Page 34 of Afterglow

I laugh, unable to help myself. “God, no. And Becca won’t tell them. But I do plan to tell them about the baby. They’re my family. Always have been, always will be.”

She deflates and bites her lip. “What about your parents? Will you tell them?”

“They’re dead,” I say, striking yet another blow and leaving her stunned. “But even if they weren’t, they wouldn’t be in the picture.” My parents are another topic I don’t really talk about. But if Leanne and I are going to have a chance at being more than awkward co-parents, or whatever this ends up being, I know I’ll have to give her those details as well.

Tonight isn’t the right time to bare all my secrets, but I almost wish she’d dig. Keeping so much inside is making the anxiety tighten in my chest, because I do want her to know me.

She doesn’t push for more however, so I turn the subject around on her instead. “What about you? Have you told your parents yet, your sisters?”

She shakes her head and stares at her hands. “I haven’t. I’ve missed two family dinners since I found out. I’m just not sure I’m ready yet—to tell them.”

“I could go with you.”

The moment I blurt the words, my whole body goes rigid. That was probably the wrong thing to say. This independent, strong woman doesn’t need me there for something like this.

To my surprise, Leanne actually smiles and says, “Maybe. I’ll think about it. They just… They’re going to have a lot of questions, and I don’t know that I want to be as forthright about it with them as you were with Rebecca.” She glares at me, but there’s a small smile around her lips.

“Since you thought you weren’t able to get pregnant, this should be an exciting development once they get past the surprise of it, right?” I muse, not thinking much of the question. But Leanne shrinks into herself, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them like a life vest. I don’t understand her reaction. “Leanne?”

When she lifts her gaze, her eyes look flat and resigned. “They don’t know anything about that.”

I shift closer to her on the couch. “What do you mean?”

“Craig and I never told them we were trying.”

“But… They know what that asshole said to you, right? How he made you feel?” My muscles quiver under my skin at the thought of the prick. “They know…” But it dawns on me as her words sink in; if her family didn’t know they were trying, how could she have told them the rest? “Leanne?”

“They don’t know any of it.” She turns her head away and curls into herself, looking so small. Nothing should ever make this woman look small.

I don’t want to push—she didn’t push me—but I want to know what she told them and how she found the strength to get through the last several months while holding all of this on her own.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, knowing it’s not enough.

“You don’t have to be sorry. All of this is my fault,” she croaks.

“That’s bullshit, Leanne.”

She scoffs and brushes her knuckles across her cheek. Knowing she’s crying over that fucker makes me throw reason to the wind, and I close the distance between us and pull her into me. She doesn’t protest and settles into my arms like she was meant to be there.

Damn, I wish that were true.

“It’s not your fault he put all that in your head. He’s an insecure asshole who couldn’t stomach the possibility he might be as much or more at fault for you not getting pregnant.”

“But I didn’t have to believe him. I should’ve gotten tested, made sure,” she protests.

“That may be true. But when someone you trust tells you something, especially when you’re vulnerable, it finds a way of sticking with you, even if you don’t want it to.”

“But if I’d known, we—”

I cut her off. “We aren’t going to play the what-if game here. And we’re not putting all the responsibility at your feet. We both could’ve been more responsible that night, but we weren’t. I am equally responsible for this pregnancy.”

I pull back so I can look her in the eye and, in doing so, my hand slides from her back and ends up resting on her stomach. My breath catches as old memories flood me, and I think I might never be able to breathe again as the onslaught takes over control of my body. I’m both terrified she’ll pull away and that she won’t. I want this too much, and I feel woefully unprepared for what that means.

She’s warm in my arms. Her skin is soft—a sliver of it slides against my palm where her sweater rises up. She isn’t showing and there’s nothing to feel yet, but a switch in my brain flips at being this close, at having my hand here, and in my head, I hear it: Mine.

This baby is mine. Ours. With a jolt of realization, I know I want her to be mine too. But I don’t think she’s ready for that. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever, and that crushing knowledge makes me put a few inches’ distance between us because our faces are too close.

She studies me, and her penetrating gaze is new and terrifying.