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I thought back to the way that she had announced the pregnancy to me. She hadn't wanted to come right out and tell me that I was going to be a dad. Instead, she had held me at arm's length, as though I was just the father of the baby and nothing more. As though I might have been the one who had gotten her pregnant, but now I was just her doctor, someone she was telling about her pregnancy because she had to.
I hated that she might think of it like that: that she might want to let me know that the baby was mine but not want me to have anything to do with it other than making sure that she and the baby were healthy. If the kid was mine, I wanted more than that.
But I had to admit. I didn't have the best track record for showing Olivia how much I cared about her and how much I wanted to be involved in her life. She had latched on to the idea that what we were doing was casual, but I had been the one to start that conversation. I had been the one who failed to contact her after we'd had sex, not knowing how to proceed. Sure, I'd been working through the pain of losing Emily, but it had to look to Olivia like I'd just been jerking her around.
For all she knew, that's what I would continue to do when it came to her and the baby. I hadn't shown her that she could rely on me to be there.
I swallowed hard, feeling like an ass. But I had to keep reminding myself that she had slept with someone else, that she must have slept with Buck. That this must be his baby, rather than mine.
And so the question remained: could I raise another man's child as my own?
The question kept bouncing around and around in my head, but I couldn't seem to find an answer to that question. It was a long time before I managed to join Olivia in sleep.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Olivia
When I woke up on Saturday morning, I could smell coffee and bacon cooking, and I blinked, scrunching up my nose and assuming that I must still be dreaming. But when I opened my eyes, the scent was still there, and I spared a moment to wonder what was going on.
As I rubbed my gritty eyes, though, I remembered all the crying that I had done the previous night.
Mom.
I felt my heart constrict, but I refused to keep crying over her. She had made her peace with her decision, and it was time for me to make my peace with it as well. I felt bad saying that she didn't deserve my tears, but there was a part of me that felt that way. After all, she could have tried to fight the cancer, to prolong her life. It had been her choice to die when she had.
I knew that that anger would get me nowhere, though. And abstractly, I knew that I wasn't really mad at her, I was just going through the grieving process. I had studied that my freshman year in Psychology 101, a mandatory class for all liberal arts majors.
I pushed thoughts of the stages of grief out of my head and decided to make my way downstairs to investigate the smells coming from the kitchen. It was a little too warm for the flannel pajamas, but I didn't want to take them off when they were so soft against my skin. Plus, part of me could still remember the care with which Eric had bundled me into them.
I blushed, remembering the way he had undressed me and helped me into a bath, then helped me out of the bath and into bed. I had a vague memory of him lying there in bed holding me, too, but I didn't think that that had happened. It had probably just been a dream, one born out of the sadness and loneliness that I'd been feeling.
When I came down into the kitchen, though, there was Eric, frying up eggs and bacon on the stove and singing along softly to the radio.
“What are you doing here?” I asked stupidly, unable to help myself. I knew that he had been there the previous night, but I would have expected him to be back home with Emma by now.
Eric jumped, clearly not having heard me come downstairs, and gave me a sheepish smile. “Good morning,” he said, nodding me toward the table, where he'd already set out cutlery, placemats, and two glasses of orange juice. “I know you weren't really up to eating last night, but I was hoping you could try to get some food in you this morning. It may not feel like it, but it'll help.”
I remembered what he had said the previous night at the hospital, about how he had gone through this same thing with his former wife. I took his words at face value and sat down at the table.
“Thanks for cooking breakfast,” I told him softly as he poured me a steaming mug of coffee.
“Of course,” Eric said gently. He looked like he wanted to add something, but whatever it was, it didn't leave his mouth. Instead, he filled a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast and set it down in front of me. “I hope you don't mind that I'll be joining you?”
I shook my head; it wasn't as though I could protest when he was the one who had made the breakfast. And besides, why would I? I had to appreciate him taking care of me like this. I wondered if someone had done this for him when Emily had died, but I didn't know how to ask that question.
So many things about him that are still a mystery, I mused.
I supposed that he and Helen had had one another when Emily had died. And Eric had also had Emma to watch out for. He probably hadn't been able to go to pieces, because he'd had her to focus all his energies on. I couldn't imagine how difficult that must have been for him, and I shook my head, marveling at him for a moment as he made himself a plate of food and sat down across from me. As he turned a quizzical look toward me, I hurriedly looked down at my plate. But thinking about them took my mind off thinking of my mother for a moment, and I was grateful for that.
I took a bite of the eggs, realizing I was hungry. I hadn't eaten the previous night: my dinner with Mom had been interrupted by taking her to the hospital, and I remembered not having the energy to eat the sandwich that Eric had made for me. Again, I appreciated his effort, though.
It was hard to swallow past the lump in my throat, but I made a brave attempt at it, thinking over how strangely domestic this all was. What's more, I liked this. Even after I had realized that I was pregnant with Eric's child, I hadn't allowed myself t
o think about what things would be like if we put together a real family, him and Emma and myself and the new baby. Our new baby.
The trouble was, if he didn't want to have a part of this baby's life, it only hurt me more to think of what could have been.
I forced myself to keep eating, knowing that he wasn't going to let me get away with not eating anything. I was hungry. It was just hard to eat. After a few bites, I picked up the mug of coffee, holding it between my hands in an attempt to warm them. “Did you stay here for the whole night?” I couldn't help asking.
