What if this tiny cluster of cells inside me is half him and half me? What if it has his blue eyes and my stubborn chin and also pieces wholly its own?
I know it’s selfish.
But I can’t stop imagining it: calling Caleb, hearing his voice for the first time in months, and then sayingI’m pregnantandit’s yours.
Would he be angry? Devastated? Or would something in those blue eyes soften with that careful tenderness of his?
He’d want to be involved. I know that much. Caleb Graham doesn’t do anything halfway—not his color-coded schedules, not his rules, and most certainly not his love.
If this baby is his, he’d want to be there as a real father.
And Helen.
God, Helen.
A grandchild could give her something even more to fight for while she’s battling chemo and grief over Silas being in prison because of me.
I’ve tried everything to find out how she’s doing—created a fake Facebook account and sent a friend request that’s been sitting in a pending folder for three weeks now. Her page is locked down private. No recent posts visible. No updates.
Caleb’s Instagram went dark the week after I left. His last post is from before everything exploded—a photo of him and Helen at some charity gala, her in a blue dress that matches his tie, both of them smiling like the perfect mother-son duo they are.
Were.
Before I wrecked it all.
I check Facebook for the hundredth time today. Still nothing. The friend request just sits there, pending.
“What’s up?” Z’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t hear him come in from his shift.
I click the phone screen off too fast. “Just… looking at random stuff.”
But Z’s gaze is sharp as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it toward the laundry pile in the corner of our tiny room. The muscles in his shoulders flex as he moves. He’s gotten stronger in the two-and-a-half months we’ve been here, all the physical labor from the kitchen filling him out.
He’s beautiful. He always has been.
So why do I still see Caleb’s face when I close my eyes?
“You know you can’t call him, right?” Z says it gently, but there’s steel underneath. “Even if—” he stops. Swallows. “Even if it’s his, he made it clear. He let you go.”
God, I’m so fucking transparent, aren’t I? I’m embarrassed he still knows I’m pining for my ex when we’re living in the same room and sleeping in the same bed…
“I know.” My voice comes out small.
Z crosses to the bed and sits beside me. His hand finds mine, and I let him hold it even though his touch feels wrong. Too rough. They aren’t Caleb’s careful fingers that used to trace patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me.
“Whatever you decide,” Z says, his voice going soft, “I’m here. If you want to keep it, I’ll step up. If you want to…you know—if you need to go to the clinic, I’ll take you. I’ll hold your hand through the whole thing.”
He would. I know he would.
Z has been nothing but supportive since we found out—working extra hours, talking about getting us a better place “just in case,” never once pressuring me or making me feel like shit for not being able to decide.
He’s everything a girl could ask for.
But he’s not?—
God,I’mthe piece of shit.
But Z just isn’tCaleb.