I wanted to deny it.
I wanted to say no, never, impossible, that fear had confused me for just a second.
But the truth stood between us, with the towel on the floor and the nightgown on backwards.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I whispered.
It wasn’t enough.
We both knew it.
She closed her eyes and, for a moment, her breathing became shallow and irregular.
I helped her put a coat over her nightgown, careful not to look at the stains anymore.
The back seams peeked out from under the collar, small and absurd, as proof of how powerless the night had been.
She noticed my gaze and answered before I could ask.
“I put it on after I showered,” she said. “I was dizzy. I couldn’t tell the front from the back.”
The explanation was so simple that it became unbearable.
There is no secret lover.
Without rushing to leave.
Just a woman, alone, pregnant, scared, and too weak to dress properly.
I tied her shoes because she couldn’t bend down, and she watched my hands with silent weariness.
His silence was not empty.
It was filled with every minute he had waited.
Every unanswered call.
Every wrong thought that I allowed to grow inside me.
In the elevator, he leaned against the wall and pressed the folder to his chest.
The fluorescent light made her face look almost gray.
I stayed by her side, without touching her this time, because I didn’t know if my touch still comforted her.
The numbers above the door slowly descended.
Fourth floor.
Third.
Second.
Each pause felt like a small punishment.
At the entrance, the night air hit us hard, and Lucie took a deep breath through clenched teeth.
I guided her to the car, opened the passenger door, and placed my hand on the roof.
He stopped before entering.
For a terrifying second, I thought she was going to faint.
Instead, he looked at me and asked, “Were you afraid for me first, or were you angry first?”
The question was gentle enough to be almost kind.
That made it worse.
He could have lied.
She could have chosen the milder version, the one in which love had simply been startled by fear.
The version in which I was a good man who made a terrible mistake at a terrible time.
But she had already seen my face.
And I had already seen his call history.
“I was the first to get angry,” I said.
Her eyelids trembled, but she didn’t cry.
She nodded only once, as if some suspicion she had harbored inside had finally been answered.
Then he got into the car.
I drove faster than I should have, even though every red light seemed designed to test me.
Lucie sat rigidly, both hands on her stomach, breathing with each wave of pain.
Between one intersection and the next, my phone vibrated in my jacket pocket.
I ignored him.
Then it started buzzing again.
