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My heart drops. She’s upset, really upset, and it slices into me like a butcher knife, gutting me. “Where are you, Rory? Tell me, and I’ll come right away.”
“On”—gasp—“my”—gasp—“way”—gasp—“back”—gasp—“from”—gasp—“Grand Junction.”
“What were you doing in Grand Junction?”
“You told me”—gasp—“to see a doctor.”
“Rory, I said we’d go together.”
“You told me to get out. You told me—”
Then a clatter.
Damn! Where is she? God, I hope she pulled over. If she’s crying like that, she shouldn’t be driving.
“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
Rustling. A big sniffle. Then— “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“Oh, but I am. And you’re fine too, Brock. Because you know what? I’m not pregnant.” Big gasp. “You didn’t knock me up. So yeah, we’re both just fine.” Sniffles again. More sobs.
My Rory. My sweetheart. Sadness sweeps through me, and I know what I have to do. I have to get on the road to Grand Junction and find her. I don’t want her to be alone right now.
Together we can deal with the grief.
For it is grief that I’m feeling. Sadness and anguish and pure grief.
For a baby I didn’t know I wanted…until now.
I find Rory still on the side of the road. After getting her into my truck and arranging for someone to transport her car back to her parents’ house, I drive her to my place.
Once inside, I take her in my arms right in the foyer. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing.”
I cup her cheeks. Her eyes and lips are swollen and red, her nose even redder. Still, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Please tell me,” I say. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“When I’m upset, I swim. It helps.”
“I don’t want to go swimming,” she says.
“I didn’t think you would want to. It was just an example. It helps me when I’m upset.”
She doesn’t reply.
I walk her to the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of tea? My mom likes to have a cup of tea when she’s…”
When she’s what? Crying? Sobbing? Just found out she isn’t pregnant?
“No tea,” she says.
Rory stands in the kitchen, leaning against a counter.
