Page 89 of Three Months Yesterday

“Blueberry. Jackson picked the flavor. They have ten minutes left.”

“Well, you don’t have to twist my arm.” He grins, pulling me back into his side.

We step into the house side by side, and I hear Jackson’s excited shout from the living room followed by the sound of small feet hitting the floor.

The house is quiet and I hate it.

Aiden took Jackson home an hour ago, the muffins packaged up in a container, and my nephew waving from the back seat. I cleaned up the small mess from our easy dinner and rushed upstairs.

Now I’m sitting on my bed surrounded by the remnants of Beckett’s origami flowers like a garden of unfolded paper.

I opened all of them. All forty-eight flowers.

I didn’t keep track of the order he left them, but the first ones were easy to spot, the tone of them almost formal.

Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.

Simple. Polite. The kind of note you write when you’re still figuring out the rules of a new relationship.

But as the weeks go on, the notes shift. They get warmer, more personal. Less like a thank you and more like a conversation he’s having with me even when I’m not in the room—or aware we’re having one.

You told me today that you’re not good at asking for help. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know that I’m not good at that either. Let’s try better together.

I wrote a song today. It’s definitely about you. I don’t know if I’ll share it with anyone, but I think that might have been the point.

I know you have your reasons and I’m going to respect them, but I’m still going to work on proving you wrong.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done in this life to deserve you, but I’m not questioning it anymore.

I read each one twice. Some of them three times. I stack them in order, the earliest ones on the bottom and the most recent on top, and by the time I’m done, my eyes are burning, my throat tight. I can’t stop from asking the questions I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

Did I make the right decision?

I’ve been telling myself I did. That pushing him away was the responsible thing—the fair thing. But sitting here, surrounded by the evidence of a man who folded paper flowers and hid notes inside them because he couldn’t say the words out loud, I’m not so sure.

I know how I feel about him. I realized it on Saturday when we felt the baby kick. The way his face changed at the feel of my son’s little kick—the wonder and pure, unguarded joy—it changed something in me.

No, not changed. It opened my eyes.

And then Aaron called and pulled him back to the city. The fear that washed through me at the idea I might never see him again. That when he left he might never return…it nearly broke me.

I can’t go back to a life where he’s not in it. Where his smiling face isn’t there to greet me in the morning and there are no more paper flowers by the coffee pot.

It’s terrifying to think about going back on what I already said, but the words my mom said to me on Sunday before we sat down to dinner keep running through my mind.

You know, darling. You may regret some of the risks you take, but you’ll always regret the ones you miss.

I didn’t respond to her at the time. I had no idea what to say to something like that. But sitting here, surrounded by the signs of the type of man Beckett is, I can’t deny she’s right.

How much will I regret not taking a chance on more with Beckett?

With that simple thought everything changes. The next time I see Beckett, I’m going to tell him I was wrong. That I want to explore something more with him. That I’m terrified and pregnant, and I know it’s complicated and messy, but I want to try. If he’s willing, I want to give this thing between us a real shot.

I stack the smoothed notes neatly on my dresser, his words facing up so I can see his most recent note on top.

I know it’s only a few days, but I’m going to miss you…quite terribly.

I turn off the light and climb into bed, my hand resting on my stomach where the baby’s still—for now. The house settles around me, the quiet still taunting me, but not as aggressively as before.