Page 73 of Three Months Yesterday

The question lands somewhere in my chest and stays there, heavy and warm all at the same time. My eyes move over her without my permission, taking in every inch. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, the light waves catching the moonlight coming through the windows. There’s a glow to her skin that I don’t think she sees, something that’s been there for weeks but seems sharper today, more defined. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip. The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for an answer she’s not ready to hear.

And then my gaze drops to her stomach.

It’s subtle. The slightest swell, barely there. The kind of thing you’d only notice if you were looking for it. If you were studying her the way I’ve been studying her since the day we met, cataloging every detail like a man who knows he’s going to write songs about her someday, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.

My heart races.

She’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes my throat ache, and I know, with a certainty that settles in my bones, that she’s only going to get more beautiful as the baby grows. As her body changes and rounds and becomes something else entirely. I can see it already, the path stretching out ahead of her, and I want to tell her all of it. I want to say the words out loud and press them into her skin so she knows, so she never has to wonder.

But I can’t say any of that. Not after the last three days.

So I clear my throat and meet her eyes. “No one will know you’re pregnant.”

She huffs—the sound exasperated and a little breathless—and turns away from me. “I’m going to change my shirt real quick. Then we can go.”

She’s moving up the stairs before I can say anything else, her footsteps light and quick. I let myself in, closing the door behind me against the cold, and when my eyes land on the piano in the corner of the living room I can’t help but step toward it.

My fingers find the keys without thinking, the familiar cool press of ivory under my skin grounding me in a way nothing else does. Notes of something new drift through my mind, half-formed and searching. I let them out, gently working through a few chords. The melody is tentative, the kind of thing that might become a song or might just be a moment, but it pulls at me the way music always does, the way it has from the first moment I started playing.

I sing a few words, something about the quiet after a storm, about how life will shift and change, but to never be afraid. The sound fills the quiet room as the last few notes linger.

The soft pad of Madison’s footsteps in the hall pulls me up short. I lift my hands from the keys and turn to look at her only to find her frozen in the archway, stunned silence written across her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice rough with worry.

She shakes her head, a small, almost dazed smile tugging at her lips. “Nothing. You just have a beautiful voice.”

I laugh, the sound soft and low. “You still haven’t looked me up, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea of googling me is still the most absurd thing she’s ever thought of, and I don’t know why that makes my chest tighten the way it does.

I stand from the bench and cross to her, ushering her to the front door to grab her coat. “You still have my permission to look me up,” I say, holding it open for her.

She slides her arms into the sleeves and I settle it over her shoulders, my hands lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“I just might have to now,” she mutters, and I don’t stop the chuckle from slipping free.

Three days since things have been normal between us, and this tiny moment gives me hope that we might be able to find our way back there.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods and offers a quick smile over her shoulder as I guide her out the door and into the cold, my hand finding the small of her back as we make our way to the 4Runner.

The last week has felt like a strange kind of limbo. It’s been eight days since the accident and I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about any of it.

The doctor said to take it easy, and for once I’m actually listening. I’ve taken a step back from the inn, more than I ever have in the years since I took over the day-to-day operations, and it’s strange. I keep waiting for someone to call with a crisis, only Cammie, the assistant manager, has it handled. The world keeps spinning without me hovering over it.

Part of it is the accident, the way my body still reminds me with a stiff neck and a twinge in my side that I’m not invincible. But part of it is something else. Something I haven’t said out loud yet, even to myself, though I’ve been turning it over in my head like a stone in my pocket all week.

I called the doctor’s office on Tuesday. The receptionist had that particular tone, the one that said we’re full but I can hear you’re worried and understand you need to see the doctor as soon as possible, so I’ll squeeze you in next week. The day before Christmas Eve, to be exact.

I told myself the timing was fine. Better late than never, but sitting here on the couch with a mug of tea gone lukewarm in my hands, it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m running out of quiet days to figure out what I’m going to say, and to whom.

I still need to tell everyone…everyone. The word itself is exhausting.

How do I tell my parents? How do I tell Wyatt?

My brother, who still treats me like the little kid who needed him to check under her bed for monsters, will have opinions. Strong ones. And my parents, who have always watched me like a hawk, are going to look at me with that particular mixture of concern and love that somehow feels worse than anger.