I lean in the doorway and try to picture a crib. A chair that rocks. A room that doesn’t look like it belongs to a lonely bachelor. The image isn’t yet clear in my mind. It’s too much too early.
You’re not doing this alone, I tell whoever I need to convince. Paige. The baby. Myself.
I go back downstairs and pick up the ultrasound strip again. It’s small enough to fit in my wallet. I slip it behind my license, then pull it out. I don’t want it bent or smudged with tip money fingerprints.
The fridge, then. I start for the magnet that’s also a bottle opener, then stop again. Jason’s in and out of my house enough, and even if we have to announce this news eventually, it is not today.
I slide the photos into the narrow drawer where I keep receipts and the good pen nobody else is allowed to touch. It feels wrong to hide them, but it’s what we decided—wait. Give it time. Six weeks is too soon. We need some time to get used to the idea.
Plans. I need plans. Plans are oxygen.
My heart bangs against my ribs like it’s trying to climb out. I go to the sink, look out the window into the late-afternoon light.
I tell myself I am allowed to keep living the life I built and still build a new one around it. The baby doesn’t take away the bar; the bar doesn’t take away the baby.
It’s not an either-or. It’s yes-and.
If there’s a way through this that doesn’t involve burning any of it down, I’ll find it. If I have to take some of it to the studs and start over, I will.
I think about the town. The way word moves here like wind off the river.
Ben Hoffman knocked up Jason Richards’ sister. I can already hear the voices in town. Gossip is free entertainment in a place where winter lasts six months. I can’t stop it. But I don’t have to feed it.
The image of Paige on that paper table hits me with enough force that I have to press my palm to the counter again. Her mouth tight as she held herself together. The way she didn’t let go of my hand until it was time for her to get dressed.
I didn’t deserve to be there, not after the way I handled things, but she let me come anyway.
Darkness slides in through the windows slowly, like a tide. I click the porch light on and step out onto the front steps. The night smells like cut grass and river and the sweet, warm note of someone grilling.
The maples are black against the last of the blue. I sit on the top step with my elbows on my knees.
I picture mid-spring again, and the picture fills itself with things I didn’t think I’d ever let myself imagine: a sling with a smallperson asleep against my chest while I unlock the Pint at 8:00 a.m. for a delivery, a car seat secured in the back of my truck.
I see Gwen’s hands holding a baby, cooing and smothering it in kisses. I see Don showing a kid how to put up a swing on the tree, the way he did for Jason and Paige when they were kids. I see Jason teaching the kid how to play touch football.
And then I see the other version. Paige angry with me. Jason looking at me as if I’ve betrayed him. Gwen and Don shaking their heads at me, telling me I’m no longer welcome in their home.
Both pictures exist. Only one of them will be my reality.
The porch boards cool under me as the night finally takes hold. I look at the front yard, at the perfect line in the grass from yesterday’s mow, at the dark curve of the river through the trees, at a moth banging itself against the porch light.
Headlights roll over the porch, blinding me for a moment. The moths scatter, and a car door clicks. Paige.
I’m on my feet before I think about it. She steps into the pool of porch light, hair pulled up, hoodie zipped, hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket like she’s not sure what to do with them.
For a second, we just look at each other. I can still hear the muted sounds of the doctor’s office, see the flicker on the screen, hear the whooshing of the baby’s heartbeat. Now it’s crickets and the hollow thump of my own pulse.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” My voice comes out low. “Want to… sit?” I gesture at the steps, then call myself an idiot. I can’t do better than porch steps?
She glances past me toward the dark trees. “Actually, can we walk?”
“Sure.” I go into the house and shove my keys in my back pocket before locking up and meeting her at the bottom of the steps.
We don’t head toward town. We cut the other way, down the sidewalk that turns to gravel after three houses and then to the footpath that follows the river.
I’m not right on the water, but I’m close, and the closer we get, the louder it sounds—late-summer full, moving quickly over the rocks. Our shoes scuff.
