Page 180 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

The memory comes back too easily—his face, serious in a way that cut through everything else, the way he said it like it mattered, like he’d already thought it through.

I think there’s a real chance the child is mine.

I close my eyes.

“No,” I whisper.

That’s not the problem.

Or it is. Or it’s part of it.

God, I don’t know.

I run a hand through my hair. “Maybe he thinks I hate him.”

That’s… not entirely wrong.

I said some things. Not all of them fair.

Not all of them untrue either.

I called him manipulative. I accused him of making it about his ego. I walked out. I didn’t text. I didn’t call. I didn’t give him anything to work with except a very clear not now.

So maybe this is him listening. Maybe this is him doing exactly what I asked.

Which makes it worse somehow.

“Why is this worse?” I say.

Because I miss it. That’s the answer.

I miss him. Not in some dramatic, sweeping way. Not in an I can’t live without you kind of way. In a quiet, irritating, everyday way.

I miss the messages. I miss the check-ins. I miss the way he’d notice things I didn’t think to say out loud. I miss having someone who didn’t look at me like I was a headline or a story or a situation to be discussed.

I sink back onto the couch and pull the sweater tighter around me without thinking.

His sweater. Of course.