Page 72 of Omega’s Fold

He takes his hand off.

“I’m not — Wyatt. I’m not trying anything. I’m just — God.”

“I know.”

“It’s mine.”

“Yes.”

“Of course it’s mine. Sorry. That came out — “

“It’s okay.”

He is looking at my middle. I am wearing a flannel over a t-shirt and the flannel is loose. There is not much to see yet. He looks anyway. I want, suddenly and stupidly, to put his hand on me. I do not.

“You should have told me.”

“I know.”

“You should have called. You should have written. Wyatt, I would have come. I know you hate me but I--” He breaks off.

Is that what he thinks? That I hate him?

“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I don’t trust you. I didn’t trust you.”

He is breathing carefully. I can see his shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he says. “I am not asking you for anything. I just am telling you. I want to be in this child’s life.”

He takes a step back. He runs the hand he had on my neck through his hair. The newer cut suits him. I should not be thinking about whether the cut suits him.

“All right. Okay. Tell me what — tell me what you need. Walk me through it. You’re four months. You’ve seen a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Eastfield. They’ve got a clinic. I went the first time at eight weeks.”

“Just a regular clinic?”

“It’s the closest one that does it. They send the omega-specific stuff out to a hospital an hour past Eastfield. I haven’t had to go up there yet. It’s just been the clinic.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s all right. I had a scan at twelve weeks. There’s another one today this afternoon at three o’clock. That’s why I’m in town. I’m killing two birds with one stone. The realtor’s at the ranch and I was going to take the boys and go on through to Eastfield once we’d eaten. I had it on the calendar.”

He stops. “Realtor? You’re selling?”

I had not meant to say that part. I had been thinking it under the rest of what I was saying and it had come out with the rest and now it is out.

“Yeah, there’s a viewing today. That’s why we’re in town. I didn’t want to be there.”

He stares at me. He stares at me long enough that the man with the dog comes out of the hardware store and unties the dog and walks the dog past the alley where we are, glancing in once and then politely not glancing in again.

“You said on the phone you were fine.”

“I was fine. I am fine. The bank gave me a payment holiday. I either sell or they take it. The realtor thinks she can move it. I’d rather she got me out clean than the bank get me out dirty.”