Fourteen #4
Ethan is already seated at the far end, flanked by his lawyer (a man I am convinced was raised on a diet of burnt coffee and junior hockey aggression). Clara sits to my left, every item in her folder tabbed and color-coded, her expression a mask of polite war.
“Thanks for meeting on short notice,” says Ethan’s lawyer. The words are so mild that I can almost believe we are not about to reenact our entire failed marriage, this time with refreshments and legal liability.
Clara nods, offers nothing more.
Ethan looks at me. I do not look at him, not directly anyway, only a side glance to see if he turned into the epitome of evil incarnate as my brain occasionally casts him as.
He’s still handsome, in the way that only men who have never had to truly examine themselves can be.
His shirt is fresh, probably ironed by a service, and there’s a newness to his hair, it seems he is going through a pre-mature mid-life crisis.
His hair has never been that dark, maybe the singular grey he found six months ago scared him.
We start in a bland and overly polite way. The only thing left on the table is the royalties. Ethan’s lawyer tries to make it sound like an administrative afterthought, but Clara is not having it.
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” she says, her pen not even touching the paper. “Our position hasn’t changed. You are not entitled to ongoing royalties on intellectual property that did not require your contribution, financially or otherwise, for production.”
Ethan’s lawyer says, “With respect, there is precedent…”
Clara says, “None that would survive a judge with two weeks of law school and an internet connection.”
He does not argue and I can tell that Clara’s abrupt demeanour has thrown him off. Go Clara. I wouldn’t mess with her in full lawyer mode, that’s for sure.
That’s when Ethan moves in his chair, his mouth opening and closing once, twice.
He says, “I think there is a more pressing thing we need to discuss.” Then, he turns to me and the anger I see on his face honestly surprises me. “I saw you yesterday.”
There’s a moment where my brain cycles through every possible “yesterday” in our shared history, but I come up empty.
“At the medical clinic,” he says. “You went into the OBGYN on Third.”
A slow panic fills me, the kind that never shows on the outside, but floods the system anyway.
Ethan’s lawyer tries to interject, “If this isn’t pertinent to the negotiations, ” but Ethan isn’t listening.
“Are you pregnant?”
The room seems to hush at that. Clara moves and slides a palm over my wrist, a move so slight that only I notice.
Ethan stares at me. His face is open and raw in a way I haven’t seen since college.
He repeats himself, “Are you pregnant?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how to be the one to tell him.
Despite everything, a tiny part of me still feels like what I did with Alexander was cheating, even though logically I know that what me and Ethan did are night and day in comparison.
Thankfully Clara is already prepping to end the meeting. But Ethan is not done.
He says, louder, “So you got pregnant because you knew I was leaving?”
I blink. That is so off the mark that it takes a full three seconds to even comprehend it. He keeps going, his voice rising to a shout, “Did you think this would change my mind? That I’d come running back because you’re having my kid?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. Neither seems appropriate, so I stay silently dumbfounded. How can he think the baby is his? We haven't slept together in over four months. Surely he remembered how big I was with Leo? The doctors thought I was having twins until the first scan.
Instead, I say in as calm a voice as I can muster, “The baby isn’t yours.”
My voice is calm and level which feels like a win. Maybe too calm given the volume he is using. The whole room goes silent. Clara looks at me, then at Ethan, then at his lawyer, whose face is an exquisite mask of “please God let the floor swallow me whole.”
Ethan’s eyes go glassy and I feel that tiny and annoying pinch of guilt again.
“What?”
Clara says, “We’re done here.”
She stands, gathering her folders with efficiency.
Ethan sputters, “But that’s not…when…how…”
Clara addresses the other lawyer.
“From here out, we’ll be communicating exclusively by email. If your client cannot be civil, there’s no point in further negotiation.”
The other lawyer nods, then turns to Ethan, as if there’s some magic word that will reassert control. There isn’t.
Clara turns to me. “Harper?”
I stand, slowly. My knees don’t buckle, even though it feels like they should. The urge to look back is strong, but I resist. There is nothing behind me worth seeing.
As we step into the hall, Clara says, “You okay?”
I look at her. Clara’s face is a mask of concern. “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
Behind the closed door, Ethan’s voice rises, but I don’t listen. I keep walking. The building is cold, the air outside even colder, but I breathe it in any way. We reach the elevator. Clara presses the button, then glances at me sideways.
“He’s going to hate this,” she says.
“Let him,” I say, and we both laugh at the absurdity, an ugly, perfect sound.
When the elevator doors close, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.
Despite feeling guilty. I wouldn’t change this baby for the world.