Page 65 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I've spent seven years building a story about what he did. It might not be the whole truth. I filled in the silence with things that hurt less than not knowing.

The scariest part isn't the past. It's whether I'm foolish enough to want to try again.

I never once thought about him leaving first because he was afraid of being left. I stood in that kitchen after he walked out—garlic burning in the pan, the smoke alarm going off—and I just stood there staring at the door like it might open again.

It didn't.

I turn from the window.

“You didn't protect me. You made a choice that was mine to make.”

He doesn't look away. “I know.”

“You stole seven years.” My voice isn't steady. “You decided how my life went. You didn't trust me enough to let me choose you.”

I pause.

“I don't forgive you,” I say.

“I know.”

“I'm not there yet. I don't know if I’ll get there. And the scariest part is wondering if I even want to.”

“Okay.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Agreeing with everything.” I turn fully toward him. “It's making it very hard to stay angry at you.”

Something shifts in his face. Not quite a smile. Just something softer.

“I've been practicing,” he says.

The quiet after that lands differently.

I meet his eyes and he doesn't look away.

In this light, after everything that just got laid on the table, he looks tired in a way he never lets himself look in a group. The composed version of Andrew I've seen for two months—the one who keeps himself controlled at dinner, every movement measured—isn't here right now. It's just him.

I've never seen him look small before.

I didn't think he knew how.

I sit back down.

Neither of us speaks for a while.

Then he reaches forward, slowly, and takes my hand.

The same way he did in the kitchen.

My stomach rolls again—not enough to send me running to the bathroom, just enough to remind me nothing about my body feels predictable anymore.

“I'm having your baby,” I say quietly. “Maybe. I don't know yet. But maybe.”

His thumb moves once across my knuckles.