters. Flowy blouses. Nothing that showed the familiar lines of her body. Nothing that invited questions.
I watched. Cataloged. Filed it all away the way I did with everything that scared me.
Didn’t ask. Not yet.
Because asking would make it real. And real meant consequences. Real meant I couldn’t pretend I didn’t already know what the math was pointing to.
The knowledge sat heavy in my gut, a low, constant pressure I couldn’t shake. A suspicion I didn’t want confirmed. Because confirming it would mean facing what it meant—for her. For Marcus, wherever the hell he was now. For whatever came next, barreling toward us whether we were ready or not.
