Chapter 3
THREE
HARPER
Any sane person would terminate the pregnancy.
It’s the only choice that makes any sense.
Z printed out the information from Planned Parenthood on Dani’s printer at work. Then he folded it carefully and tucked it into my apron pocket like a secret we’re both pretending isn’t there.
We’re lucky we’re in Austin. It’s one of the few places left in Texas where I can still get a… where it’s at least still an option.
At least for now, while it’s still early.
Time’s running out, though.
But whenever I think about making the appointment, my thumb freezes over the phone screen.
Because what if it’s Caleb’s?
The thought hits me at the worst moments—when I’m elbow-deep in dish suds, or trying to fall asleep in the narrow bed I share with Z, or when I wake up from dreams where Caleb’s hands are on my skin and his voice is in my ear saying I love you over and over until I wake up gasping.
What if this tiny cluster of cells inside me is half him and half me? What if it has his blue eyes and my stubborn chin and also pieces wholly its own?
I know it’s selfish.
But I can’t stop imagining it: calling Caleb, hearing his voice for the first time in months, and then saying I’m pregnant and it’s yours.
Would he be angry? Devastated? Or would something in those blue eyes soften with that careful tenderness of his?
He’d want to be involved. I know that much. Caleb Graham doesn’t do anything halfway—not his color-coded schedules, not his rules, and most certainly not his love.
If this baby is his, he’d want to be there as a real father.
And Helen.
God, Helen.
A grandchild could give her something even more to fight for while she’s battling chemo and grief over Silas being in prison because of me.
I’ve tried everything to find out how she’s doing—created a fake Facebook account and sent a friend request that’s been sitting in a pending folder for three weeks now. Her page is locked down private. No recent posts visible. No updates.
Caleb’s Instagram went dark the week after I left. His last post is from before everything exploded—a photo of him and Helen at some charity gala, her in a blue dress that matches his tie, both of them smiling like the perfect mother-son duo they are.
Were.
Before I wrecked it all.
I check Facebook for the hundredth time today. Still nothing. The friend request just sits there, pending.
“What’s up?” Z’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t hear him come in from his shift.
I click the phone screen off too fast. “Just… looking at random stuff.”
But Z’s gaze is sharp as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it toward the laundry pile in the corner of our tiny room. The muscles in his shoulders flex as he moves. He’s gotten stronger in the two-and-a-half months we’ve been here, all the physical labor from the kitchen filling him out.
He’s beautiful. He always has been.
So why do I still see Caleb’s face when I close my eyes?
“You know you can’t call him, right?” Z says it gently, but there’s steel underneath. “Even if—” he stops. Swallows. “Even if it’s his, he made it clear. He let you go.”
God, I’m so fucking transparent, aren’t I? I’m embarrassed he still knows I’m pining for my ex when we’re living in the same room and sleeping in the same bed…
“I know.” My voice comes out small.
Z crosses to the bed and sits beside me. His hand finds mine, and I let him hold it even though his touch feels wrong. Too rough. They aren’t Caleb’s careful fingers that used to trace patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me.
“Whatever you decide,” Z says, his voice going soft, “I’m here. If you want to keep it, I’ll step up. If you want to… you know—if you need to go to the clinic, I’ll take you. I’ll hold your hand through the whole thing.”
He would. I know he would.
Z has been nothing but supportive since we found out—working extra hours, talking about getting us a better place “just in case,” never once pressuring me or making me feel like shit for not being able to decide.
He’s everything a girl could ask for.
But he’s not—
God, I’m the piece of shit.
But Z just isn’t Caleb.
“I can’t decide anything until I know,” I hear myself whisper.
Z’s hand tightens on mine. “Know what?”
“Whose it is.” The truth tastes like ash. “I need to know who the father is before I can decide what to do.”
Something flickers across his face—hurt, jealousy, maybe anger—but he buries it fast. “Okay.”
I feel like a monster.
“Z—”
“I said okay.” He stands up and runs a hand through his dark hair. “How much does the paternity test cost?”
I’ve already looked it up. Obsessively. Multiple times. “Fifteen hundred dollars. For the non-invasive kind. They can do it around eight weeks.”
I’m at ten weeks now. Much longer, and there’s no decision to be made at all.
Z doesn’t flinch at the cost even though I can see him calculating in his head—that’s everything we’ve saved for a deposit on our own place.
“Then we do it,” he says finally. “You need to know. I get it.”
“Z—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than he intends, and he immediately softens it. “Don’t apologize, Harp. You didn’t ask for any of this. Neither of us did.”
But the set of his shoulders as he grabs his gaming headphones tells me everything he’s not saying. That it fucking kills him. That he’s been waiting his whole life for me and even now—even pregnant with what might be his baby—I still can’t fully give myself to him.
Because part of me is still trapped in Dallas, back with Caleb in those golden moments before everything shattered.
The blood draw takes less than five minutes.
Z’s cheek swab takes even less.
It’s seven to ten business days for results, the kindly nurse tells us. As if those words—business days—somehow make the waiting easier. As if I can just go about my life while this answer grows inside me, dividing and multiplying, becoming more real with every hour that passes.
Z holds my hand in the clinic. We pay together with the cash we’ve been saving. Z puts in more than I can contribute—crumpled bills that represent hours of his life standing over a hot grill, chopping vegetables, and cleaning grease traps.
“Thank you,” I whisper when we’re back outside in the Austin heat.
He just nods and doesn’t meet my eyes.
We don’t talk about it after that. We go to work. Come home. Collapse into bed, exhausted but not touching beyond the inevitable press of bodies on a mattress meant for one person.
I check my email every thirty seconds when it’s my turn to use the one phone we still share between us.
Refresh. Nothing.
Refresh. Nothing.
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
Z notices. Of course he notices.
But he doesn’t say anything—he just throws himself into his gaming in the hour or two he allows himself before bed.
I see code on the screen sometimes when I glance over.
He’s teaching himself programming in what little free time he has, watching YouTube tutorials and scribbling notes in a composition notebook.
“You’re good at that,” I tell him one night, nodding at the monitor.
He shrugs. “Just messing around.”
But I can tell it matters to him. That maybe he’s imagining a different future—one where he doesn’t smell like fryer grease and sweat. One where he could provide for us differently.
For me and— His baby, if the universe has any mercy left.
Oh shit, did I just decide I’m keeping it no matter who the father is?
It’s day eight of waiting for the paternity test results.
I’m in the middle of scrubbing a particularly stubborn pot when the phone buzzes in my apron pocket. Z had it all morning—I had the early shift—but he handed it off when he came in.
My heart stops.
Actually stops for a full second before slamming back to life at double speed.
I drop the pot back into the sink with a splash that soaks my shirt. My hands shake so badly I can barely get the phone out of my pocket.
Z is across the kitchen, working the grill, but he must have peripheral vision like a fucking hawk because his head snaps up. Our gazes connect.
He knows.
The clatter of the kitchen fades to white noise as I stare at my phone screen.
Subject: Your NIPP Results are Ready
The email sits there. Innocent. Tiny. World-ending.
My thumb hovers over it.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
The line from that Frost poem we studied in English last year suddenly pops into my head, mocking and absurd. Ms. Robertson made us analyze it to death—something about choices and paths not taken and regret.
But right now, as I try to remember how to breathe, the image is suddenly so clear in my head: two paths splitting off from right where I’m standing.
Two completely different versions of my life.
On the left path: Z and staying here in Austin.
We’d rent a studio apartment somewhere. I can see a baby with his sharp features and even sharper attitude. It’s a life with a man who’s loved me since we were kids. He would burn down the world for me. It would be a hard life, maybe, but one where I’m wanted. One where I belong.
On the path to the right: Caleb and going back to Dallas.
Everything I lost would be returned to me.
Plus a baby with my eyes and Caleb’s intelligent mind.
It’s a life with the only man I’ve ever felt truly connected to on a soul level, who made me feel like I could be whoever I want to be, regardless of who I’ve been before.
Maybe the future that was ripped away from us could be stitched back together if this tiny cluster of cells has Caleb’s DNA instead of Z’s.
Which is probably a terrible, selfish thought.
And ludicrous. The choice isn’t that black and white.
I can’t keep this pregnancy.
I’m too young to have a kid.
I always swore I’d be nothing like my mom, and dropping out of high school was bad enough. Being knocked up at 18—
There’s just no way I can keep it.
My hovering finger starts to tremble.
“Harper,” Z’s voice is close. When did he cross the kitchen? “You don’t have to look right now. We can wait until—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I need to know.”