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“No need for anything extravagant,” I tell her as she hands me a stack of pamphlets that feel like bricks in my hands. “Thanks.”
Even Amelie’s eyes widen at the sight. “Would you look at that? You’d think you were joining a cult, not having a baby.”
“Real supportive, Amelie,” I tease. “Shall we go?”
Outside, the chill hits me as I reach for my scarf. Right. Not here. It’s still in Adrian’s car, probably soaking up his cologne.
“I’ll take you back to your office then?” I start, already picturing the traffic we’ll have to navigate.
“Don’t worry about it,” she interrupts, slipping on her sunglasses. “I’ve got plans to grab drinks with some girls from work. It’s just a block away.”
“Drinks? Without me?” I feign indignation, placing a hand over my heart.
“Last time I checked, pregnant ladies don’t double as drinking buddies,” Amelie retorts with a smirk. “Had to find a new crew.”
“Traitor,” I mock-accuse, but there’s a grateful lilt in my voice. Amelie has always been my anchor, especially now, when I feel like I’m adrift in uncharted waters.
“Call me later?” she says, hugging me quickly before sauntering off toward her newfound friends.
“Will do.” I watch her go, her laughter mingling with the city sounds. Then, turning on my heel, I walk to my car, the weight of the future heavy in my purse.
Traffic isn’t too bad, and I’m back at my West Hollywood abode in under fifteen minutes. Just as I arrive on my floor, I notice someone standing right outside my door in the hallway. Speak of the devil and he shall appear—it’s Adrian, holding my scarf out like some kind of peace offering.
“Hey,” he says, and I’m too busy trying to shove the pregnancy pamphlets deep into my purse to remember how to form words as I approach him. “You left this—”
Then disaster strikes. My purse spills open, pamphlets cascading to the floor like confetti. In my rush, I end up pushing them further across the floor rather than scooping them up. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s from the bending or the panic.
“Isabella?” Adrian’s tone changes.
He’s seen them. Of course, he has.
“Are you—?” He doesn’t finish the sentence; he doesn’t need to. His eyes lock onto mine, dark pools of concern, curiosity, and something else I can’t quite name.
I look up at him, my throat suddenly dry. I want to say something witty, something sarcastic. But nothing comes out. Just an inaudible gasp, a silent admission. And there we are, in the eye of the storm, waiting to see which way the wind will blow us.
Chapter ten
Adrian
Ishuffle in behind Isabella, the door to her apartment clicking shut like the final verdict in a courtroom. The irony isn’t lost on me—I spend my days fighting battles with words, yet now, I’m rendered mute by the weight of impending fatherhood. It’s a whole different kind of life sentence.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says without looking back, leading the way into the living room with that commanding stride I know all too well. Comfortable? If only. My gut is twisted tighter than the lid on a jar of pickles nobody can open.
Her couch looks inviting, but I perch on the edge like it’s a hot stove.
“Look, Adrian,” she starts, breaking the silence with her sharp-edged clarity, “we were careful. But apparently, condoms have a vendetta against wallet storage. Who knew?”
“Clearly not me,” I mutter, feeling the sting of responsibility. “If I had known—”
“I believe you.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and it’s as if neither of us can bring ourselves to look each other in the eye.
“How long have you known?”
“Just a little over a week.” She takes a deep breath, and I brace myself. Her eyes, those green pools of resolve, lock onto mine. “And I’ve made my decision: I’m keeping the baby.”
The words hang there, and suddenly, Isabella King, the woman who argues with the ferocity of a pit bull, sounds almost ... vulnerable. She lays out her fears like evidence on display but stands firm in her decision. No backing down. Classic Isabella.
“An abortion—it doesn’t feel right for me,” she continues, her voice steady as a heartbeat. “And I can do this alone.”