Chapter Seven
Brooke
I watch as a couple jogs past, then another, and another. The rhythm of their footsteps fades into the hum of the city, a heartbeat I’ve known my whole life.
There was a time, when I was little, when Mom would sit Stella and me down on this very bench.
She’d tell us to breathe it in, to just sit still and be.
I think she mostly wanted us to stop fighting, but it stuck with me, this idea that if you sit still long enough, the world will start to make sense again.
So, I come here. Whenever I miss her, I come here. Whenever I feel like I’m breaking apart, I come here. And now, when there’s a chance, I might be pregnant, a tiny minuscule might not even be happening but a chance none the less, I came here.
The wind is cooler than I expected. It lifts my hair, brushes against my skin, and for a moment I close my eyes and try to feel her here, her voice, her warmth, her calm. But none of it comes.
Matthew said all the right things. Every single one of them. But instead of feeling like support, it felt like a trap.
He may say he loves me and I believe that he does, but he doesn’t know me.
Back in college, he didn’t know me either.
He thought he did. A lot of people did. Because that’s what I wanted.
It was easier to hand them the version of Brooke they could love, the bright, loud, resilient girl who bounced back from everything than the one who actually existed beneath all that noise.
I told Matthew things I’d never told anyone else. Secrets. Memories. Dreams. But I never told him the dark parts.
I never told him that I blame myself for my mother’s death, that if I’d just kept my mouth shut, if I hadn’t convinced her to kick him out, cold turkey, maybe she’d still be alive.
I never told him that every time I take a drink, a small part of me panics because I’m terrified I won’t be able to put it down. That maybe the same addiction that hollowed my father out is somewhere inside me too, waiting.
I never told him how scared I am of becoming my parents. Of failing the way they did. Of breaking someone else the way they broke me.
And now… now there’s a chance there’s a life inside me, a life I might screw up before it even starts.
The thought makes my stomach twist. My throat goes dry. And all I can think is: What the fuck do I do?
I have options. This is New York, I know I have options.
Termination. Adoption.
Not adoption. No.
If I’m going to put myself through the months of nausea and stretch marks and labour, if I’m going to let my body become a home, then you can be damn sure I’m not handing that life off to someone else. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
But termination…
The word itself feels too clinical for the storm it stirs inside me. Cold. Detached. It makes it sound easy, like it’s just a decision you make and walk away from. But could I?
Could I really go through with that, knowing Matthew wants this?
Because he does, I saw it in his eyes when he touched my face, heard it in his voice when he said we can do this. And maybe that should make this choice clearer, but it doesn’t. It makes it harder.
It makes me wonder if I’d be doing it because I want to, or because I’m scared of disappointing him.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars. There’s no guidebook for this. No right answer. Just a mess of guilt and fear and possibilities all tangled together.
And somewhere, under all of it, a tiny voice I can barely hear whispers: What if you could love this child? What if you could be a better parent than he was?
I take out my phone before I can second-guess it, scrolling to the one person who will never lie to me.
The line barely rings before she answers. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Hi, Stella,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. I hear traffic on the other end. “Where are you?”
“Driving home.”
“Stell…” I warn.
“I’m on speakerphone,” she says quickly, and I huff out a small laugh. Good, she’s already gotten two tickets for talking on the phone while driving.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“The park,” I say.
“On the bench?”
“Yeah.”
“Ooh,” she murmurs, instantly clocking my mood. “What’s wrong?”
I shrug, even though she can’t see it. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” she says simply. And just like that, she lets it go. I called her to ask for her opinion, but now that she’s on the line, the words won’t come out.
“How are the kids?” I ask eventually.
“They’re good. Missing their auntie. And their mom.” Her voice softens. “I’ve been gone a lot lately.”
“You have to,” I say. “It’s not like you’re out partying. You’re working.”
She exhales, a mix of exhaustion and annoyance. “It’s not just that. I’ve got this new boss and he’s…” She pauses, searching for the word. “An ass.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper conspiratorially. “You cursed.”
Stella laughs, a real one. “Well, he is. The man calls me at all hours of the day and night to do pointless crap.”
“That sucks.”
“It really does.”
We both go quiet after that. My heart thuds against my ribs as I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Stell… do you ever… regret it? You know. Becoming a mom?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is softer, honest. “I want to toe the party line and say no,” she admits. “But… yeah. I have. Every mom has, at one point or another. Maybe it’s during labour, or when you have trouble connecting to a child you just met.”
I swallow. “When was it for you?”
“For me?” She sighs. “I regretted it when I realised I’d done to my kids what our parents did to us.”
The words land heavy in my chest.
“I brought someone into their lives who wasn’t good for them,” she continues.
“I stayed when I shouldn’t have. I let them see fights and hear empty promises, and for a while, I thought that was love.
But then I realised I could be better. I had to be.
So instead of holding on, I kicked him out.
No more late-night yelling. No more waiting for change that was never coming. ”
I close my eyes, a lump rising in my throat. Stella’s always been the strong one, the one who chooses the hard thing when it’s right. And now here she is, laying the truth out like it’s simple. Like it’s just a decision you make and stick to.
She goes quiet for a moment before adding softly, “And Brooke… I think I can guess why you’re asking. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But please remember this, we are not our parents. Whatever you decide, it’s your choice. Just don’t let the past be the thing that holds you back.”
The words hit right where it hurts. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. “Stell, I’m gonna call you back, okay?” I manage, my voice barely holding itself together.
“Brooke,” she says gently, “I’m here for you. Always.”
But I can’t. Not right now.
I hang up before she can say more. I wait for the tears, for the sobs but they never come.
“God,” I whisper to no one, “I’m not even sure I’m pregnant.”
But I feel like I am.
It’s ridiculous, I know. Bodies don’t magically know these things or maybe they do. Maybe the weight in my chest and the tightness in my belly are all in my head. Maybe they’re not.
I pull out my phone and type the words before I can talk myself out of it: how early can pregnancy be detected.
A thousand results pop up in seconds. I scroll through a few, scanning words I’ve never thought twice about before. Two weeks. Some tests can pick it up two weeks after conception.
“Good,” I breathe, like that settles something. It doesn’t, not really, but it gives me something to do.
Something other than sit here and drown in the what-ifs.
Matthew
I pace the living room, the overcooked noodles sitting cold and forgotten on the counter. Every few steps, I glance at the clock, and every time I do, my stomach twists tighter. Brooke’s been gone for over an hour.
I’ve refrained from calling her, trying to give her space, telling myself she needs time, but with each second that ticks by, the self-loathing grows louder.
Who does that?
Who confesses their undying love and considers proposing marriage in the middle of a pregnancy scare?
Idiot. Absolute idiot.
She was panicking, terrified, confused, and I was thinking of dropping on one knee like some lovesick teenager. No wonder she bolted.
I run a hand through my hair and drag in a breath, but it does nothing to slow my thoughts. Because now they’re running even faster, careening into the kind of questions I have no answers for.
Where would we even put a baby?
Brooke’s renting a damp basement. I live in a one-bedroom studio that barely fits me and my furniture, let alone a crib. We’d have to move, but where? And with what money?
I’m not exactly swimming in cash. Sure, my student loans are finally paid off, but that just means I’ve been able to breathe for the first time in years, not that I’m ready to raise a kid.
I pace back to the window and stare out at the city. It’s going to be dark soon.
I guess… I could ask Mom. She’s always said if I needed help, she’d be there. Maybe she could help us find a bigger apartment. Maybe she’d even co-sign. God, I hate that I’m even thinking about that, about asking for help like I’m still twenty-two and clueless.
But the truth is, I am clueless. I planned for my education. My career. My future.
Not babies and diapers.
I do want kids, someday. But am I ready for them now? Ready for that kind of responsibility? Ready to be someone’s father?
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts. My heart lurches.
I cross the room in two strides and swing the door open.
Brooke stands there, hair wind-tousled, eyes tired, a paper bag clutched in both hands.
“I thought about going home,” she says quietly, “but I forgot my keys here.”
“I’m… glad you came back,” I manage. And I mean it more than I know how to say.
She nods once, then steps inside. Without a word, she places the paper bag on the counter and pulls out a box.
It takes me a second to register what I’m looking at.
“Apparently, this one’s the early detector.”
I nod, staying silent. Words feel too heavy, too dangerous, like if I speak them, they might tip the balance of the room. Brooke disappears into the bathroom and closes the door gently behind her.
I stand there, frozen for a moment, before my nerves kick in and I start cleaning. It’s pointless, the noodles are ruined, the counter’s already spotless, but it’s something to do. Anything to stop me from counting the seconds.
The door clicks open, and Brooke steps out. She doesn’t say anything as she sets the test on the counter, the small white stick that suddenly feels heavier than anything I’ve ever held.
“Three minutes,” she says softly.
Three minutes.
One hundred and eighty seconds.
It feels like a lifetime.
Brooke kneels down beside her bag, rummaging through it with a kind of forced focus, pulling things out, putting them back in, pretending to be occupied. I can tell she’s not actually looking for anything. She just needs something to do with her hands.
Me? I just stand there in the kitchen, staring at that tiny white stick on the counter like it’s a bomb about to go off.
I try to go back to cleaning but I can’t. the plastic stick is like a beacon, like an accident you can’t look away from. I'm imagining my future, beaches and trips or babies and diapers. It feels like my heart’s beating in my ears.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a thought sneaks in. One I didn’t expect.
Do I want it to be positive?
I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Because you don’t have a kid just because you’re in love or because you’re scared to lose someone or because a part of you likes the idea of a tiny piece of both of you existing in the world. You have a kid because you’re ready.
And I’m not sure I am.
Especially not here. Not in a city like New York, where rent eats half your pay check and everything costs twice what it should. Brooke can’t exactly work from home, hell, she’s barely home as it is. Part-time isn’t an option when your job involves being halfway across the world most weeks.
And childcare? God. I’ve heard the numbers. It’s more than rent. More than college tuition in some cases. One of us would have to stay home. One of us would have to hit pause on everything we’ve worked for.
Would that be her? Would that be me?
I don’t want it to be me, I don’t wanna be a stay-at-home dad, especially since I make more than Brooke. But how do I say that without sounding like a sexist ass?
I swallow hard and tear my gaze from the stick on the counter. Three minutes suddenly feels like more than a test result. It feels like the rest of our lives condensed into a single choice, a choice we never actually made.
I glance at Brooke again. She’s standing now, hands nervously smoothing over her jeans, her face pale but determined.
“Three minutes are up,” she says quietly.
It’s now or never.
Neither of us moves at first. The test sits there on the counter between us, a tiny, ordinary piece of plastic that suddenly feels like it’s holding the weight of the universe.
I take a step forward. She does too. We stop face to face with the test in the middle, but neither of us reaches out.
“You look,” she whispers.
“No, you.”
We trade nervous, fragile smiles and then the silence returns. Finally, she lets out a shaky breath and reaches forward.
Her fingers hover over the test, trembling just slightly before she picks it up. My heart is pounding so hard I swear she can hear it.
And then she looks.
Her breath catches and I watch as her face shifts, a dozen emotions flickering across it too fast for me to read.
I can’t tell. Not yet.
“Brooke?” I whisper, voice barely steady. “What does it say?”