Page 113 of Say My Name

“From what?”

I don’t answer.

Dominic steps back, giving me more space when I’m the one refusing to look at him.

He shakes his head, a small, tired movement. “I’m not demanding a relationship. I’m asking you to stop pretending desire only exists when you can call it productive.”

I finally meet his eyes.

He looks unguardedly hurt, and I’m the one who caused it. I have taken every personal choice he has made and translated it into a service that supports my plan.

I want to cross the room and touch him. I stay where I am.

“We should go home,” I say, because if I touch him now, I won’t be able to stop.

Dominic’s face closes off.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t argue. That makes leaving worse.

At home, I open the contract on my laptop and scroll to the section addressing emotional expectations.

Neither party is obligated to enter, maintain, or pursue a romantic relationship with the other as a condition of conception, pregnancy, or co-parenting.

The clause is still accurate. Dominic didn’t ask me to revise it. He didn’t ask for a promise, a shared home, or any declaration I’m not prepared to make.

He asked whether I want him.

I close the contract and open a blank document.

Post-Conception Co-Parenting Plan appears at the top. The title sounds responsible, which helps for thirty seconds.

I begin with the easiest part.

Following a confirmed pregnancy, Dominic and I will maintain separate residences and independent personal lives.

I read the sentence twice.

Maintain is wrong. Our lives aren’t separate now. We work across a hallway from each other, speak most nights, and know details that have nothing to do with conception. He knows when I haven’t eaten. I know when a pause means he’s angry and when it means I hurt him.

I replace maintain with return to.

That’s worse.

There is no place to return to. Dominic has been part of my daily life for four years. The arrangement changed the hours we share and the future we’re planning, but he was already there.

I delete the sentence.

Medical appointments will be divided according to availability.

I picture Dominic in an exam room, asking the doctor the questions I forget because I’m nervous. He would bring a notebook. He would read every test result himself and pretend he wasn’t worried until we were alone.

I change divided to coordinated, stare at it, then delete the whole paragraph.

My phone vibrates beside the laptop.

Dominic: Did you eat?