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“Yeah yeah.”

I wrap the rest of the sandwich, throw it in the trash on my way out, and spend the rest of the afternoon repeating myself to twenty-eight eighth graders while my brain is as far away as Simon’s has been.

Chapter twenty-nine

Simon

Veronica texts again while I’m scraping macaroni off a plate.

I don’t look. I already know what it is. Same as the last forty.

Answer me.

We need to talk.

You can’t ignore this.

Since Saturday my phone has not shut up.

Blaire is at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, rinsing Theo’s cup for the third time while just staring out the window into the yard. She hasn’t asked me once what’s wrong tonight. That feels even worse than the asking. For three days she’s been circling it—are you okay, did something happen at work, you seem off—and I’ve been feeding her scraps. Tired. Lot on my mind. Everything’s fine.

She knows it’s bullshit. Blaire has been reading me since we were teenagers.

She tried touching me last night after we crawled into bed, but I’d lied and said I was tired.

I wasn’t tired. I was hard and sick about it. Touching her without telling her felt like the worst kind of betrayal. I kept seeing the ultrasound. I just got Blaire back.

And now this.

If I put my hands on her tonight and she finds out tomorrow, she will never believe I wasn’t using the last of her trust on purpose. So I’ve been a wall. But every time she looks at me I can see her stacking it into the old story: he got close, he got scared, he’s leaving.

I’m not leaving.

I’m just terrified she’s going to.

“Daddy, you’re not listening.”

Theo is kneeling on his chair, spaghetti sauce on his chin, holding a piece of squished garlic bread in his fist. I blink back into the kitchen. Blaire’s eyes hit mine, then drop to her own plate.

“Sorry, bud. I’m listening now. What did I miss?”

He launches back in to telling us all about his day. I make the right sounds, nod at the right time, ask the right follow up questions. Blaire sets a cup of water at his elbow and doesn’t look at me while she does it. She’s been like this all evening—present for him, gone for me, like she’s already half out the door, running before I do.

We both just chime in on Theo’s chatter. I cut his pasta. Blaire wipes his hands. I tell him he can have two more bites and then he’s done. The performance of a family that isn’t about to get hit by a truck.

I do bath time while Blaire cleans up after dinner. Theo wants his monster trucks in the bath with him and I don’t have the energy to fight him on it, then he splashes me on purpose and laughs until he snorts. I soap his hair with one hand, keep the cast out of the water with the other.

I get him in pajamas. Teeth. Two books. Blaire tucks him again and kisses his forehead. He falls asleep in the middle of asking if we can have tacos tomorrow.

We linger in the hallway outside his door.

Blaire stands with her arms folded, staring at the floor.

It’s awkward now between us. After so many nights of me rejecting any and all advances from her, so many nights of me avoiding any conversation she tries to start. Neither of us know what to do once Theo’s in bed anymore.

I should have told her Saturday night as soon as I found out. Or Monday after I saw the ultrasound. I should have told her before she spent four days thinking I don’t want her. I shouldn’t have been such a fucking coward.

“Blaire.”