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“Nate,” I say softly.

“No, it’s fine.” He pokes at a gummy bear with his spoon. “You’re right.”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad.”

“I know.”

“I just need you to let me help.”

He looks at me then. “You already are.”

I look down at my ice cream. I haven’t told him how.

He knows I picked up extra work. He knows I have loans. He knows I’m good at finding ways through things. He doesn’t know about the contract. He doesn’t know about Alester. He doesn’t know that this morning, in a clinic not far from here, I lay on a table while someone else’s future was placed inside me.

He doesn’t know that his name is tangled up in why I said yes.

And I can’t tell him, because if I do, gratitude will eat him alive.

So I say, “Good. Then stop doing extra shifts without telling me.”

When we leave, he insists on walking me to the corner. “You going home?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

He studies me. For a moment I think he will push.

Instead, he nods. “Text me later.”

“I will.”

“And eat real food.”

I stare at him.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

Apparently every man in my life has joined a nutrition committee.

Nate hugs me. Carefully, because he knows I’m tired even if he doesn’t know why. I hold on a second longer than usual. He notices that too, but for once, he doesn’t make a joke.

When he walks away, I stand at the corner and watch until he turns.

Then I go home.

* * *

The next two weeks pass slowly.

That’s the worst part.

I expect panic to make time move fast. It doesn’t. It makes every day stretch.