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Just then, my phone lights up. My heart leaps. It’s Greyson.
“Don’t,” Hannah says, but it’s already too late. I’ve picked up.
“Hey,” I say.
“Harley, thank God,” he says. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m… fine.”
“What was that other message about? Why haven’t you been returning my calls? You weren’t feeling well before?”
His questions hit me rapid-fire, and suddenly, a wave of fatigue settles over me again. Oh God, how am I going to tell him?
“I just… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “see me. I’m coming over now.”
“Now now?”
“Yeah, the cab will drop me off in five.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!
“Harley?”
“I just—I don’t think you should come.”
“What the hell should I do, then? You won’t pick up when I call and—what was so urgent anyway?”
“We shouldn’t…” I realize it halfway through saying it, laugh bitterly, “…do this over the phone.”
“Great. Then it’s a good thing I’m almost there now.”
A small, childish part of me wishes that if I stay silent, he’ll go away. Too bad that real life isn’t like that.
“Listen,” Greyson continues reasonably, “I know that I’ve been a dick to you, and I am sorry. But I have to see you. Something’s up, I know it is.”
I say nothing.
“Harley,” he says.
There’s nothing to it. No excuse to make. Nothing to say, except: “OK.”
“Great. I’ll be there in two.” He hangs up.
I rise, feeling Hannah’s worried eyes on me. “He’s almost here now.”
“Oh, Har. Do you want me to send him away again? I know, last time you were asleep, but I can just say that you changed your mind.” She scowls as she rises, hands on her hips. “What the hell is he doing anyway, coming over here at one at night?”
“It’s fine.” I rise, shaking my head. “I have to do this. Better to just get it over with.”
Hannah’s gaze goes incredulous. “In those?”
I look down and, remembering what I’m wearing, laugh. “Guess my moo-moo PJs are as good as anything.”
They are, after all, my comfiest ones, even if they’re covered with peacefully slumbering pink cows and artfully written purple MOOs.
I’m at the door when my phone goes off. It’s Greyson: Here.
We meet outside.
He’s wearing a purple shirt and black pants and of course I want to kiss him. If I didn’t know any better, with the way he’s looking at me, I’d say that he adored me.
His gaze strays to what I’m wearing, and his eyes crinkle. “You look… cute.”
I resist the urge to turn on my heel and hurry to escape. No matter how cute Greyson thinks I look now, what I’m about to tell him will change everything, maybe even his whole view of me.
“Thanks.” I force a chuckle. “Wasn’t exactly expecting company, but these’ll do.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s worried and… holding back. Maybe wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him.
It doesn’t matter.
“There’s a creaky old picnic bench in the back,” I tell him. “We can talk there.”
We sit down at the creaky old picnic bench in the back, look at each other. The sky is cloudy and only one star shows through. The moon is nowhere to be seen. The air is both cool and clammy. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” he says.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” I say.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say, tears coming to my eyes.
This may be the last time we say that to each other. God, everything feels the same and I’m going to ruin it. I have to ruin it.
Jesus, Harley, just tell him. Just get it over with—out with it. Bam, done, finito.
“Listen,” Greyson says, taking both my hands in his, “about what I said, I—”
“I’m pregnant,” I burst out. “It’s yours.”
His hands drop mine. He stares at me, blinks a few times.
All around us, crickets are chirping laughter. A car whizzes somewhere. The air is even cooler, prickly now too.
“Oh,” he finally says.
“I haven’t decided what to do yet,” I say. “Though I’m not sure I could bear…”
I trail off into silence, then more of it.
“Oh,” he finally says again.
He doesn’t have to say any more. His face says it all: shock, puzzlement.
When his eyes finally do meet mine, they’re narrowed. “If you want… compensation, like child support, of course I’ll meet my obligation, but—”
“That’s not what I want,” I say, surprising myself. Up until now, I didn’t know I wanted anything. And yet, even though what I want is impossible, even though saying it aloud will only drive him farther from me, I finally know what it is I want.
I look him straight in the eyes and say it: “I want you to own up publicly. To our affair—and our baby.”
He blinks. His mouth falls open. Just then, at his moment of utter rejection, he looks almost painfully beautiful: sculpted cheeks, tousled hair, dark eyes. He looks away.
