pills—until I found a small square of folded paper. Unwrapping it, I tried to read what we’d written but could hardly make it out because it had gotten wet. Frowning, I looked at the drawer again. Had there been a fucking plumbing leak somehow?
I felt around and looked at the bottom of the drawer, but saw no evidence of moisture. The cotton balls and Q-tips were dry, and the white Clomid box showed no signs it had gotten wet.
It also showed no signs of having been opened.
What the fuck?
I picked it up and shook it—definitely full. I stared at the box in my hand, wondering if maybe she’d had a different pack. Otherwise, why else wouldn’t she have taken them? If I remembered correctly, she should have started them on Monday, which meant she should have taken the last one today. I shook the box again, but it still wasn’t empty.
I looked at the contract again, the blue ink diluted and smeared like the watercolor hue of her eyes.
With the page in one hand and the box of pills in the other, I went back into the bedroom. “What’s this?” I asked, holding up the Clomid. “You haven’t been taking them?”
Color splashed into her cheeks. She sucked in her breath.
“Be honest with me, Bianca. Did you not take the pills because you changed your mind?”
She swallowed and opened her mouth, staring at the pill box. “I . . .” Then she met my eyes again. “Yes. I changed my mind.”
My arm dropped. “Why?”
“Because it wasn’t going to work anyway, and I figure we might as well just stop pretending.”
“And you didn’t think to say anything to me about it?” My pulse was hammering in my head.
She set her wine glass on the nightstand. “I was going to. I just needed some time to process everything.”
“Bianca, this is . . .” I tried to think of what this was. Plenty of words came to mind—hurtful? Shocking? Wrong?—but none of them were exactly what I wanted to say. She had every right not to take the drug, every right to take time to think, every right to decide whether or not she wanted a child with me.
So why did this feel like a punch in the gut?
She got to her knees on the bed, sitting back on her heels, and looked up at me. Her blue eyes were shining. “Please don’t be mad at me, Enzo. Please.” She began to cry. “I tried so hard to talk myself into it, but I just couldn’t. I don’t want the disappointment again. I don’t want to feel like I’m letting you down.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” she insisted, wiping away her tears. “I know you want kids, and you can still have them. You don’t need me.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Enzo.” She got off the bed, putting even more distance between us. “You tried, and I appreciate that. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. And if you need me to stay longer to make sure Moretti & Sons goes to you, I will.”
“Otherwise, what?” I asked, stunned to see her grab a pair of jeans from a dresser drawer I’d turned over to her and tug them on. What the fuck was happening?
“Otherwise, I think it’s best if I go back to my condo.”
“For how long?”
“For good, Enzo.” Her tears kept coming as she took off the plaid pajama shirt and pulled on a gray sweatshirt over the white tank. “It’s better this way, can’t you see?”
“How?”
“Because we can stay friends. I can still help you with the house. We can still talk. We just won’t be . . . together.”
I was dying to go over and take her in my arms, let her blubber all over my shirt, tell her to stop talking this way and get back in bed.
But I stayed put. How was I supposed to argue with what she was saying? I did have what I wanted. She’d fulfilled her end of the deal. And if she’d changed her mind about having a baby with me, there was nothing I could do about it. In fact, I should be glad, shouldn’t I? This last week had been so tough—I didn’t want to live like that.
So why did it hurt so much to watch her packing up to leave?
I stood there with the pill box still in one hand and the contract in the other while she went into the bathroom. I was still frozen in place when she came out with