Page 65 of About That One Night
She nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
Why me? The question echoes in my head. She’s wanted this right? It was part of her plan after quitting the firm and starting her own. I don’t understand this meeting though.
Why tell me first?
“Yeah,” she says, a forced lightness in her tone. “A little souvenir from Fiji.”
I blink a couple of times, reeling from the five words she hurls at me like a bullet to the gut. I’ve been shot before but never felt like my world was ending. Not like right in this moment.
The world tilts on its axis. My throat constricts, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.Fiji. Our trip. Liam and Audrey’s wedding. But that would mean . . .
“By the way,” she adds, her voice eerily calm, “the baby is yours.”
Chapter Forty
Maximillian
“By the way.The baby is yours.” The words hit like a physical blow.
I stare at her, unblinking, as if she might disappear if I look away. My mind races, a jumble of disconnected thoughts and half-formed questions.Pregnant. Baby. Mine.The words swirl, refusing to coalesce into anything resembling sense.
I open my mouth, but no soundcomes out. My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, anchoring me as the room seems to spin around us.
I finally suck in a ragged breath, the air burning in my lungs. The room snaps back into focus, Zoe’s anxious face swimming before me.
“I . . . What?” The words tumble out, disjointed and clumsy. My pulse thrums in my ears, each beat a thunderous reminder of how drastically my world has just shifted. I run a shaky hand through my hair, tugging slightly as if the pain might wake me from this surreal moment.
This can’t be real. We were careful. Weren’t we?
Memories of our time in Fiji flash through my mind—sun-soaked beaches, laughter-filled night, the intoxicating freedom of being far from home. That one night we spent together. But among the blur of images, I can’t recall a single moment where we slipped up.
I meet Zoe’s gaze, searching for any hint that this might be some elaborate, cruel joke. But the fear and uncertainty in her eyes are all too real. My chest tightens, each breath a struggle as the full weight of her words begins to settle over me.
“How? How did that happen?” I finally manage to croak out, my voice sounding distant and foreign to my own ears.
“Seriously, you need me to explain to you how it happened?” she says, sarcastic and a little irritated.
“I mean, I know how . . . we used protection,” I say defensively.
In all the times—maybe for the past twenty years—I’ve used protection, and this has never happened. “Are you sure? Maybe whatever test you did was wrong. The effective rate for?—”
“I. Am. Pregnant,” she repeats, cutting me off, pulling out a small paper from her purse. “The effective rate for condoms is 98% if there’s no human error?—”
I leap to my feet, hands clenched at my sides. “There was no fucking mistake, I know how to put on a fucking condom,” I snap, the words sharp and biting. My face flushes hot with frustration, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Zoe’s eyes flash, a mixture of hurt and anger darkening her features. “Listen to me, Maximillian McCallister,” she says, placing what seems like a black and white picture on the table. The image shows a tiny, clearly defined shape with a large head and small, developing limbs.
“I summoned you here because something happened in Fiji that pertains to you.” Her voice is controlled. “This is a life-changing eventfor me, and I thought you should know before I tell my friends and family. You can be as involved as you want. I, in no way, will be asking you for anything other than for you to rescind your parental rights.”
She fumbles in her purse, fingers shaking slightly as she searches for her wallet. The sight of her preparing to flee snaps me out of my anger-induced haze.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing thoughts. The cozy bistro suddenly feels stifling, the chatter of other patrons grating against my frayed nerves. She grabs the grainy picture after leaving atwenty-dollar bill. Seeing that she’s about to leave, I follow behind. We’re not done talking. She can’t just drop that bomb and leave me hanging.
“Where are you going?” I ask when we’re outside of the bistro, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heated atmosphere inside.
“Home. I’m not going to take your attitude,” she retorts, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes dart around, refusing to meet mine. “I didn’t know how I expected you to react, but it was not that.” She glances toward the bistro.
The sight of her defensive posture, the hurt evident in the set of her shoulders, sends a wave of shame crashing over me. I deflate, the anger draining away as quickly as it had come.
