I winced. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy to accept.”
“No. It’s fucking hard.” He paused, tipped his beer to his mouth, and then looked at James again. “But good things are worth the hard.”
Feeling our eyes on them, they looked up. Steven’s lips moved, and James nodded. They headed back to us.
I stood. Steven’s arm wrapped around my waist like I was a missing limb. I glanced from his face to hers, trying to get a read on how things were between them. “Should we get going?” I asked hesitantly.
Steven looked to James, who looked to Adam and then back to me. She smiled.
“Stay awhile,” she said.
33
CHLOE
Pregnancy Week 22:Radish is the size of a carrot
Gabe
Chloe? Is everything ok?
Chloe
You’re alive?? JFC, Gabe. You scared me.
Gabe
I’m fine. Better than fine. It’s a long story. What’s with the crazy texts?
Chloe
Right. We need to talk.
Gabe
Like on the phone?
Chloe
Unless you’re going to be in Aspen Springs anytime soon, yes.
Gabe
Give me an hour. I’ll call you.
The hazy,lazy week between Christmas and New Years was my favorite. No social events, no work, no rules. I spent the afternoons sprawled on the couch with a plate of cookies and apple slices balanced on my increasingly pronounced baby bump, a book open but mostly unread next to me, a crackling fire in the fireplace because Steven knew I loved a good fire, wearing nothing but a soft sports bra and itty bitty sleeping shorts because baby plus fire meant I was too hot.Bliss.
Gabe’s texts popping up on one such afternoon felt entirely surreal. I considered putting on proper clothes for the very adult conversation we were about to have, but then decided against it. It wasn’t like he could see me over the phone. Anyway, my skin felt too itchy for clothes.
He called an hour later exactly like he said he would, which only surprised me because Gabe had never been known for being punctual.
“Chloe? Are you okay?” he asked straight off when I picked up, concern evident in his voice.
It was a reminder that Gabe wasn’t a bad guy. He might not be the love of my life—scratch that, he definitely was not—but we’d had some good times together. There were worse people to co-parent with.
“I’m good,” I said, and meant it. “Better than good, actually. I’m pregnant.”
There was a brief pause, and then “Oh, shit. Listen, I’m happy for you. Really. You don’t have to worry about me. Whoever the guy is, I’m happy for him, too. You and me, we were never officially together, so you don’t have to officially break up with me. I get it. In fact?—”
