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Kit’s chest lifts with a sudden inhale, but he says nothing.
“I don’t know who she was. I’d never seen her before, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I just … left.”
That haunts almost as much as the moment itself.
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Not until now. It’s this awful secret I’mstuckwith. I don’t want to be the one to tell my mom … if she doesn’t know. Same with Jane. And my dad?” I rest a palm on Kit’s chest, right above his heart. The steady beat is reassuring. “I … I want to pretend it never happened. That I never saw anything. But it’s been almost three years, and I haven’t been able to forget.” I sigh. “I wasn’t totally honest when you asked me about moving to Chicago. I did want to live somewhere different after staying in Connecticut for college. But it was also a way to distance myself from my dad. I needed space.”
“I figured something had happened,” Kit says, playing with a strand of my hair. “The way you acted around him when we visited … I remembered you guys being closer than that.”
He’s referring to the day I moved into Montgomery Hall. My dad was so proud. Both of my parents were.
“We were closer,” I say. “And I wish we still were, especially now, with the baby coming. But I … it’s a new chapter in some ways, but I don’t know how to just get over that part of the past.”
“I’m sorry about your dad, baby.”
I sniffle. “Stop being so understanding. You’re supposed to be mad at me.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Youwantme to be unreasonable and angry?” I can hear the smile in the question.
“I guess.”
“Okay, I’ll work on it.” The hand on my hip moves, splaying across my stomach. “You’re not fat, Monty.”
“I’mgoingto be.”
“Well, I hope so. I don’t want an abnormally small kid.”
“You’re six-two, so statistically speaking, I’m going to get a lot bigger.”
“Six-three.”
“Huh?”
“You said I’m six-two. I’m six-three.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Did you feel that?” he asks suddenly. Excitedly.
“Feel what—oh. Yeah. You can feel it too?”
“Yeah.” He nods, glancing down at my stomach as there’s another soft tap. “Yeah,” he repeats more quietly. “Holy crap.”
“He—or she—seems to like kicking at night,” I say. “Or … when you’re here.”
The look on Kit’s face makes it hard to breathe. It feels like my heart is expanding, crushing my lungs. His expression is overflowing with tenderness. A focus that’s bright but also inviting, like a sunbeam.
“Wow,” he whispers when there’s another kick against his palm. “Mango is really strong.”