Page 19 of Knocked Up By The Mountain Man

I look around like maybe I'll find some sort of clue. Like maybe Alyssa's ghost is still here, left behind, able to explain why she had to flee, and whether I have a chance in hell of convincing a woman like her that I could be the man she needs in her life.

I turn, examining the few items that she unpacked onto the top of the dresser: a phone charger, a hairbrush, a contact lens case.

My stomach does a somersault when I see the last thing on the dresser. A crinkled little square photograph, black and white, shiny like film. Not a normal photo, but a very particular type of photo.

An ultrasound.

I pick it up and try to make sense of the black-and-white blob.

At first, it looks like nothing. For all I know, I could be looking at an X-ray of a jellyfish.

And then suddenly, everything snaps into focus, and the picture makes sense.

The thing that looked like a misshapen jelly bean suddenly reveals itself for what it actually is: the profile of a baby's face.

I look in the corner and see Alyssa's name at the top of the image, as well as her doctor's name, and then the date and the time.

This ultrasound is recent, but I don't know enough about babies and pregnancy to be sure of what I'm looking at.

I try to do the mental math, counting back the weeks since Alyssa and I slept together.

Does the timeline line up? Does it work out that I could be the father of this baby that's growing inside of her?

I realize as I'm doing the math that I desperately fucking want to be the father.

That I want it to be me, which is insane.

Who the hell am I? Earlier today, I was sitting across a diner table from a woman named Carla as she expressed her desire to have a baby, and the idea couldn't seem more abhorrent at the time.

Earlier, when Adam visited, when I explained to him why we were in a match, I —

“Fuck!” I say it out loud, finally able to remember the conversation that I had with Adam.

That's what she overheard. She overheard me talking about how I don't want children!

I look down at the ultrasound again before putting it in the breast pocket of my flannel.

She's not here to see her dad. She's here to tell me that I'm going to be a dad.

And then she heard me talk about how I don't want children, and she ran.

My mind conjures a replica of her face looking fearful and horrified, cheeks flushed as she pulled her coat on and tried to get out the door as fast as possible earlier.

It all makes sense now.

I rush out of the bedroom, photo of our unborn baby still in my pocket, and grab my own coat and keys.

While I'm starting my truck, I dial Adam's number.

"Pick up," I growl.

But it goes to voicemail.

I try again.

Voicemail again.

I'm speeding down the mountain at an ill-advised pace, and I'm about to dial Adam again when he rings me instead.