Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
cage
Iheard it from Elsie Monroe.
I was in town picking up supplies when she made some comment about India looking pale lately. About how she'd been to a clinic in Grand Falls, and how interesting it was that India was suddenly taking prenatal vitamins.
Elsie said it like it was gossip, like it was just another piece of town news to spread around. But the moment the words left her mouth, my blood went cold.
Eight weeks. That's how long it's been since that night. Eight weeks since I left her cabin before dawn and convinced myself I could forget about it.
I couldn't forget. I tried and failed. But I stayed away anyway because that was the deal. One night, nothing more.
Except now there might be more.
A lot more.
I drove straight to India's cabin without thinking it through. Without planning what to say. I just knew I needed to see her. I needed to look her in the eye and know if what Elsie said was true.
Now I'm standing on her porch at seven in the morning, and she's staring at me like I'm the last person she wanted to see.
"We need to talk," I tell her.
"About what?"
I see it in her face. The fear, the panic, the desperate hope that maybe I don't know.
"You know why I'm here," I say quietly.
She goes pale. Her hand grips the doorframe like she needs it for support.
"Who told you?"
"Elsie."
"Of course." Her laugh is bitter. "Of course she did."
"Is it true?"
She doesn't answer, she just stands there, her eyes filling with tears she's trying not to let fall.
"India," I say, my voice gentler. "Is it true?"
"Yes." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "I'm pregnant."
The confirmation hits like a physical blow even though I knew. Even though I came here because I knew.
A baby. I'm going to be a father.
The thought is surreal. Terrifying. Impossible.
India is still staring at me, waiting for my reaction. Waiting for me to tell her this is her problem or to walk away or to do whatever the hell she thinks I'm going to do.
"Can I come in?" I ask.
She blinks. "What?"
"Can I come inside? We should talk about this."
"You want to talk about it?"
"Yes."
She steps aside, and I walk past her into the cabin. It looks the same as last time. Neat and warm and the smell of coffee in the air.
I turn to face her as she closes the door. She's wearing pajama pants and an oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun. She looks exhausted and fragile, and pregnant.
With my child.
"How far along?" I ask.
"Eight weeks. Give or take."
Eight weeks. The right timeline, meaning it has to be mine.
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yes. In Grand Falls."
"Why Grand Falls?"
"Because I didn't want the whole town knowing." She crosses her arms. "Fat lot of good that did."
"Elsie works at the post office. She probably saw mail from the clinic."
"Probably." India's jaw tightens. "So now everyone knows, or they will soon."
"Let them know."
"Easy for you to say. You live on a ridge five miles away."
She's right, I can hide, she can't.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts. "Have you decided what you want to do?"
Her eyes flash. "You mean am I keeping it?"
"I mean what do you want? It's your choice."
"Is it?" Her voice shakes. "Because it seems like everyone's going to have an opinion about it whether I want them to or not."
"I'm not asking for their opinion. I'm asking for yours."
She stares at me for a long moment. "I'm keeping it."
Relief hits so hard I have to sit down. I sink into the chair by the table and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay? That's it? Just okay?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." She's pacing now, her hands moving. "I thought you'd be angry. Or tell me this isn't your problem. Or disappear again like you did last time."
That hits harder than it should. "I didn't disappear."
"You left before I woke up, you didn't call, you didn't come back. What would you call it?"
"Stupid," I admit. "I'd call it stupid."
She stops pacing. "What?"
"I left because I thought it was easier. For both of us. But I was wrong." I meet her eyes. "I'm here now, and I'm not leaving."
"You don't have to do this. I can handle it on my own."
"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to."
"Cage." Her voice breaks. "You made it very clear that night that you didn't want more. That you couldn't give more. I'm not trying to trap you or force you into something you don't want."
"This isn't about what I want. This is about what's right." I stand and cross to her. "You're pregnant with my child. That makes it my responsibility."
"Responsibility." She says the word like it tastes bad. "That's what you're calling this?"
"What else would I call it?"
"I don't know. But responsibility sounds like obligation, like something you have to do, not something you want to do."
She's right. But I don't know how to explain that want doesn't factor into this. That I stopped wanting things a long time ago because wanting leads to losing and losing leads to the kind of pain I can't survive again.
"I'm going to help you," I say instead. "Whether you want me to or not."
"You can't just decide that."
"I already did."
We stare at each other, I can see the war happening behind her eyes, part of her wants to tell me to leave, another part of her wants to accept the help. I’ve no doubt she’s probably just exhausted from carrying this alone for two weeks.
"What does help even look like?" she asks finally.
"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out."
"We."
"Yes. We."
She sits down at the table, her hands shaking. I want to reach for her, to pull her close and tell her it's going to be okay.
But I don't know if it will be okay. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
All I know is that India is pregnant, and the baby is mine, and walking away isn't an option.
Not this time.
"I need to make a list," I say.
"A list?"
"Doctor's appointments, vitamins, what you need for the baby, money, insurance, logistics."
"Cage." She's staring at me like I'm speaking another language. "I haven't even processed this yet, and you're already making lists?"
"That's how I work. I see a problem, I make a plan."
"I'm not a problem."
"You're not. But this situation needs handling."
She laughs, and it's not entirely humor. "You sound like you're planning a mission."
Maybe I am, maybe that's the only way I know how to deal with this. Break it down into steps, complete the steps. Mission accomplished.
Except this isn't a mission. This is a baby. A life. Something I can't control or predict or protect with tactical planning.
But I'm going to try anyway.
"Have you told anyone else?" I ask.
"No. Just you."
"What about Rosie? Or June?"
"I couldn't find the words."
I understand that. Words are hard when the reality is too big to fit into them.
"You should tell them," I say. "They're your friends. They'll want to help."
"Like you're helping?"
"Yes."
She studies me. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because it's the right thing to do."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She's quiet for a moment. "I was going to come find you today, to tell you. I spent all night trying to figure out what to say, and then you just showed up."
"Elsie talks fast."
"Apparently."
I pull out the chair across from her and sit. "We need to figure this out. Together."
"I don't even know where to start."
"Start with the basics. When's your next appointment?"
"I don't have one scheduled yet."
"Schedule it. I'll drive you."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. I'm doing it anyway."
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. "Fine."
"Do you need anything? Food? Money? Help with the cabin?"
"Cage, stop. You're overwhelming me."
I lean back and force myself to slow down. "Sorry."
"It's just a lot. You showing up, this conversation, all of it."
"I know."
"I thought you'd be angry."
"I'm not angry."
"Then what are you?"
I think about that. Try to identify what I'm feeling beneath the automatic planning and problem-solving.
Fear. That's what it is, bone-deep terror that I'm going to screw this up. That I'm going to fail India and this baby the way I failed my team.
But I don't say that.
"I'm here," I tell her instead. "That's what matters."
She nods slowly. "Okay. Then I guess we're doing this."
"We're doing this."
I stand to leave, but she stops me.
"Cage? Thank you for not running."
"I'm not going anywhere."
I mean it even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to leave. To put distance between myself and this situation before I get attached. Before I care too much.
Too late for that.
I already care.
I leave her cabin and drive into town to pick up the supplies I abandoned earlier. My head is spinning, trying to process everything.
A baby. I'm going to be a father.
The words don't feel real.
I park outside Riker's Outfitters and head inside. Caleb is behind the counter, reorganizing fishing lures.
"Cage," he says with a nod.
"Caleb."
I grab what I need. Propane, batteries, salt for the driveway. Things that have nothing to do with the fact that my entire life just changed.
I'm checking out when the door opens and a woman walks in. Mid-forties. Dark hair. Haunted eyes.
Sarah Mitchell. TJ's widow.
My stomach drops.
She sees me and freezes. Her expression goes from surprise to something harder. Something that looks like pain mixed with anger.
"Mrs. Mitchell," I say quietly.
"Don't." Her voice is cold. "Don't you dare speak to me."
Caleb looks between us, clearly uncomfortable. "Sarah, maybe we should—"
"He gets to stand here," she interrupts, her eyes locked on mine. "Buying supplies, living his life, while my husband is in the ground."
I don't respond. There's nothing I can say that will make this better.
"You were supposed to protect him," she continues. "You were supposed to bring him home."
"I know."
"He trusted you. They all trusted you."
"I know."
"And now you get to keep living while they don't. How is that fair?"
It's not fair. I've asked myself the same question a thousand times.
"I'm sorry," I say. It's inadequate. Pathetic. But it's all I have.
"Sorry doesn't bring him back." Her voice cracks. "Sorry doesn't give my daughter her father."
She's right. Nothing I say or do will change what happened, won't bring TJ back, won't undo the choices I made that day.
"I think about him every day," I tell her. "About all of them."
"Good." Tears streak down her face now. "I hope you never forget. I hope you carry it forever."
I do. I will. That's my punishment. That's what I deserve.
Sarah turns and walks out without another word.
I stand there, my hands clenched into fists, trying to breathe through the guilt that's crushing my chest.
Caleb clears his throat. "She's been having a hard time lately. TJ's birthday was last week."
I nod, unable to speak.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
I'm not fine. I haven't been fine in three years. But fine is all I know how to be.
I pay for the supplies and load them in my truck. Sit in the driver's seat and stare at nothing.
Sarah is right. I don't deserve to keep living while TJ and the others are dead. I don't deserve happiness or peace or anything resembling a normal life.
But I have a responsibility now. India is pregnant. That baby is mine.
And maybe I don't deserve them. Maybe I'll screw this up the way I screwed up in Afghanistan.
But I'm going to try anyway.
Because walking away isn't an option anymore.
I drive back up the ridge slowly, my mind replaying the conversation with Sarah. The look in her eyes. The pain in her voice.
I carry that pain with me every day. Add it to the weight I'm already carrying.
But now there's something else too. Something small and fragile and terrifying.
Hope.
The idea that maybe, just maybe, I can do something right. That I can protect India and this baby. That I can be the person they need me to be.
Even if I don't believe it yet.
By the time I reach my cabin, I've made a decision.
India and this baby are my responsibility now. Not an obligation, not duty, but my responsibility.
And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure they're okay.
Even if it means facing the parts of myself I've been trying to outrun for three years.
Even if it means risking caring again.
Even if it means opening myself up to the possibility of failing someone else I can't afford to lose.
I unload the supplies and head inside.
The cabin feels different somehow. Less like a hiding place and more like a starting point.
I don't know what comes next. Don't know how to be a father or a partner or anything other than the broken bastard who drinks too much and lives alone.
But I'm going to figure it out.
Because India needs me. And this baby needs me.
And for the first time in three years, I have a reason to try.