Page 62 of Harper

I’m filled with so much unfiltered happiness, so much awestruck joy, my knees go weak on me, and I have to remind them to hold me up. I half stagger, half stumble back to the driver’s seat and plop down, trying to assimilate this possible new reality into my consciousness.

The woman I love—whom I’ve loved my whole life—might be having our baby, which is the best and sweetest and most amazing news that I could ever hear.

Except you haven’t heard it yet.

I lean my elbows on the steering wheel and narrow my eyes.

She might not be pregnant, and even if she is…she may not want to have it.

But she’s got to know how much I’m going to want this baby. All I’ve ever wanted, for as long as I can remember, was to have a family with Harper Stewart. Even if she doesn’t want this baby, I do. I want this child—this son or daughter created with love and passion—with every fiber of my being.

With nothing left to do but wait to hear from her, I point my car back to the station and try to make it through the rest of the day.

***

When I don’t hear from Harper by quitting time, my anxiety starts to get the better of me.

I run through scenarios in my head: She didn’t text me because she’s not pregnant, and there’s nothing to share. Or: She is pregnant and isn’t ready to talk about it. Or: She’s trying to figure out how to tell me she doesn’t want this baby. Or: There is no baby, and she’s partying with her siblings around an early campfire.

I change into shorts and a T-shirt and take a longer jog than usual, keeping my phone fastened around my bicep…just in case. Not that I need it. I run for over an hour, and she doesn’t call or text once. It’s only as I’m approaching my house that I realize her Jeep’s parked out front, and Harper’s waiting for me on the deck. I sprint to my front steps and stand there panting, like an Alutiiq Romeo looking up at his beautiful, blonde Juliet.

“Hi,” she says.

“H-Hi,” I pant. I rest my hands on my knees and lean forward for a second, light-headed after a final push. When I look up, she’s still standing at the railing. “Tell me, Harper.”

She blinks at me.

“Harp,” I rasp. “Please just—”

“It was positive. I’m pregnant.”

“With my baby.”

She’s not smiling. She looks pale and overwhelmed, her eyes red-rimmed like she’s been crying.

“Yes,” she whispers. “It’s yours.”

Then, she turns around, opens my front door, and disappears inside.

I allow myself just a second to be disappointed at the way I hear the news that I’m going to be a father. I always imagined I’d be married to Harper, and we’d get pregnant after trying for a month or two. When she didn’t get her period, we’d buy a pregnancy test together, and I’d be there when she peed on the stick. And then we’d call my aunt Hannah and Sandra; we’d drive up to Dyea to share the news with her family. I never thought it would be like this. I never wanted it to be like this.

But then again?

I grin, which turns into a smile, which turns into a chuckle of joyful laughter.

My woman is pregnant with my baby.

Mine.

I don’t care how she told me the news.

I only care that it’s true.

I hop up the steps of my deck and follow her inside.

“You want something?” I ask her as I head to the kitchen. “I’m getting a Gatorade.”

“Water.”

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