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“You weren’t broken up at the time.”
“Minor complication.”
“Right.” I gripped the steering wheel and sniffed, trying to clear my mind so I could walk into my office without everyone inside immediately knowing that my carefully planned life was falling down around me.
I kept my sunglasses on during my trek through the lobby and up to my office, lowering my chin practically to my chest and doing my best to be invisible. I went through email, returned those that were urgent, and just before noon I took a deep breath and pulled up an empty email. I knew I should call. Better yet I should just walk up to Oliver’s office to talk to him. But I couldn’t get past the memory of the way his eyes had gone hard and cold, the way he’d driven away and not looked back. He was so angry with me already. I couldn’t imagine facing him. I pictured that frightening irate man I’d seen throwing a potted plant across the executive reception area that night when I’d first seen him. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those plant throws. And if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to see him like that and know I’d been the cause of it thistime.
I typed.
Oliver,
I’m sorry to reach out this way, but I need to share some information with you. I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. Would you be willing to stop by my place later on your way home? Or I can come to you. Just not at work.
Let me know.
Thanks,
Holland
Short, to the point, hopefully professional. I hit “send” and tried to busy myself with other things, but it turned out to be unnecessary. A response landed in my inbox within minutes.
I’ll stop by at six.
Why did that one line make me feel like crying? I reread it forty times, seeking some hidden bit of emotion, some hint of what he was thinking or feeling, but it wasn’t there. It was one line. Simple and to the point. And now I just had to wait.
By the time Oliver knocked at six, I’d changed into comfortable sweats and worn a path through the cheap thin carpet in my living room pacing back and forth. How was I going to tell him this news? What in the world would he think? First I push him away, now I’m telling him we’re inextricably connected. A thousand different scenarios ran through my mind, and I found it difficult to even decide what it was I hoped for.
The knock pulled me out of my fearful reverie and back to the moment, and I stared at the door for a long second, delaying the inevitable. WhenI finally pulled it open, my heart flew into my mouth. It was the first time I’d seen him since we’d broken up. It had been little more than a week, but it felt like years. I wanted to throw myself into his arms, bury my head in his chest and stay there forever.
Oliver stood in my doorway, his beard less trimmed than normal and hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of nights awake. Despite that, he was as beautiful as he was in every one of my dreams—tall, broad, and handsome. His dark eyes burned as he stood staring at me, not moving.
“Come in,” I said, clearing my throat in an attempt to regain my voice. I stepped back and Oliver strode into my apartment, filling the space with his confident beauty and giving me an odd sense of relief. Having Oliver near me made me feel settled, calmer, but I pushed the feeling away. He wasn’t mine. He never really had been.
Oliver raised an eyebrow, standing in the center of my living room and waiting for me to speak.
“Maybe we could sit down?” I gestured at the couch, my voice still weaker than I would have liked.
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to get comfortable in an employee’s apartment on a Friday evening,” Oliver said, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, which was cool and detached.
I nodded. “I deserved that.” I sat, looking up at him. Maybe he wouldn’t sit, but I didn’t think I’d get through this standing.
“What’s going on, Holland?” His voice softened slightly and I saw a hint of the old Oliver flicker through his darkeyes.
Meeting his gaze after that was an impossibility because I was fighting the urge to just step into his arms, to resume feeling like he was an island of safety discovered in a lonely sea, a place where I was finally at home. I stared at the coffee table instead. “I had a doctor’s appointment today,” I began. “I’d been feeling a little bit . . . off, I guess. Anyway, I went in?—”
Suddenly Oliver was sitting, his knees touching mine and a hand on my shoulder. “Holland,” his voice was broken, gruff.
I met his eyes, relieved to see every ounce of feeling there that I’d extinguished the week before, but no more able to hold that gaze. “I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m not sick.”
He sat back, the hand falling away as a chill raced down my spine. He exhaled.
“I just need to tell you that I’m pregnant,” I said, the words coming in a rush. “I haven’t been with anyone else, and I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m on the pill, I told you that. I guess . . . it’s just . . . sometimes it happens.” I met his gaze once the words were out. I’d done it. It was out. No use being pathetic and afraid of what was inevitable. I watched him, waiting for a reaction.
Oliver’s face darkened and he took a deep quick breath in surprise. Then his eyes widened as he blew it out, staring at something in the distance ahead of him that only he could see. And after a long moment, a tiny smile flew across his face and disappeared as he looked directly at me.
“I think that’s wonderful.” He seemed to be thinking, acrease appearing between his eyebrows. “I’d like to talk about your plans for the baby. Given your reluctance to be linked with me at work, I’m wondering what role I might hope to play here.” The words were formal, but there was a warmth in them that told me he wasn’t upset, wasn’t going to get angry. He did look confused for a second, though, and I held my breath as he stood back up. But then he pulled my tiny giraffe from beneath a pillow where he’d been sitting and gave me a half-grin, putting it on the coffee table and sitting back down.
What role would he play? I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just needed to tell you what was going on.”
