Chapter Nine
Harrison
Harrison parked his rental car in front of the generic brick apartment complex on the south side of town. It was a sublet Emily had found three days ago—a "temporary solution" she had called it, demanding he transfer the deposit money because her accounts were frozen.
He stared up at the third-floor window. The light was on.
He was still living out of his suitcase at the Highway Inn, surrounded by lemon cleaner and regret. He hadn't stepped foot in this apartment, and he didn't plan to stay.
He grabbed the thick manila envelope from the passenger seat. He didn't take his keys or his coat. This wasn't a visit. It was an eviction of her from his life.
He took the stairs two at a time, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion. He pounded on door 3B.
"Harrison?" Emily’s voice came from the other side, muffled. "Is that you?"
"Open the door, Emily."
The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Emily was wearing one of his old oversized t-shirts—one she must have stolen from the house weeks ago—and a pair of socks. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she held a half-eaten apple. She smiled, looking relieved and disturbingly domestic.
"You didn't answer my texts," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I was getting worried. Did you bring the—"
"Stop," Harrison said, stepping into the small, beige living room. It smelled of vanilla candles, a scent she used to mask the smell of stale air. "Stop talking."
He didn't close the door all the way. He wanted a quick exit.
"Harrison, what’s wrong?" She took a bite of the apple, chewing slowly, eyeing the envelope in his hand.
"This," he said, slamming the envelope onto the cheap laminate dining table. "This is what’s wrong."
"What is it?"
"My divorce petition," he spat out. "Sarah had me served at work today. In front of my entire team. In front of the interns."
Emily glanced at the papers, then back at him. She didn't look devastated. She looked... pragmatic.
"Well," she swallowed. "That’s fast. But it’s good, right? No more limbo. Now you don't have to worry about when she finds out. She knows. It’s done."
"You don't get it," Harrison said, his voice rising. "I didn't come here to celebrate. I came here to tell you to stop."
He pointed a finger at her.
"Stop texting me. Stop calling me asking for money. Stop sending me pictures of apartments we are never going to live in."
Emily’s smile faltered. She lowered the apple. "Harrison, you're just stressed. You're staying in that gross motel and it's getting to you. Just move in here. It’s not much, but there’s room and—"
"There is no 'here' for me!" Harrison shouted. "I am not moving in with you. I am done, Emily. I am waking up."
He ran a hand down his face, his skin pulling with fatigue.
"I destroyed my marriage. I lost my home. I am likely going to lose a massive chunk of my savings. And every time I look at you... I don't see a future. I see the mistake that cost me everything."
"That’s cruel," Emily whispered, her eyes tearing up. "You don't mean that. You love me. You said I was the air you breathe."
"I was suffocating!" Harrison countered. "And I was high on the drama. But I'm sober now. And I want you to leave me alone."
He backed toward the door. "I paid the rent on this place for the month. Consider it a severance package. After this, you're on your own. Go back to Michael. Go to your friends. Just stay the hell away from me."
"You can't leave me," she said, her voice trembling. "Harrison, please."
"Watch me." He turned, grabbing the doorknob.
"I'm pregnant."
Harrison froze. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The sounds of the street outside—a siren, a car honking—faded into a dull buzz.
He stood with his back to her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned around.
Emily hadn't moved. She had dropped the apple into the trash can. She was standing with her hands resting protectively over her lower stomach, pressing the fabric of his t-shirt against her skin.
"What did you say?" Harrison whispered.
"I’m pregnant," she repeated, her voice gaining strength. "I’ve known for weeks. Since before the breakup with Michael. But I know it's yours."
Harrison shook his head, a nervous tick jumping in his jaw. "No. No, that’s... that’s not possible. We... I was careful."
"Not always," Emily said softly. "And clearly, not careful enough."
She walked toward him. He didn't back away this time; he was paralyzed.
"It’s ours, Harrison," she said, stopping inches from him. She reached out and took his hand. He was too shocked to pull away. She placed his palm flat against her belly. "A baby. A real 'we.' You can divorce Sarah. You can hate me right now. But you can't leave this."
Harrison stared at her stomach. He felt the warmth of her body.
He thought of Sarah. He thought of the empty nursery they had planned to paint sage green next spring. He thought of the names they had whispered in bed.
And now... this. A child conceived in betrayal. A permanent tether to the woman who had helped him burn his life down.
"You're lying," he choked out, though the sickness in his gut told him she wasn't. "You're saying this to trap me."
"I'm not," she said simply. "I have the tests in the bathroom. I can show you. Or you can wait a few months and see for yourself."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and imploring.
"I'm keeping it, Harrison. With or without you. But I know you. You're a good man. You aren't the kind of guy who abandons his own flesh and blood."
Harrison looked at her face—so similar to Sarah’s, yet so fundamentally different. He looked at the divorce papers on the table.
The trap snapped shut.
He let his hand drop from her stomach, his arm falling limp to his side.
He slumped against the doorframe, all the fight draining out of him. He realized then that he wasn't just divorced. He was serving a life sentence.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice broken, staring at the floor. "Okay."
Emily smiled, a small, victorious thing. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his rigid torso, resting her head on his chest.
"See?" she murmured into his shirt. "It’s going to be okay. We're going to be a family."
Harrison didn't hug her back. He just stared at the beige wall of the apartment he was now trapped in, and wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole
He walked to the window, staring out at the parking lot. A rusted pickup truck was backing into a space, its muffler sputtering. It was bleak. It was ugly. It was his life now.
The spiral began in his chest, a tight, cold coil winding upward, choking him.
A baby.
He closed his eyes and saw Sarah. He saw her face the last time they discussed children.
It was a Sunday morning, lying in the sunbeams. She had whispered that she wanted a boy first. She wanted a son with his eyes and her patience.
They were going to paint the nursery sage green.
They were going to buy a crib made of sustainable oak.
That future wasn't just paused. It was incinerated.
He had been delusional enough to think there was a path back. He had thought, If I grovel enough, if I wait five years, if I prove I’ve changed, maybe she’ll let me take her for coffee. He had banked on the idea that infidelity was a scar that could fade.
But a child? A child wasn't a scar. A child was a living, breathing monument to his betrayal.
Every time Sarah looked at him, she wouldn't just see a cheater. She would see a father who built a family with her sister.
"She will never forgive me," he whispered, his breath fogging up the cold glass. "Never."
"Harrison?" Emily asked, her voice tentative behind him. "Are you okay?"
He didn't turn around. He couldn't look at her without seeing the wreckage.
I can’t leave, the voice in his head—the voice of his father, the voice of the "good man" he desperately pretended to be—whispered. You broke the vows. You broke the wife. But you cannot break the child.
If he walked out that door, if he blocked Emily’s number and moved to another state, he would be a deadbeat. He would be the villain in a story that an innocent boy—or girl—would be told for the rest of their life. Your daddy didn't want you. Your daddy ran away.
He couldn't be that man. He could be a liar. He could be an adulterer. But he couldn't be a monster who abandoned his own son.
And that was the trap. His own conscience was the bars of the cell.
"Harrison, come sit down," Emily said, the mattress creaking as she sat. "We need to talk about logistics. My insurance is gone since the agency dropped me. We need to get me on your plan. And this apartment... it’s okay for now, but there’s no elevator. For the stroller, we’ll need—"
Her words washed over him like acid. Insurance. Strollers. Elevators.
She was planning a life. She was nesting in the ruins.
He turned slowly. Emily was glowing. There was a terrifying radiance to her. She looked at him not with shame, but with pride. She had won. She had secured the asset.
"I need a drink," Harrison said, his voice unrecognizable.
"You can't," Emily chirped. "I mean, I can't. And you should probably stop too, right? In solidarity? We should start eating healthy. For the baby."
Harrison looked at the divorce papers on the table. Then he looked at Emily’s flat stomach.
He felt a wave of nausea so strong he had to grip the windowsill. He was going to miss Sarah’s birthday. He was going to miss their anniversary. Instead, he would be here, in this beige apartment, discussing prenatal vitamins with the woman who had handed him the match to burn his life down.
"Harrison?"
"I'm here," he said, the resignation settling onto his shoulders like a shroud. "I'm not going anywhere."
He walked over to the cheap laminate table and pulled out a chair. He sat down opposite the divorce papers.
He was a father. And it felt like a death sentence.