I steer my truck up the winding, snow-dusted road that leads into town. It’s as though I’m in my personal driveway—I feel like the whole town is my home. Even though I’m tired from the long trip, I have a stop to make before I can go home, shower, and crawl into my familiar, cozy bed.

I turn onto Colfax and then into my parents’ driveway. My dad’s truck isn’t there, but my mom’s sedan is. Right, It’s Friday afternoon. My dad is at work.

I don’t bother knocking, and call out my hellos as I walk to the kitchen. My mom’s there, lining a pie plate with a patchwork of dough. She wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron and then meets me in the middle of the kitchen for a hug.

“Honey! It’s so good to see you!”

“Mom, I am so sorry for leaving town without telling you and Dad.”

“Oh, sugar. Dawn filled us in. She said that you were safe and sound.” I wait for her to ask me where I went, but she doesn’t. Instead, she holds me out to arms distance, and looks me over. “Are you all right? That wasn’t like you.”

“I’m okay,” I say. “I can’t stay long. I’m exhausted.”

“Are you sure?” My mom travels to the kitchen cupboard and removes two glasses. She fills each with lemonade, even though I’ve already said I can’t stay. She won’t ask me where I was, but the question is implied.

“I just had to get out of town for a while.” I accept the glass, and gulp down some juice. I’m not ready to tell her about the pregnancy. I still don’t know what Jabir will do. How involved will he be? Will I have to tell my parents that I’m going to be a single mother? I don’t want to have the conversation without knowing more from Jabir.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back.” she says. “You’re allowed your privacy, Teresa honey. You’re a grown adult. But I want you to know that if there’s ever anything you need—anything that I can help you with—I’m right here for you. You just tell me what I can do to help, and I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I set down the half-full glass and go to her for a second hug. She pats my back. I almost cry, it feels so good to hug her and hear her words. I feel myself collapse into her, letting her hold me up. She moves her hand to my hair and smooths it out.

“Thanks,” I whisper again.

“Of course, honey. That’s what moms are for,” she says.

I stand up straighter. “I better be getting home.”

Before I leave, she fills my arms with Tupperware full of leftovers.

When I get home, my cottage looks so small, compared to the expansive, luxurious hotel room I’ve occupied for the past five days. I shower and flop down on my bed, wondering what Jabir will think, when he realizes that I’m gone.

After waiting day after day for him to inform me of his decision, I’d sketched, eaten, napped and seen the sights of Dalai, but I hadn’t seen Jabir again. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called and requested an earlier flight home, and checked out of the fancy hotel.

I did what I could. I delivered my news in person.

Crawling under my plaid comforter, I glance over at my sketch of Jabir. “The rest is up to you,” I whisper aloud, and then I click off the light.

* * *

Two days later, I return to work at the inn. Dawn’s sciatica is mercifully absent, and she’s back to her usual bustling self. “You take the desk today, dear,” she instructs me. “I’ll clean the rooms. It’s so good to have you back!”

She’s said this at least ten times since I arrived back in town, and each time I respond in the same way. I smile. “It’s good to be back.”

She winks at me. I haven’t offered any more news about my pregnancy, and she’s been sensitive enough not to ask.

The desk is dusty. I seem to be the compulsive duster around here, and in my absence the mites have had a field day. I take out the feather duster and begin sweeping it methodically back and forth.

As soon as the desk is sparkling again, I move out to the lobby, and then the sitting area. I’m just finishing with the mantel over the fire in the sitting room, when the jangle of bells alerts me to a visitor. I turn, a smile already in place, ready to welcome in a wandering tourist.

My smile fades. “Jabir?”

“Teresa!” He’s stopped, just inside the doorway. My arm is frozen midair, the feather duster pointed at nothing. We stare at each other.

I see that his breath is rapid and shallow. His chest rises and falls quickly. He’s nervous.

I step forward, just two steps. I lay the feather duster down on the small table beside one armchair. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“You left,” he says. “You left without saying goodbye.” He’s not walking towards me. I stop too.

“I had to,” I say. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I thought you would visit me after a day or two, tops. But after four days in that hotel… Jabir, I couldn’t just keep on hanging around.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Sorry, for making me wait? Sorry for not being excited about our child? Sorry that any of this is happening in the first place?

“What am I supposed to say?” I ask.

I’m rooted to the spot. I can’t move.

He starts walking towards me, slowly. “Be honest,” he says. I remember saying those words to him. He repeats more of my words back to me: “I came all this way, so that we could communicate.” He’s closer now, just ten feet away from me. “Tell me what you’re thinking…about this. Tell me how you feel.”

I place my hands protectively over my abdomen. “I want to have this child,” I say, my voice hushed, suddenly afraid that he’s going to offer me hush money or ask me to put the child up for adoption. “I want to raise this baby,” I say. “I think I’ll be a good mother.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay? What do you mean by that?!” My voice has an edge of frustration to it, and it rises up, bouncing around the walls of the lobby. My eyes are locked on his. He steps closer. There are only five feet between us now.

“I mean, okay. I’m with you. I want to help you with this pregnancy. I want to be here for you. And you’re not just going to be a ‘good’ mother. You’re going to be an amazing mother.” He continues to step closer as he speaks, and soon he’s right in front of me.

Relief floods me with his words. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he leans down and kisses me.

I’m still not used to this—kissing him on the lips—and I feel some shock as we embrace. But soon my body remembers what his feels like, and my lips find a natural thirst for his.

After a moment, he pulls his lips away. His arms are still wrapped around me. He tilts his forehead down, until it’s resting against mine. His deep, gold-flecked chestnut eyes stare into me. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

I feel his strong hands against my lower back. I feel his breath tickle my eyelashes. I swear, I can feel blood flowing through his veins at the points where his wrists rest against my hips.

Instead of speaking, I push myself up onto my tiptoes, and find his lips with my own.

As we part, he speaks again. “I’m going to make everything right, Teresa. You’ll see. I don’t know how, but I will. Our child will want for nothing.”

‘Our child’. His words make my heart leap with joy.

“I plan on staying in New Hampstead,” he says. “While we figure things out.”

My heart, already bursting with joy, gives one more elated eruption. “Oh Jabir!” I say. “This makes me so happy!”

For the first time, his lips expand into a wide grin, and then a full smile. It’s the smile I’ve worked out so carefully on the page in my sketch—the carefree one that makes him look as gleeful as kid on Christmas morning. “Me, too!” he says. “Me too.”

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Jabir and I get into a wonderful routine. He’s staying with me at the cottage, and when I go off to work, he sets up a little office in my living room. Sometimes, he has to drive off to Illinois, or one of the other factories that Canarra owns, for a few days at a time. But for the most part, he’s with me.

In the evenings, we cook together. And then, at night, the living room transforms from an office to a bedroom. He takes the back cushions off of the couch, and spreads a sheet over the bottom cushions to make a bed.

This morning, when I come out from the back bedroom, my hair still a sleepy mess, I see that he’s already tidied up his bed, but his laptop and file folders aren’t out like they usually are.

The whole cabin smells like coffee. I stifle a yawn. “You’re up early!” I note as I shuffle to the cupboards to grab a mug.

“It’s February twenty-seventh,” he says. “You know what that means!”

“I do?” I fill the mug with coffee, searching my foggy morning brain for the meaning behind the date. “Is it something to do with leap years?”

He laughs. “No! It’s your three-month check up!”

I look at the fridge, on which Jabir has posted a detailed schedule of all of the baby appointments. He has also printed and laminated a list of all of the vitamins and nutrients I should be eating every day, and how much water I should be drinking.

“First second trimester appointment with Dr. Newton” I read. “Eleven o’clock.”

“That’s right!” Jabir comes up behind me, and wraps me in a light hug.

I balance my coffee long enough to set it down on the countertop. Then I turn, so that I’m facing him. I return the hug, only this time, without the coffee in my hands, it’s not light. I press my body against his, and tilt my chin up. He delivers a good morning kiss.

We’ve been doing that a lot lately. I’m thousands of kisses in, but each one feels as new and exciting as our first kiss, under the moonlight.

He smooths one of my tangled blond curls away from my face. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he says softly.

“Good morning, Mr. Moon.” Early on in his stay, Jabir told me that my blond hair reminded him of rays of sunlight. It only seemed appropriate to balance his nickname with one of my own.

“Any nausea this morning?” he asks.

“A little.”

“If I cook you breakfast, would you eat some? Or do you want to go out?”

“Breakfast sounds good. Let’s eat here.”

“Okay.” He kisses me again, and then releases me. I scoop up my coffee cup and take a sip.

I glance over at the couch, and before I know what I’m saying, the words spill out: “Aren’t you getting tired of that couch?” I ask. “It’s so short! You can’t even stretch out.”

I stop talking abruptly, and I feel my eyes grow wide as I realize what I’ve just said. If Jabir didn’t sleep on the couch, where would he sleep? In the bed, with me.

We haven’t talked about the night that we slept together, though it seems like we’ve talked about everything else under the sun since he arrived three weeks ago. I glance over at Jabir. He’s squatting down to a low cabinet. He’s paused his search for a frying pan. His back muscles look tense, and his shoulders are stiff.

“It’ll have to do…for now,” he says. Then, he starts moving again. He reaches for a frying pan, stands, and sets it carefully on the stove top.

For now? What does that mean?

Either that he hopes to one day lie his head down next to mine on the bed, or that he’s planning on leaving soon. Considering these two very different options makes me feel an ache in the pit of my stomach.

I still don’t know how long Jabir plans on staying. All I know is that it is good to have him here. Really good.

I decide not to say anything else on the matter for the moment, and instead start setting the table for breakfast.

I hear Jabir crack several eggs against the pan, and then the sizzling sound of frying eggs takes the edge off of our tense silence. The smell of toast and frying eggs mingles with the scent of coffee, and ten minutes later Jabir places a plate of food in front of me.

“You spoil me,” I say, grinning.

“You deserve to be spoiled.” He plants a kiss on my forehead, before asking if I want juice or water.

“Juice sounds good. Do you have the day off, then?” I ask, dragging my knife across the top of the egg’s yoke until gooey yellow goodness drips down over my golden-brown toast.

“Yes,” he says. “All day. I thought, after the appointment, maybe we could drive down to Melrose? You’re going to need some real maternity clothes soon. I saw that there are some good stores there.”

“I’ll have to get things that are a little dressy. Dawn likes me to wear button-up shirts or blouses when I’m stationed at the front desk.”

“Well…about that…” Jabir sets a glass of orange juice down beside my plate and then brings his own plate to his seat, across from me. “I’ve been thinking about your work at the inn. Now that you’re entering your second trimester, I’ve been reading that it’s best to get light activity, mixed in with periods of rest. You’ll need to be careful of your lower back, so that you don’t pinch nerves or put stress on the baby.”

“At the front desk, I sit a lot.”

He shakes his head. “That position is not good for long hours.”

“Then I’ll ask Dawn if I could switch to cleaning duties.”

“And be around all those chemicals?” He shakes his head again. “Do you like working at the inn, Teresa?” he asks, setting down his utensils and looking at me.

I shrug. “That doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Yes, it does. Do you like it?”

“I work there because I have to pay bills, Jabir, not because I enjoy it. If it was up to me, I’d sketch all day, spend time in nature, spend time with you…” My voice drifts off as I imagine how peaceful it would be.

“Well then, quit,” Jabir says. His tone is one of finality, as if the whole thing is settled.

“Just like that? Quit?”

“Why not? Teresa, I have plenty of money for both of us. You don’t have to worry about the bills. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll make sure you have more than enough. And you’ll get to eat whenever you feel hungry, rest whenever you feel tired, and be as creative as you want to be. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Yes, but…” I’m thinking about my security, my safety, my bank account. I’m thinking about my future. I have to protect myself. Jabir’s here today, promising to meet my needs., but what if he’s gone tomorrow?

The thought makes my throat go dry. I can’t meet Jabir’s eye. I lift my glass, and take a hasty swallow.

“It’s all right,” he says. “You don’t have to be scared.”

It’s like he read my mind! I lift my eyes, and look at him. “Do you promise?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I hesitate. My heart is still pounding. But there he is, sitting in front of me, so solid and sure. Yes, I’m still filled with uncertainty about our future. But he’s here now, isn’t he? And he’s promising to take care of me. I want to let him.

“Okay,” I say, feeling for all the world that I’m taking the first step out onto a tightrope that’s stretched between two ledges. Leaving the inn will feel like leaving the only security I’ve known for the past ten years—a steady paycheck that puts food in my mouth and a roof over my head. But out there, across the gaping cavern of unknowns, I see the shimmering possibility of a brighter future. I have to trust him.

“Good,” he says. “How about we leave here around ten, then? That will give us some time to stop at the inn before your appointment, so that you can talk to Dawn.”

“Ten it is,” I say. There’s a definite quiver in my voice.

“You won’t regret this,” Jabir promises.

I hope he’s right.