“I didn’t kiss her.”

“She’s this—this plague of sickness that no one sees. I see it, though. She’s so much like my mother, she ruins everything. Why can’t anyone else see what she’s doing? I can’t believe you’d do that to me—to us. I’m pregnant, Graham!”

“I didn’t kiss her!” I shouted, my throat burning as the words somersaulted from my tongue. I didn’t want to know anything more about Jane’s past. I hadn’t asked her to tell me about her sisters, I hadn’t dug, I hadn’t badgered her, but still, we somehow ended up in an argument about a woman I hardly knew. “I have no clue who your sister is, and I don’t care to know anything more about her. I don’t know what the hell is eating you up in your head, but stop taking it out on me. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t cheat on you. I didn’t do anything wrong tonight, so stop attacking me on today of all days.”

“Stop acting like you care about today,” she whispered, her back turned to me. “You didn’t even care about your father.”

My mind flashed.

Still, with him gone, everything around me has somehow slowed, and I miss the memories that never existed.

“Now’s a good time to stop talking,” I warned.

She wouldn’t.

“It’s true, you know. He meant nothing to you. He was a good man, and he meant nothing to you.”

I remained quiet.

“Why won’t you ask me about my sisters?” she asked. “Why don’t you care?”

“We all have a past we don’t speak about.”

“I didn’t lie,” she said once again, but I had never called her a liar. It was as if she was trying to convince herself she hadn’t lied, when in fact, that was exactly what she’d done. The thing was, I didn’t care, because if I’d learned anything from humans, it was that they all lied. I didn’t trust a soul.

Once a person broke trust, once a lie was brought to the surface, everything they ever said, true or false, felt as if it was at least partially covered in betrayal.

“Fine. Okay, let’s do this. Let’s just put it all out there on the table. Everything. I have two sisters, Mari and Lucy.”

I cringed. “Stop, please.”

“We don’t talk. I’m the oldest, and Lucy is the youngest. She’s an emotional wreck.” It was an ironic statement, seeing as how Jane was currently in the middle of her own breakdown. “And she’s the spitting image of my mother, who passed away years ago. My father walked out on us when I was nine, and I couldn’t even blame him—my mother was a nutcase.”

I slammed my hands down on my desk and flipped around to face her. “What do you want from me, Jane? You want me to say I’m pissed at you for not telling me? Fine, I’m pissed. You want me to be understanding? Fine, I understand. You want me to say you’re right for ditching those people? Great, you’re right for ditching them. Now can I please get back to work?”

“Tell me about yourself, Graham. Tell me about your past—you know, the one you never talk about.”

“Leave it alone, Jane.” I was so good at keeping my feelings at bay. I was so good at not getting emotionally involved, but she was pushing me, testing me. I wished she would stop, because when the feelings unleashed from the darkness of my soul, it wasn’t sadness or misery that came shooting out.

It was anger.

Anger was creeping up, and she was mentally slamming a sledgehammer against me.

She was forcing me to turn back into the monster she hadn’t known she lay beside each night.

“Come on, Graham. Tell me about your childhood. What about your mom? You had to have one of those, right? What happened to her?”

“Stop,” I said, shutting my eyes tight, my hands forming fists, but she wouldn’t let it go.

“Did she not love you enough? Did she cheat on your father? Did she die?”

I walked out of the room, because I felt it climbing to the surface. I felt my anger getting too big, too much, too overbearing. I tried my best to escape from her, but she followed me through the house.

“Okay, you don’t want to talk about your mom. How about we talk about your dad? Tell me why you despise your father so much. What did he do? Did it bother you that he was busy working all the time?”

“You don’t want to do this,” I warned once more, but she was too far gone. She wanted to play nasty, but she was playing with the wrong person.

“Did he take away your favorite toy? Did he not let you get a pet as a child? Did he forget your birthday?”

My eyes grew heavy, and she noticed it as my stare met hers. “Oh,” she whispered. “He missed a lot of birthdays.”

“I kissed her!” I finally snapped, turning to face my wife, whose jaw was hanging open. “Is that what you want? Is that the lie you want me to tell?!” I hissed. “I swear you’re acting like an idiot.”

She slammed her hands against me.

Hard.

Each time she hit me, another emotion started coming to the surface. Each time she slammed, a feeling hit my gut.

This time, it was regret.

“I’m sorry,” I said on an exhale. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t kiss her?” she asked as her voice shook.

“Of course not.”

“It’s been a long day and—ow,” she whispered as she bent over in pain. “Ouch!”

“What is it?” When my eyes met hers, my chest caved in. Her hands clutched her stomach, and her legs were soaking wet and shaking as she stood in my stretched-out T-shirt. “Jane?” I whispered, nervous and confused. “What just happened?”

“I think my water broke.”

“It’s too early, it’s too early, it’s too early,” Jane kept whispering to herself as I drove her to the hospital. Her hands rested on her stomach as the contractions kept coming.

“You’re fine, everything’s okay,” I reassured her out loud, but in my mind, I was terrified. It’s too early, it’s too early, it’s too early…

Once we made it to the hospital, we were rushed into a room where we were surrounded by nurses and doctors asking questions as they tried to figure out what had happened. Whenever I asked a question, they’d smile and tell me I’d have to wait to speak with the attending neonatologist. Time passed slowly, and each minute felt like an hour. I knew it was too early for the child—she was only at thirty-one weeks. When the neonatologist finally made his way to our room, he had Jane’s chart in his grip and a small smile on his face as he pulled up a chair to the side of her bed.

“Hey there, I’m Doctor Lawrence, and I’ll be the one you get sick of soon enough.” He started flipping through his folder and brushed one of his hands against his hairy chin. “It looks to me like your baby’s giving you quite the fight right now, Jane. Being that it’s still so early in the pregnancy, we are concerned about the safety of performing a delivery with there still being a good twelve weeks left until you’re due.”