HANNAH

Ten days went by. Ten joyless, colorless days during which I only dragged myself out of bed for Abby’s sake. She was all I had, and even though every morning was worse than the one before, I forced myself to get up, get dressed, and put on a smile.

But she was no fool. The first Sunday night after we broke up, she asked why we hadn’t seen him all weekend. I said it was because he was busy.

“Are you still good friends?” She looked at me expectantly across the dinner table.

“We are, in a way. We’re just not able to spend as much time together as before.” I pushed some food around on my plate, but had no desire to eat it. In fact, I was vaguely nauseated by the sight of it.

“Can he still be my special person at school?”

“I don’t know, Abby.”

“But my day is coming up.”

“I’m aware of that.” I’d seen the note from Mrs. Lowry in her backpack on Friday when she got home, and instead of dealing with it then, I’d stuck it on the fridge with a magnet right next to the picture Hannah had colored of her family. Then I’d ignored it for two days. “I’m just not sure he can be there.”

“But he said.”

“I know. But he’s—he’s busy.”

“He promised!”

“Sometimes promises get broken!” I got up from the table and angrily scraped my dinner into the garbage as she wept, feeling sick and tired and guilty and overwhelmed with everything. Closing my eyes, I exhaled. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ll ask him about it, okay?”

She didn’t answer, just continued to blubber into her spaghetti, making me feel more than ever like I wasn’t enough. I cried myself to sleep that night, making sure to do it silently so Abby wouldn’t hear me.

I cried for the girl he’d fallen in love with back then, when I’d worn a shirt with a pineapple on it and smiled with my whole heart and wanted to fall in love. For Abby, who deserved a better mom than me, who deserved two parents and a happy home, who deserved a life of promises kept. And for myself, for the pain of missing Wes, for the life the two of us could have shared, and for the crushing doubt that continued to smother me. I was choking on it.

But why? Why couldn’t I be sure I’d done the right thing? Where was the relief I thought I’d find in certainty, in knowing I’d protected myself and my child from heartbreak? How was I going to get through the pain of losing him if I didn’t have that conviction?

Wednesday night I went to Wine with Widows and couldn’t even talk when it was my turn. Tess asked how I was, and all I could do was shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. They didn’t push me, but each of them let me know she was there for me if I needed someone to talk to.

The next night, Margot called. She and Georgia had taken to checking in with me every couple days. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. Or trying to be.”

“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Has he reached out to you or anything?”

“No. I’m sure he’s trying to get over me, just like I’m trying to get over him. It’s the only thing we can do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

But it was a lie. I wasn’t sure of anything but how miserable I was without him. A thousand times I’d picked up my phone to call him, like I’d promised Abby I would, but every time, I remembered how much it hurt seeing him sitting next to that woman at the bar, and I’d set it down again.

Maybe it had all been a ploy orchestrated by Lenore, but Wes had played a role, hadn’t he? He’d stayed when he should have gone. That proved something.

What, that he’s a nice guy?

No! My stubborn side refused to give in. He should have said no to Lenore about the birthday dinner and no to a drink with that bitch who couldn’t even look me in the eye.

I wouldn’t call him. If I heard his voice, I might crumble.

Saturday at work, Georgia asked the same thing. “Have you heard from Wes?”

Just the sound of his name being spoken made my chest hurt. I wanted to say it out loud, wanted to whisper it in the dark. “No.”

“Pete says he’s miserable. Did you know he moved out of his mom’s house the night you broke up?”

I stopped what I was doing and stared at her. “No. Where did he go?”

“He stayed at a bed and breakfast for a few days, but now he’s in his new house.”

“He is?” I remembered walking through those empty rooms with him, how hopeful we’d been then. He’d asked for my help with the kitchen and I wouldn’t be around to give it.

Let Lenore help him. He deserves her hovering.

Even so, it didn’t make me feel any better.

I hadn’t heard from Lenore, either. No invitations to dinner, no requests for Abby to spend the night, and certainly no apology. I wasn’t planning on forbidding her to spend time with Abby, but hell if I’d go out of my way to arrange it. If she wanted to see her granddaughter, she could damn well put aside her pride and call me.

After work that day, I got in the car and drove past his new house very slowly, so slowly the car behind me honked, and I sped up.

Stop it. You’re being ridiculous, acting like a teenager spying on her ex-boyfriend. This is beneath you.

Abby asked again that night at bedtime if I’d heard back from him.

“Not yet,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t even asked him yet.

“But this is my week. He has to come on Friday.” She looked up at me despairingly. “Can I try to call him?”

“No. I’ll—I’ll do it.”

But I put it off another day.

On Sunday night, after I put Abby to bed, I sat down on my bed and worked up the courage to text him.

Are you available Friday morning? That’s Abby’s day to have her special person at school. I understand if you don’t want to or if you’re unavailable.

Then I sat there holding my breath while those three little dots tortured me. He’s reading it. He’s writing back.

Was he at his house? Was he working on it? Was he looking at the lake? Was he standing in the kitchen? Did he miss me like I missed him? Like a piece of his heart was gone? Was he lonely at night? Did he wish he could hold me?

Those three fucking dots went blurry, and I sniffed. God, I was sick of crying. I’d always been emotional, but the last couple weeks had been insane. I felt like I was fighting off tears at every little thing, whether it merited them or not. A baby picture of Abby on the mantle. My wedding ring tucked in its velvet box. A dead bird on the sidewalk out front. A silly Sandra Bullock movie on cable one night. (Although, in my defense, it was the one where she fell in love with the guy’s brother while he was in a coma.)

His reply appeared. I still couldn’t breathe.

Of course I am. I promised her I’d be there.

That’s it? That’s all he had to say to me?

What did you expect him to say? He pretty much laid everything out for you ten days ago on the street, didn’t he?

I exhaled in a huff. And since when did he decide he kept his promises?

Another message appeared.

Just let me know the time and location. Tell Abby I can’t wait to see her. I miss her.

What about me? I was dying to ask him. Don’t you miss me? It was petty and unfair to be jealous of his words about my daughter, but I was.

As if he could hear me, a third message popped up.

I miss you too. I think of you every day. And I still love you.

My stomach fluttered. My breath caught. A chill swept up my spine. I touched the reply box as a war raged between my head and my heart. I wanted to say it back. I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. I wanted him to drop everything and rush over here and make everything better.

But I wanted to punish him, too. For loving me. For making me love him. For showing me that I could be happy again, if only I wasn’t so terrified.

11 AM on Friday morning. She is in Mrs. Lowry’s room. You have to sign in at the office.

He wrote back, asking, Will you be there?

Of course, I started to cry. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I replied, I think it’s better if I’m not.

Then, before I completely broke down and begged him to take me back, I went over to my dresser, shoved my phone into a drawer, and slammed it shut.

I stood there sobbing for a moment before I crawled into bed without even bothering to undress.

How was I going to get through this?

* * *

The next morning, I rolled over in bed to shut off my alarm and winced. My breasts were sore. Had they been that sore yesterday? What was the date? When my foggy head cleared enough to remember what day it was, it made sense. I was due for a period today or tomorrow.

I sat up, and the room spun a little. Jesus. I need to get more sleep.

When the dizziness passed, I got out of bed and went into Abby’s room to wake her. My body felt foreign and heavy, like my bones were made of iron. I was exhausted beyond belief.

Abby was thrilled to hear that Wes would be there Friday morning, and went to school with a smile on her face. At home, I tried to work up the energy to shower or eat something or even turn on the television, but I couldn’t. Instead, I went back to bed and napped for three hours.

The next few days were more of the same. Crying jags. Overwhelming exhaustion. Occasional dizziness. Sore breasts. And I didn’t get my period.

I made up all kinds of reasons.

My body was rebelling against too little sleep. (Except all I was doing these days was napping.)

I was wrong about the dates. (Except I wasn’t—I remembered the first day of my last period with sterling clarity because it was the day after the hallway sex.)

I was just having an abnormally long cycle this month. (Except it would be the first time in years that it was longer than thirty days.)

All the emotional upheaval had disrupted my cycle.

This seemed like the most likely explanation, and I let it give me peace of mind for exactly five minutes Friday morning before I panicked and went to the drugstore for a test.

I drove into Port Huron because I didn’t want to risk seeing someone I knew. Back at home an hour later, I stood in the bathroom with the box in my hand, staring at myself in the mirror.

What was I going to do if I was pregnant?

But I couldn’t be. We’d been careful, hadn’t we? At least mostly? What were the chances?

My heart was pounding. Taking a deep breath, I opened the box and took the test.

Two minutes. Two minutes that would potentially change my life forever. I closed my eyes and began slowly counting off the seconds, concentrating on each number rather than on what the result might be. At one hundred twenty, I opened my eyes.

Positive.

Incredibly, my first reaction was pure, unadulterated joy.

Oh my God! I’m having a baby!

Five seconds later was a different story.

Oh. My. God. I’m having a baby.

I stared at myself in the mirror almost like my reflection was someone else. I brought a hand to my stomach. What the hell was I going to do?

Immediately, I sensed another presence in the room. I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. But somehow I knew I wasn’t alone.

“Drew,” I whispered. “Help me. What do I do?”

You know what to do, sweetheart.

“I don’t. I’ve made such a mess of everything.”

You’ll be okay. You’ll be more than okay. You’ll be happy.

“How can you be sure?”

Because I can see it from here. Life goes on for you, Hannah. Life goes on with Wes.

I closed my eyes, and they filled with tears. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to feel like everything would be okay. I wanted love to win. But I just didn’t know how to get there. All the same problems still existed for us. All the same obstacles were still in the way. “Help us,” I whispered. “Help us get this right.”

I didn’t hear anything, and when I opened my eyes, I knew he was gone. I was alone again. Immediately, I took the second test in the box to make sure the first one hadn’t been a fluke, but the result was the same.

I was pregnant. With Wes’s child.

The first thing I had to do was tell him.

I checked the time—it was nearly eleven. He’d be at Abby’s school. Without even thinking about what I was going to say, I got in the car and drove there.