Page 149 of Keller

Four months.

She's known for weeks. Months.

"Four months." My voice comes out like someone else is saying it. I do the math and realize that means a baby will be born in five months.

My baby.

"You're certain it's mine."

Her jaw tightens, and a flash of something cold crosses her eyes. "There hasn't been anyone else, Keller. Before or after."

I believe her. That's the thing. Even after everything, I believe her.

A baby. My baby.

The thought won't stick. Keeps sliding off some surface in my brain that refuses to let it land.

"What do you want from me?"

"I'm not asking you for anything." Her hands stay folded. "I'm telling you because you have a right to know. What you do with the information is your choice."

Choice.

I almost laugh, like there's a real choice here. Like I could walk away and pretend this conversation never happened.

That's not who I am, nor how I was raised.

"I'll make sure you and the baby are taken care of." The words come before I've fully assembled them. "Financially, medically. Whatever you need for stability, you won't have to worry."

Quinn's expression doesn't change. She nods once. "That's not why I told you."

"I know." I run my hand through my hair. The tension knots at the base of my skull. "But it's what I can offer right now."

Because the rest of it, the bigger questions, those I can't answer.

"I don't know if I'm built for this, Quinn." The admission scrapes against my throat. "I planned my life around distanceand control. I structured everything to minimize variables I couldn't manage."

"Keller, please understand I don't want anything from you. I'm not telling you this because I want you to come back. It was hard at first, but I've got things back on track, and things are good. This baby will be loved, regardless of how you decide you want to be a part of her life."

Herlife. She's having a girl.

"I need space to figure out what this means. What I'm capable of being."

"You know how to find me if you want to discuss anything at any point. You'll always have access."

I think about the months of silence. I think about Charlton Grant and my mom, the walls I built because she wounded my pride.

I push back from the table and stand. "Thank you for telling me."

Quinn rises too. We stand on opposite sides of the small table, the space between us charged with everything unsaid.

"You're welcome. Thank you for calling me back."

I don't think there is anything else we can say. This is our crossroads. There are no demands or attempts to bind me with guilt or obligation.

Why does that seem worse?

I turn toward the door and stop, turning back to her.