3: 3

When I got home, my phone buzzed.

Ella had sent a screenshot. I opened it.

The timestamp was from the day of my friend's wedding.

"Hahaha, I'm dying. Fifty thousand down to five bucks. Thomas, you are cold."

"A bet's a bet."

"You're not afraid she'll find out?"

"If she does, she does. Worst case I make it up to her. But... don't let her know it was your idea. No point in her blaming you."

I stared at that line for a long time. My lips twitched, wanting to smile. Nothing came.

So the five dollars had been because of her.

So he had "worried I'd blame her," and rather than that, he'd just skipped the explanation entirely.

He would rather I think him cold and heartless than let her carry a shred of it.

I tapped into her feed on impulse.

The newest post, a nine-photo grid.

The center one was a close-up of her clinking glasses with Thomas, captioned: "Fake engagement party, actors hired, a bet on whether a certain someone would dare object. He didn't. But once he found out it was fake he drank himself stupid, no idea what he was so happy about."

Someone had commented: "Ella, you played it this big? Not scared the act turns real?"

She'd replied with a tongue-out emoji:

"I just wanted to see whether he'd actually come stop the wedding. Verdict? Not bad. A passing grade."

I set the phone face-down on the couch.

I got up and headed for the bedroom to pack.

When I pulled open the nightstand drawer, a sheet of paper sat on top. An ultrasound report.

I'd planned to tell him tomorrow, on our eighth anniversary.

I'd booked the restaurant, bought a cake, tucked this report inside the gift box,

waiting to see his face when he opened it.

Would he smile? Would he freeze? Would he hold me?

Now I held that paper, its edges already folded and smoothed flat again and again.

This child. Was he worth giving Thomas one more chance?

Late that night, Thomas came home smelling of liquor.

He stumbled through the bedroom door, saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, came over and half-knelt in front of me, forehead pressed to my knee.

"Meg," he slurred, "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have snapped at you today."

His hand covered the back of mine, palm burning hot.

"Don't be angry, okay? Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll take you to that restaurant you've always wanted. We'll do it right."

I looked down at the slightly messy top of his head.

Then I slid the ultrasound report out of its envelope and held it out to him.

"Thomas, I'm pregnant."

He raised his head, his unfocused gaze settling on the paper, staring at it for a few seconds.

Then his expression changed. He reached out and took it, and with a rip,

he tore the paper down the middle, the pieces falling onto the sheets between us.

"Get rid of it," he said.

I looked at the scraps in the trash can, and for a second everything blurred.

"Say that again."

"I said get rid of it."

He raised a hand and pressed his brow, his voice turning irritable. "Meg, what are you trying to do, showing me this? Force me to marry you? Using a life to blackmail me?"

"Blackmail you? This baby's been coming for almost a month. I never said a word, I just wanted to surprise you on our anniversary—"

"Surprise?" He gave a short laugh and turned his face away.

"You call this a surprise? Meg, wake up. Stop being so desperate to get married, would you?"

In the second my eyes went red, I suddenly remembered him gripping my hand on the field in our sophomore year, saying, "Meg, let's get married the day we graduate. I'm scared you'll run off."

Now, out of the same mouth, only eight years apart, it had become "desperate to get married."

He must have realized he'd gone too far. His tone eased, and he reached out to pull me into his arms.

"Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll spend it with you properly. I already had my assistant book the restaurant, the flowers are ordered too. I'll think about the baby. We'll talk about getting married, slowly. All right?"

I let him hold me.

His chin rested on the top of my head, his breathing slowing, the smell of liquor washing over me, and a few minutes later he went still.

He was asleep.

I eased out of his arms.

I stood, picked up the torn scraps from the bed one by one, and cradled them in my palm.

Then I opened the suitcase and started packing my clothes.

He and I had no tomorrow, and no so-called marriage after.

4: 4

The next morning, I went to the hospital alone to schedule the abortion.

The screen lit up.

A message from Thomas:

【Let's move the anniversary. Ella finally scored tickets to a concert she loves, so I have to take her. You've got plenty of free time anyway.】

You've got plenty of free time anyway...

A few careless words, as if all my waiting and giving-in over these eight years were, to him, nothing but time that had always been sitting idle for the taking.

Right after came a message from Ella.

【Forgot to tell you—Thomas and I were actually together before you. Before you ever met him, we were already a couple. Later he said he wanted a change of taste, so I let you have him for a few years.】

【One more thing you should know. All those years, the vitamins Thomas gave you—I picked them out for him. They were birth control pills. There was never any chance he'd keep that baby. But don't be sad about it. He was never going to let it be born anyway. Something that was never meant to happen can't really be "gotten rid of," now can it?】

There was also a video. I opened it.

The frame jolted. Ella's voice came through, thick with tears:

“Thomas, the baby's gone... The doctor says it might be hard for me to ever have one again.”

Off camera, Thomas's voice was low and muffled: “Don't cry. I'm right here.”

“Are you going to stop wanting me someday?”

“Never. Don't overthink it. I promise—I'll never let anyone else carry my child.”

The video ended.

I stared at the dark screen, my fingertips cold.

Eight years. Everything I'd taken for tenderness and care, every glass of warm water and every pill he'd set within my reach—all of it had been making sure I would never become his accident.

The funny part was, I'd still been wavering, still wondering whether to give him a chance for the baby's sake.

She sent another file. I opened it—more than nine thousand photos, all of her and Thomas together.

They'd crossed deserts, dived deep seas, embraced against a setting sun, kissed at the mouth of a volcano.

As if they'd lived out every grand, burning thing the world had to offer.

And in eight years with Thomas, the photos of the two of us together could be counted on one hand.

He said he didn't like being photographed, that a camera pointed at him made his whole body uncomfortable.

So it turned out that line of his simply didn't apply to someone else.

Tears dropped onto the screen, one after another, blurring all those smiling faces into a smear of water.

I switched off the phone and shoved it into my bag.

Lying on the operating table, the surgical light overhead was very bright.

The anesthesiologist said softly: “Relax. It'll be over soon.”

The cold liquid pushed in, and my vision began to blur.

I thought of eight years ago, him carrying me on his back down Cherry Blossom Avenue, panting out, “I'll carry you my whole life.”

Thought of the first time he kissed me, the tips of his ears going red.

Thought of him saying, “The first autumn after we graduate, I'll marry you.”

Those images were like old photographs soaked in water, spreading frame by frame, blurring, fading.

In the end there was only white.

When I woke, a nurse helped me off the bed and went over the aftercare instructions.

I walked slowly down the hospital corridor, one hand against the wall, a dull dragging ache low in my belly.

Passing the waiting area, out of the corner of my eye I caught another video Ella had sent three hours ago on my phone screen.

I opened it. It was the concert. The big screen had just cut to the audience, and Ella turned her head and kissed the corner of Thomas's mouth.

The whole crowd screamed.

Off camera her voice carried a smile: “We've known each other over twenty years. What's meant to be mine—how could it ever get away?”

I switched off the screen and kept walking.

At the corner, I ran straight into two people.

Thomas was holding Ella by the arm, murmuring something to her, a bag of medicine in his other hand.

He looked up and saw me, and froze for a beat. “Meg? What are you doing here——”

Ella, one hand cupped over her stomach, put in softly:

“My stomach's been bothering me. Thomas couldn't stop worrying, insisted on bringing me to the hospital to get it checked. Didn't expect to run into you here. What a coincidence.”

I stopped.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor cast a pale, sickly white.

I looked at him and gave a small smile.

“I came to get rid of that baby you didn't want——”

“The abortion.”

“Thomas, we're breaking up.”