I sigh. “The problem is that he isn’t, though. He’s probably been retracing all of our conversations and finding patterns to fit his theory.”
“You can be a clever idiot.”
“Something you know from experience?”
Wilma lifts her head briefly to stick her tongue out at me, before settling back down. “You can’t tell me you aren’t angry with him, Bella. You can’t possibly be handling this as serenely as you seem to be. I know you—and you’re not one to back down from a fight. Wow, this crack in your ceiling is legit.”
I glance up. “I called the landlord about it, but he said it was part of the old building charm.”
“Well, it’s not so charming when old buildings come down around you and you’re buried in rubble.”
“No hating on my home.”
“Calling it a home is a bit of a stretch,” Wilma points out. “And don’t deflect. You’re angry at him?”
I keep my eyes on the wide fissure in the plaster and try to keep my own cracks at bay. “He’s dismissing everything we had because of this pregnancy. It’s like he’s seeing what he wants to see, instead of the truth. Of course I’m angry at him.”
“Good.” Wilma’s voice is determined. “Better angry than sad.”
“I’m both.”
“Both is also good.”
“Have you started studying psychology and not told me about it?”
“No, I’m just an armchair expert. Do you have any dreams? I could interpret those.”
“Sadly, I’m all out.”
“Dang.” She looks down at her watch. “Trina should be here soon with the take-out.”
“Awesome.”
“I’ll have to point out the crack in the ceiling to her.”
I groan, because Trina is an architect student. “You know exactly what she’ll say.”
“Oh yes,” Wilma says, relish in her voice. “She’ll say it’s structurally unsound. But look at it this way—she might be able to get your landlord to lower the rent on those grounds.”
“Yippie. Also, what the heck am I going to tell my parents? You’re very welcome to come up with suggestions.”
“They come to town next month, right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them the truth,” Wilma says, grinning at my expression. “Yes, they might have apoplexies, but what else can you do?”
“Conceal it for eighteen years, never visit, become—”
The sound of my phone ringing echoes through the still mostly empty living room. I reach for my bag, thrown by the front door.
I chuckle, fingers closing around my phone. But the name on my screen isn’t our friend at all.
“It’s Ethan.”
Wilma straightens. “Shit.”
My heart in my throat, I answer. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Hi.”
“We have a lot to talk about,” he says. “Are you home? Can I come up?”
“Now? Like, right now?”
Wilma’s eyes widen, and then she’s nodding. Yes, she mouths.
“Yes, now.” Ethan’s voice is the embodiment of polite, cool professionalism. “Unless you’re busy, in which case I can come back later.”
You’re not busy, Wilma mouths, already standing to grab her purse. I wave at her. Stay. But she shakes her head.
“Bella?”
“Okay. Yeah, okay. Are you downstairs?”
“I’m in the area. I’ll be there soon.”
“All right.”
He hangs up without another word. I sit staring at my phone, my heart racing. It isn’t until Wilma heads to the front door that I come to. “He wants to talk.”
“I heard,” she says. “Bella, this is great.”
“It’s probably about contracts. I didn’t sign them the last time.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever it is, just remember that you have the right to be angry, to be furious, to be sad, anything and all of that.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck, babe. And call me immediately after.”
She disappears down the hallway, the low heels of her boots steady on the floor. They’re far steadier than the beat of my heart.
I snatch the sonogram picture from the floor and clutch it to my chest. It feels like armor—like my strength. Funny, that. In so short a time my life has reoriented itself entirely around this child, like a planet changing its source of gravity.
Ethan had to be close, because I’m still sitting on the floor when he knocks. In his hands is a Tupperware box with small, irregular chocolate squares.
They disrupt my thoughts—I don’t even say hello. “You brought brownies?”
“The girls and I baked them this morning.” And then, perhaps because he can’t resist, he adds, “Maria didn’t help us.”
I take it from him. “Impressive.”
“Marginally, perhaps.” Ethan’s eyes slide from mine to the image I’m clutching, and the faint smile fades from his face.