Chapter 35
Elena
Ross’s apartment is nicer than I remembered.
He’d moved in a year or so ago, just into one of those renovated brick-and-beam buildings that probably used to be a warehouse and now served as apartments.
He’s kept the furniture minimal but nice — a charcoal gray couch, a battered leather armchair that actually looks fantastic, a dining table that looks like it belongs in a country house. It’s eclectic, but cool.
But I’ve barely left the guest room since I got here.
It’s quiet, tucked into the far end of the apartment, with blackout curtains and a reading nook built into the window that I’ve avoided because it’s too similar to the ones back at Highcourt Hall.
The bed’s too soft, but I haven’t complained.
I work in there, read in there, sleep in there.
I let time pass like I’m not part of it, drifting from one task to the next, pretending I don’t feel my phone vibrating every few hours.
Last night, Ross came into my room with a bowl of dill-pickle-flavored chips and sat cross-legged on the bed beside me until I finally looked at him. He didn’t say anything. Just passed me the bowl and grabbed the remote, turned on Great British Bake Off, and waited.
When the show ended and I still hadn’t said a word, he’d said, “You can’t hide in here forever.”
I didn’t answer.
“Elena,” he’d pressed. “I know the last few months have been a lot. But you have to stop pretending that you don’t have decisions to make.”
“I’m not pretending,” I’d muttered. “I’m avoiding.”
“Well, it’s not working. You’re still miserable and you’re only getting more pregnant.”
“It’s been two days.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’d nudged my foot with his own. “He loves you. You know that. You’ve got to figure it out. You’re allowed to be scared, but you’re not allowed to disappear on him completely.”
He’d been right.
So this morning, I finally pick up my phone.
Harry hasn’t called since yesterday afternoon. That’s what gets to me more than anything — not the texts, not the silence, but that the panic seems to have evaporated, and now I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other end.
I type before I can tell myself not to.
Me:
I’m sorry I disappeared. I needed time to clear my head. I’m in Philadelphia, I’m okay, I just needed space. I’ll come home soon. I promise.
The response is immediate. I don’t even have time to set the phone down.
Harry:
I have five minutes before I have to go into a meeting. When are you coming home?
I stare at the screen. It’s not a, I’m glad you’re safe. Not, I’ve been worried. Just the question, cold and precise, like he’s expecting a countdown.
Me:
Soon. I’ll call Matthew in a bit.
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.
Harry:
Do you have anything you want to tell me?
The blood drains from my face. My stomach flips and tumbles and lands somewhere in my throat. I stare at the words like maybe they’ll arrange themselves into something safer.
Does he know?
Ross and I have been going back and forth on how to tell him, whether I should call him from here and come clean, or wait until I’m back home. I told myself it wouldn’t matter if I waited just a little longer, that it would be better face-to-face, that a text would make it worse.
Me:
I’d rather talk about everything in person, when I get home.
Harry:
Tell me now.
The panic sets in fast and sharp. I can feel it behind my eyes, pushing against the back of my skull, radiating through my chest. I start typing again, then delete it. Try again. Delete.
He doesn’t wait for me to figure it out.
Harry:
I already know.
I drop the phone onto the sheets, a choked noise escaping my throat, my hands shaking.
Of course he knows. He would’ve looked into Ross the moment I left. He’s Harry. He doesn’t sit in uncertainty; he moves, he investigates, he takes charge.
The door to the guest room is cracked open slightly. I can hear Ross in the kitchen, banging around with a pan, probably making eggs or hash browns. He’s been trying to cook every morning like it’s his job to take care of me, and right now I’m too nauseous to shout for him.
The phone buzzes again.
Harry:
I’m giving you the chance to tell me the truth. Are you seriously not going to take it?
I press both my hands to my eyes. The baby kicks once, lightly, just enough to make it feel like someone’s knocking from the inside.
I turn the phone facedown and leave it there. I don’t know what to say.
“Ross!” I croak, my voice breaking on the only word I manage to get out before the tears hit me.