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I’m floating, with nothing to tether me.
I manage a blink, and my eyes burn like it’s been too long since they closed. How long has it been since she appeared in my office? Minutes? Years? I’ve lost all sense of time.
Collins stands, and the abrupt movement is the first thing to permeate the haze.
Sounds start to trickle in, starting with the buzz of my phone on my desk. Levi is calling.
There’s too much happening—a merry-go-round of activity around me—while I’m busy relearning how to blink. Absorbing the impact of this massive boulder that was just dropped on me. A billion tries, and I don’t think I would have correctly guessed what Collins came in hereto tell me. The possibility simply never occurred to me.
The familiar surroundings of my office spin, making my stomach heave.
I manage to focus on Collins’s expression. Her face is impassive, but her eyes are sharp and assessing. Reading my reaction carefully.
I’m not taking the news well, I know.
I should be asking questions, offering reassurances. But I’m just sostunned. I’m standing on a stage, under a spotlight, knowing there are lines to say, but unable to recall a single word of the script.
My brain is a blank void, stuck on a loop of Collins’s voice saying,I’m pregnant.I’m pregnant.I’m pregnant.
“It’s almost six. You’ll be late for your dinner.”
She turns toward the door. She’s leaving.
Collins Tate just altered the trajectory of the rest of my life, and she’s leaving with a casual reminder of my calendar like I’m not in a catatonic state.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell her to stay, but, “Fuck,” is the first word that spills out.
Her shoulders tense, so I know she heard.
She pauses halfway across my office and glances back.
My relief that she’s lingering is short-lived.
“Don’t worry, Kit. I don’t expect anything from you. Have agreatweekend.”
She’s gone before I can muster a single syllable in response.
And I’m only certain of one thing.
It’s not going to be a great weekend.
18
The silver station wagon is waiting alongside the curb when I walk out of the automatic doors. My train ran ten minutes behind, so it’s less surprising that he’s on time for once.
It’s chillier in New Haven than I was expecting, fall’s crispness creeping into the evening air. I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket as I start toward the Volvo.
I was dreading this trip homebeforeI knew the news I’d need to share. After my awful conversation with Kit earlier, Jane is the only reason I didn’t cancel this visit to curl up inbed all weekend.
I open the trunk at the same moment the driver’s door creaks open. I dump my duffel bag next to the milk crate, where my dad stores the papers that won’t fit in his briefcase, and shut the trunk a little harder than necessary. The entire frame of the ancient station wagon shakes from the impact.
“Hello, Collins.”
“Hi, Dad.” I shove my hands back into my pocket before turning to face him.
My father isn’t a big man. He’s tall, over six feet, but slender instead of stocky. He wears tweed suits that evoke his Irish ancestry and horn-rimmed glasses, which are constantly at risk of slipping down his nose.
I watch him appraise the firm set of my shoulders; he looks like he deliberates giving me a hug and decides against an embrace.