Fourteen #2
He nods, as if that answer is both expected and appropriate.
He pulls out the chair next to him and then he turns to face me, he doesn’t fidget or pace, doesn’t demand anything.
He just waits for me to join him. I do, because my legs have been threatening to give out since the moment I texted him to come over.
We sit across from each other, the phone with the photo of the test between us, and I realize that the last time I told a man he was going to be a father, he went very quiet in a way I mistook for bravery but was actually the root system of all our future disasters.
Alexander’s reaction isn’t the same. He is quiet, sure.
But it seems to be more for my benefit than his own.
It’s possible I start crying. I’m not sure, because I don't even notice the tears until they hit my hand that's resting in my lap, just a slow overflow. He doesn’t rush in to comfort me with words, he just takes my hand that is now unfortunately damp and holds it.
After a long time, he says, “Do you want to talk about it?” and when I don’t answer, he adds, “You don’t have to decide anything right now. I just… I’m here. Whatever happens, whatever you decide… I’m not going anywhere.”
We don’t speak for a long time. And when we do, its Alexander again that breaks the silence.
“Do you know how far along you are?” He pauses, before he tacks on.
“I know it's been a couple of months, but I am not too sure of the exact date.” He has the grace to look sheepish which I actually find endearing.
“Not exactly,” I admit. “Six weeks, maybe seven.”
He nods at that. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t…” I pause, embarrassed. “I haven’t made an appointment yet. I was trying to decide if I… if I wanted to keep it.” The admission tastes like battery acid on my tongue. I expect him to react, but he doesn’t flinch.
He just says, “That makes sense, and do you know now whether you want to? Keep the baby I mean…” as if I’ve confessed nothing more scandalous than indecision over a takeout menu.
He waits, so I keep going, a snowball of words tumbling downhill.
“Yea, I do. I thought it was just stress, at first. Then I thought maybe the flu. Or a vitamin deficiency? I mean, my life is basically a vitamin deficiency in search of a prescription.” I laugh, but it comes out as a squeak, too bright to sound normal.
“The nausea started two weeks ago, but I convinced myself it was the coffee here. Or the smell of the bleach at Page & Grounds.”
Alexander’s mouth does that thing again, where it almost smiles but not quite. “You there often? The cafe I mean. It’s the one your friend owns right? The escape plan?”
I laugh a little as I nod. “I write most of my stuff there. Sometimes I bring Leo. He eats croissants and judges people for fun.”
He smiles this time, full and real, like the idea of my son being a miniature critic is both charming and inevitable.
Then he keeps going “Does he know about the baby?”
“No,” I say, and for the first time all evening I have to look away. I feel like I have been failing on my adulting duties right now. “He’s already… he’s been through a lot. I don’t know how to explain any of this to him.”
Alexander seems to absorb this. I don’t know what I expect from him. Maybe some kind of plan. Maybe outrage or disbelief or the kind of dramatic gesture that makes everything easier, like in the books I write.
Instead, he just starts asking the practical questions, one after the other, like assembling a puzzle with no picture on the box.
“Are you feeling okay now?”
“Some days. I have to nap at lunchtime or I get dizzy. It’s getting better, I think.”
“Any food aversions? Cravings?”
I laugh again, this time more genuinely. “Tomatoes. I can’t be in the same room as one. Yesterday I almost threw up because Elsie put a cherry tomato in my salad. And I’ve eaten an entire jar of pickles in three days.”
He smiles. “The classics then.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a walking cliché.”
We both look at the phone. I think about how just a month ago, I would have done anything to keep this man at arm’s length. Now I don’t know how to feel.
I say, “I write books about women surviving their marriages and I couldn’t even see this coming.”
He doesn’t laugh, but the line at the corner of his mouth moves. “You were a little busy.”
There’s a beat, and then, out of nowhere, I blurt, “I’m terrified.” The words come out raw, if not slightly unhinged. “I don’t want to do this alone, but I also can’t ask you to…” I gesture at the air, a helpless pantomime of parenthood, of permanence.
He looks at me and for a second I think he’s going to say the perfect thing, the thing that will make it all better.
Instead, he says, “You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Or tomorrow, even. If you want, I’ll go with you to the doctor. Or I’ll just keep my phone on in case you want to yell at someone in the middle of the night.”
I exhale, he makes it sound so easy. It almost makes me angry at him, but I take a breath and put psycho Harper back in her box.
He reaches across the table, covers my hand with his where I moved it to the counter, palm-down, the weight of it anchoring me in place.
He says, “You’re not alone, Harper. I know that we don’t know each other well. But I mean it when I say I am here for you.”
He doesn’t squeeze, just rests there, heat and steadiness and the promise of something I really want to believe.
“I’m scared about telling Leo,” I say, softer now. “He’s still hoping his dad is going to show up and fix everything. I haven’t figured out how to tell him that the world just gets messier instead.”
Alexander is silent for a few seconds. Then he says, “Kids are better at mess than grown-ups. They’re resilient.”
“Yeah. I keep reading that. It still feels like a lie.”
He smiles, but it’s sad. “Sometimes it is. But they get through.”
I nod, knowing that he is probably right. I must be projecting that the time to talk is over as he seems to take the hint that I am overwhelmed. When he finally stands, he lingers at the door, hands in his pockets. For a second, I want to reach out and pull him back, but I don’t.
He says, “You must be tired. I will let you rest for now and talk to you in the morning. Can you let me know when you book an appointment? I would love to come along, if that's alright with you of course?”
That makes me smile, “Of course.”
He leaves. I watch his silhouette move past the window. When he’s gone, the house is silent again, but I feel like a weight has lifted. I pick my phone up to message the group chat.
Harper: Well...
Liv: OH MY GOD.
Liv: YOU'RE ALIVE.
Luca: I literally had Adrian on standby to call emergency services.
Elsie: ???
Harper: He took it…
Harper: Really well.
The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Liv: …
Liv: THAT'S IT???
Luca: Elaborate before I drive over there.
Harper: ??
Harper: He wasn't angry.
Harper: He actually asked if I was okay first.
Elsie:??
Liv: Green flag.
Luca: Suspiciously green.
Harper: He wants to come to my first appointment.
I stare at the screen after sending it. The replies arrive almost instantly.
Elsie: ??
Liv: Okay that's actually adorable.
Luca: Right. I've decided I like him. Pending ongoing assessment.
I smile despite myself.
Harper: Don't tell him that. It'll go to his head.
Luca: Impossible. The man sounds like he voluntarily drinks black coffee. He would be humble by default.
I laugh. Not the slightly hysterical ones I've been producing lately. Just… easy.
Elsie: So…Doctor tomorrow?
My smile fades a little. Reality gently taps me on the shoulder again.
Harper: Yeah. Need to book in tomorrow. Figure out how far along I am.
Liv: You've got us.
Elsie: Every step.
Luca: Literally every step. I will be insufferable.
Harper: You've been insufferable since I met you.
Luca: And yet… Here we are. Still best friends. Curious.
I shake my head, smiling as I lock my phone. Grateful that tomorrow doesn't feel quite so terrifying.
Fifteen
Harper
Divorce is weird. One minute you're arguing over whether your husband slept with his secretary. The next you're arguing over who gets the air fryer. Apparently that's where my life is now. The affair? Devastating. The paperwork? Mind-numbingly boring.
I take a sip of coffee that's been sitting on the bench long enough to legally qualify as iced and glance between my laptop and the ever-growing pile of divorce paperwork.
Somewhere underneath the stack are probably my kitchen bench and most of my remaining sanity.
Between this and the doctors this morning, I am a bit… overwhelmed.
Leo started calling the paperwork The Boring Book last week. I hid it when he was home after that. Mostly because I didn't want my eight-year-old accidentally learning what "asset division" meant before long division. The house is quiet now he's at school.
As if summoned by my own pessimism, my phone buzzes. I don't even have to look. It's either Clara…
…or someone trying to sell me a new vacuum cleaner.
I answer anyway.
"Morning."
"Morning," Clara replies, sounding exactly like someone billing me by the minute. "I've heard back from Ethan's solicitor."
I lean back in my chair.
"Let me guess."
"He suddenly wants the blender."
Silence.
“…No."
"Damn."
"He wants your future royalties now."
I blink.
"My…"
"Future royalties."
I actually laugh. Because if I don't laugh, I'm going to have to find a shovel and hide a body.
"Right," I say slowly. "Of course he does."
“There’s more,” she continues, voice so clipped that I can tell she is pissed. “They’re arguing now that your entire author platform itself constitutes a marital asset, social media and all.”
That actually makes me snort. “My Instagram is a marital asset?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I lean back, pinching the bridge of my nose. Wondering when my life became so complicated. Oh right, When Ethan decided his dick was communal property.
“Where are we on everything else?”