“Don’t play games with me, Luce,” he said, frozen in place.

“I’m not,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m pregnant.”

He wavered but caught himself. Oh, God. He spread his hands over his face, leaving them there. “When did you find out?”

He’d accepted that I was, indeed, pregnant. We were making progress, although this was hardly the response I was looking for. I knew he wouldn’t be jumping for joy, but I’d hoped for a hug and a We’ll get through this together reassurance.

“Two weeks ago.”

His hands fell from his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

That was the million-dollar question.

“For a lot of reasons,” I answered. “A lot of reasons that don’t matter anymore.”

He stared down at the test in his hand. “They matter to me.”

Okay, I could do this. “I was scared.”

“Of what?” he asked, not able to take his eyes from those two pink lines.

“Everything,” I answered, because it was true.

“Of me?” His voice and the expression on his face broke me. I’d hurt him. The one thing I never wanted to do but could never seem to escape from doing. It was my damn Achilles’ heel: hurting Jude.

“Yes.” I swallowed back the lump forming in my throat.

He flinched. “Afraid that I was going to turn out to be some piece-of-shit father like mine was?”

This time I flinched. That thought had never once entered my mind. I’d had a lot of anxious thoughts, enough worries to fill a person’s entire lifetime, but that had not been one of them.

“No, Jude,” I said, wanting to sit up and go to him, but I wasn’t sure my legs would work at this point in the conversation. “That never crossed my mind.”

“Then why were you hiding the fact you were pregnant from me for two weeks? Two goddamned weeks!”

He looked lost. And the kind of lost where he wasn’t hoping to be found.

“Because of this,” I said, motioning at him, feeling my temper boiling to the surface. “Because I was scared of what your reaction would be.”

He cracked his neck and looked away from me. “Yeah, well, you were right to be.”

“Obviously,” I replied, wondering if I could rewind to two minutes ago and tell Jude myself that I was pregnant before he found the test stick.

“Is it mine?”

Now it was my turn for a blow of his to take a while to settle in. Sure I’d heard him wrong, I said, “What?”

“Is. It. Mine?”

Nope, I hadn’t heard him wrong.

“Jude,” Holly hissed from the kitchen, marching toward him like she was going to punch him in the stomach.

“What?” he said, his eyes crazy. “If she hides the fact that she’s pregnant, who’s to know what else she’s hiding from me?”

Those words, that insinuation, cut me like nothing had before. Jude implying I could have been, or had been, unfaithful to him . . . this was the kind of cut that would never heal.

“Get out,” I whispered, staring into my lap. “Just get the hell out.”

When he didn’t move, I shot up from my seat and pointed at the door while I glared at him with fire shooting from my eyes. “Get the hell out!”

I saw his eyes flash before he turned away, but I couldn’t tell if it’d been a flash of anger or hurt. But I was too hurt myself to find out.

Jude stormed down the hall and slammed the door so damn hard, I thought it was going to fall from its hinges.

Before I collapsed back onto the couch, I heard a string of curses, then what sounded like a fist going through a sheet of drywall.

TWENTY

School, dance, marriage, career . . . Jude. My entire life felt like it was hanging in the balance. There wasn’t one thing I was certain about anymore. Well, save for one: I was certain I still loved Jude. I wanted to be with him, marry him, live and die with him. When life throws you a curveball like it had thrown me, you realize exactly what is important and what isn’t.

Jude, and now our baby, were at the top of that list.

After Jude had stormed out last Saturday, I hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Four and a half days I’d gone without knowing what he was thinking or where his head was or if we were going to make up, or if he even still wanted to marry me. If I hadn’t developed an ulcer yet, I was close.

When I’d shouted at Anton, “I quit!” last Saturday, I’d meant it. He’d sent a bouquet of flowers and a note to apologize, but I was one forced-upon kiss past forgiving and forgetting right now. One day, maybe, but not a few days later. Anton had crossed a line and proved that he couldn’t take no for an answer. It was obvious we couldn’t just be friends, so I made an executive decision and cut off all contact. Even Indie had my back. When she found out he’d kissed me, she went ballistic.

After I skipped class again, Holly and Thomas basically dragged me to the studio Tuesday morning. That didn’t last long, though, because as soon as I slipped into my dance leotard I could see the slightest of bumps stretching the fabric above my belly. This brought me close to a meltdown. It wasn’t just the baby bump; it was everything that had piled up in the days before.

A box of tissues later, Thomas walked me over to my academic adviser and informed her of my “fragile” condition while I went through another box of tissues. By the end of the day, we’d been able to work out a modified schedule that would allow me to continue the semester without having to adhere to a rigorous dance course load. I’d never checked before, because I didn’t want to do anything but dance, but it turned out there were quite a few theory courses I could take that would count toward my degree.

Since the baby was due sometime in February, I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to do about my last semester, but that was okay. I couldn’t think that far ahead. I still hadn’t wrapped my mind around having a child growing inside me, or that, once I pushed it out, I might be raising it alone.

Holly and I had discussed the double As, as she called them: abortion and adoption. I wasn’t going to judge what was right for someone else, but abortion just wasn’t an option for me. I couldn’t do it, simple as that. We’d talked back and forth about adoption, until I realized that this, too, just wasn’t an option for me. I hadn’t planned for it, I hadn’t seen it, didn’t even know what I was having, but it was my baby. And Jude’s baby. I couldn’t give it to someone else. I knew it was upending my life, in a present and future tense, but that wasn’t the baby’s fault. So I was going to have it and raise it. Hopefully with Jude, but alone if that was my only option.

So even though my life felt like it was one giant question mark, I attacked those few little things I could put a period after. I read a couple of books about the whole pregnancy and birthing process; one had pictures, detailed pictures, of the actual birth, which still haunted me. I made sure I got enough sleep, which was easy enough, considering my body felt tired twenty-four-seven. I took my prenatal vitamins, I walked and did my stretches, and I drank so much water I was making bathroom visits every half hour. I was moving forward.

The whole concept of having a baby growing inside me had set in. Finally. And I was going to do everything in my power to make sure it was healthy. There were moments in the night when I’d wake up and a flicker of excitement would flash through me. Then I’d find the spot beside me empty and I’d check my phone and find no missed calls or texts, and that spark of happiness would fizzle.

No matter what happened, no matter what Jude did or didn’t do, I knew one thing: I was going to be the best damn mom I could be. I doubted a lot of things, but this was one thing I knew for sure. And I wouldn’t be alone. I had Holly, who had plenty of firsthand experience to help me. I had India and Thomas to encourage me along the way, pat my back when I needed to cry, or tell me to suck it up when I needed to. Even though I hadn’t told them about the baby yet, I had Dad and Mom, too, and I knew they’d be there for me. They’d be as shocked as I’d been at first, but they’d come around just like I had, and help me find my way on this scary road.

I focused on the pieces of my life I could control and tried not to fixate on the ones I couldn’t. I lived life one hour at a time, because if I looked even one day into the future, I felt the stirrings of a panic attack.

This afternoon was the day of my first ultrasound. I could find out the gender of the baby if I wanted to know. I felt like I’d just woken up yesterday, learning I was pregnant, and today I’d know if I’d be buying blue or pink onesies. Like so much of my life, it was all too surreal.

Up until last night, I hadn’t attempted to call Jude since he’d stormed out. I couldn’t remember how many times my finger hovered over the call button before I chickened out, but the fear of my call going to voice mail, or of never hearing back from him again, was too much to contemplate. But letting him know about the ultrasound was the right decision. I at least had to give him the option to show up, because even if he didn’t want anything to do with me anymore, I hoped he wouldn’t feel the same about the baby. I should have told him the minute I found out I was pregnant; I got that. I got why he was so upset. But he should have called me the minute after he realized what an ass he’d been that day. I was still waiting for him to “get” that. The longer I waited, the angrier I got. But most of all, the sadder I got.

After an hour of going back and forth, I settled for a brief text. I let him know the address of where the ultrasound was taking place, and the time, and, against my better judgment, ended it with an I’M SORRY. I LOVE YOU, and hit send before I could agonize over the message for another hour.

I never got a reply, but even as I checked my phone when I sat filling out paperwork in the waiting room five minutes before my appointment, I hadn’t stopped hoping. Both Holly and India had offered to come for moral support, but I’d made up half a dozen excuses about why I wanted to be alone today.

I’d been filling out so much paperwork my hand was starting to go numb when I got to the last section: “Paternal Support.” The first question was easy, although Jude’s biting words rang in my ears as I checked the yes box: “Do you know who the baby’s father is?” The second and third weren’t so easy. “Is the father planning on playing an active role in the baby’s life?” and “Is the father supportive?” As soon as I was about to mark yes for both, I convinced myself the answer was no. After finding myself stuck on the same two questions when the ultrasound tech called my name, I created my own box of “I don’t know” for both.

“Hi, Lucy,” the young tech greeted me. She didn’t look too much older than me. “I’m Amy. Right this way.”

I followed her down the antiseptic-smelling hall, feeling like I was in a dream. Or a movie. My life no longer felt like my own, but like I was a passive spectator observing it, unable to control it.

“How are you doing?” she asked as she opened a door. The room inside was dark.