Page 90 of Say My Name

“You wanted sex. Pregnancy was never likely that night, and you knew it.”

I flinch. He sees it and stops several feet away.

His voice softens, but the question doesn’t. “Why couldn’t you tell me you wanted me there without making conception the reason?”

I turn toward the windows. The city is washed pale by the late-morning glare, and my reflection in the glass looks composed enough to fool anyone outside this office.

Dominic has never been anyone outside this office.

I look at the floor. “Because wanting you was easy until I had to ask. On the phone, I could ask you to come over. Then you asked what changed, and I realized my only reason was that I wanted you.”

“That was a reason.”

“It didn’t feel like enough.”

“For me?”

I shake my head. “For me.”

He takes one step closer. “Explain that.”

“I had a clinic appointment on the calendar. We had already agreed to another procedure. Calling you eleven days early just because a phone call left me turned on wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“The contract allows us to change the method together.”

“The contract also gives me somewhere to put this.” I gesture between us, frustrated that I can argue billion-dollar projections in front of a hostile board and still can’t say one simple thing to him without turning it into policy. “If we’re having sex to conceive, I know what that is.” My voice sounds clinical, a last defense. “It has a purpose. It has boundaries. I don’t have to wonder what it means that I wanted you in my bed without a medical reason.”

Dominic’s mouth tightens. “You would rather lie about your body than admit you wanted me.”

I flinch at the blunt wording. He meant me to.

I lift my chin. “I wasn’t trying to trick you into sex.”

“I know.”

His answer comes so quickly that I look at him.

“I’m not angry that you wanted me.” He holds my gaze. “I’m not even angry that you changed your mind about waiting for the clinic. I’m trying to understand why you thought desire needed a better justification than desire.”

I fold my arms, then drop them because the movement feels defensive and I am already losing this argument on the facts. “I spent years building a life that doesn’t depend on wanting someone who can leave.”

His mouth parts as if to say something, then snaps shut. A flicker of hurt crosses his face before his composure returns, and the fact that he tries to hide it makes my words feel like a physical blow.

“I’m already part of the plan for the rest of your life.” His voice is flat. “We’re trying to have a child.”

“A child comes with responsibilities we can define.”

“And I don’t.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“It’s close.” His voice is quiet again, leaving no room for me to argue.

I press my fingers to my forehead. “I’m doing this badly.”

“Yes.”

The immediate agreement makes me glare at him.