Chapter 5
Naomi
The house felt unnaturally quiet after the front door closed behind Dustin.
I stayed where I was at the kitchen island, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. I hadn’t taken a single sip. The ceramic had long since lost its warmth, but I kept holding it anyway, as though letting go would force me to acknowledge what I’d overheard.
Footsteps creaked overhead. Patrick. A drawer opened, then closed. Silence.
I stared at the grain of the wooden countertop, willing my thoughts to slow down. Maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe Dustin hadn’t meant what it sounded like. Maybe Patrick had shut him down the second I walked away.
The front of my mind kept offering possibilities while another part of me replayed Dustin’s words with perfect clarity.
You sure it’s yours?
The sentence landed over and over, each repetition cutting a little deeper. Not because Dustin had asked it. Because Patrick hadn’t answered immediately.
The stairs creaked again. I straightened instinctively, smoothing my palms over the front of my sweater before realizing what I was doing. There wasn’t supposed to be anything wrong.
Patrick appeared in the doorway. His tie was gone, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked exhausted, his expression unreadable as his gaze found mine.
“There you are,” he said softly.
I managed a smile that felt borrowed.
“Where else would I be?”
His mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile before fading just as quickly.
“I thought Dustin was still here.”
“He left.”
Another silence stretched between us.
Patrick crossed to the coffee maker, reaching automatically for a mug.
His movements were familiar, practiced, the ordinary rhythm of a husband making coffee in his own kitchen.
Normally I’d have wandered over, wrapped my arms around his waist, and complained that it was too late in the evening for caffeine. Tonight I stayed exactly where I was.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
The question nearly broke me. I’d spent the last hour sitting alone, wondering whether my husband believed I could betray him after eight years together.
I shrugged.
“Just tired.”
“You had a long day.”
“So did you.”
He nodded once.
“Yeah.”
The coffee machine hummed to life. I watched it instead of watching him. If I looked at his face, I might ask. What did you tell him? Did you defend me? Did you laugh it off because the idea was ridiculous?
I couldn’t finish the thought, because if he hadn’t, if there had been even the smallest hesitation, I didn’t know what I’d do.
Patrick leaned against the counter while he waited for the coffee to brew.
“How was the rest of your afternoon?” he asked.
I almost laughed at the normalcy of the question. I’d found out I was pregnant. I’d cried in my car because I was happier than I’d ever been. I’d imagined surprising my husband, pictured him lifting me off the floor, crying with me.
“I grabbed coffee,” I answered.
“Run into anyone?”
For half a second I considered lying. Then I remembered Eric.
“I saw Eric,” I said.
Recognition crossed his face.
“Eric Beale?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
“He was in town for work.”
Patrick nodded slowly.
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Life,” I said, keeping my tone deliberately light. “His wife. Work. My mom. Nothing exciting.”
Patrick made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.
“I’m glad you got to catch up.”
“So was I.”
Another silence settled, this one heavier. I wondered if he was thinking about Dustin’s question, if he was replaying it the way I was, if he regretted not shutting it down immediately. Or maybe he wasn’t thinking about it at all. That possibility somehow hurt even more.
Patrick carried his coffee to the island and sat across from me. Usually we’d share this part of the evening talking about our days. Tonight the space between us felt impossibly wide despite only being a few feet apart.
He wrapped both hands around his mug.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m tired.”
“You already said that.”
“I know.”
He studied me.
“You sure that’s all?”
I forced myself to meet his eyes. Blue, warm, the same eyes I’d fallen in love with in college. The same eyes I’d trusted through fertility appointments, hormone injections, surgeries, tears, and every negative pregnancy test. Those eyes had watched me grieve month after month. Surely they knew me.
“I guess today just caught up with me,” I said.
He nodded slowly.
“I’ve missed you.”
The confession surprised me.
“So have I.”
He smiled faintly.
“This project’s almost over.”
“You’ve been saying that for three months.”
“I know.”
“I’m not criticizing.”
“I know.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” The words came automatically, because he was trying, at least with work. But marriage wasn’t measured by intention alone.
I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to pull the ultrasound picture from my purse and place it in his hands. I wanted to watch his face transform. I wanted tonight to become the happiest night of our lives.
Instead my fingers curled tighter around the strap of my handbag where the small envelope rested safely inside.
Not yet. Something was wrong. Not with the baby. With us.
Patrick frowned slightly.
“You’re somewhere else tonight.”
“I guess I am.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Please ask the right question. Please tell me Dustin was an idiot. Please tell me you laughed in his face. Please make this easy.
The silence stretched until it became obvious I’d taken too long to answer.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.”
“I’m just emotional.”
A tiny smile crossed his face.
“That’s not like you.”
If only he knew.
“I suppose everyone gets one emotional day now and then.”
“I guess they do.”
He reached across the island, resting his hand over mine. The familiar touch should have grounded me. Instead my heart lurched painfully. Could these same hands hold mine while doubt lived somewhere behind his eyes?
I squeezed his fingers anyway, because I loved him, because I didn’t know whether I was imagining everything, because asking the question felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff.
If I stayed silent, there was still a chance I’d misunderstood. A fragile, desperate chance. And tonight, that was all I could bear to hold onto.
Patrick didn’t let go of my hand immediately. His thumb brushed lightly across my knuckles, a gesture so familiar it usually settled something inside me. Tonight it only reminded me of everything I didn’t know.
“You’ve been somewhere else all evening,” he said quietly. “I can tell.”
I managed a small smile that never reached my eyes.
“I’m just tired.”
“Naomi.” There was something different in the way he said my name, careful, measured, as though he’d rehearsed the next sentence a dozen different ways and still hadn’t found one that felt right.
A knot tightened in my stomach.
He looked down into his coffee for several long seconds before speaking again.
“I need to ask you something.”
The room suddenly felt too small. Every instinct told me not to answer, not because I didn’t want to hear the question, but because I already knew it.
I withdrew my hand from beneath his.
“Okay.”
He inhaled slowly.
“I don’t know how to say this without hurting you.”
“Then just say it.”
He nodded once, his eyes lifting to mine.
“Would you be willing to do a paternity test?”
For a moment I genuinely thought I’d misheard him. The words reached me. My mind simply refused to accept them.
A paternity test.
I stared at him. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t accusing me. If anything, he looked frightened. That somehow made it worse, because he wasn’t speaking out of cruelty. He was speaking because part of him believed the question needed asking.
The kitchen became impossibly quiet. The refrigerator hummed. A clock ticked somewhere in the living room. Outside, a car drove past. Ordinary sounds on an ordinary evening. Nothing about it felt ordinary anymore.
Patrick swallowed.
“I know how this sounds.”
I kept looking at him, searching for the husband I’d walked through eight years of marriage with, the man who’d held me after every failed cycle, who’d cried with me when another specialist apologized that nothing had worked, who’d promised we’d face everything together.
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Naomi...”
“After eight years,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, then paused because I suddenly couldn’t breathe. “That’s who you think I am?”
His face fell immediately.
“No.”
“But you just asked.”
“I know.”
“You asked me to prove this baby is yours.”
“It’s not—”
“It is.” The words remained quiet. I wasn’t shouting. I couldn’t. The hurt sat too deep for anger.
“You didn’t ask what Dustin meant. You didn’t tell me he was an idiot. You didn’t laugh because the idea was ridiculous.” I held his gaze. “You asked me for a DNA test.”
Patrick leaned forward.
“I asked because—”
“No.” I shook my head gently. “I don’t want the explanation yet. I just need to understand something.”
He nodded.
“When you look at me,” I said, my throat tightening, “do you honestly see someone capable of doing that to you?”
Silence. Not because he didn’t hear me. Because he couldn’t answer quickly enough. That silence hurt more than anything he’d actually said.
His eyes closed briefly.
“When Dustin mentioned Eric...”
There it was. Eric. I almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because of course it was Eric. One unexpected conversation in a coffee shop. One old friend. That was all it had taken.
“You think I slept with Eric.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
I flinched as though he’d struck me.
“I’ve never given you a reason.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never hidden anything from you.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
His shoulders slumped.
“I don’t know.”
The honesty should have helped. Instead it hollowed something inside me.