Page 66 of About That One Night
“This is not my fault, or something I did on purpose to trap you,” she continues, her voice trembling slightly. “Keeping the baby is my own decision. I’m aware that you’re not in this and I’m not asking you to be involved in any capacity. Me being pregnant doesn’t give you the right to talk to me the way you did back there.”
I stare at Zoe, her words hitting me like a physical blow. My chest tightens, a dull ache spreading through my rib cage. “I never meant to hurt you or disrespect you, but can I have a second to catch up?” I manage, my voice hoarse. The thought of being erased from the baby’s life—mybaby’s life—sends a jolt of panic through me.
Zoe sighs, her shoulders slumping. “What’s there to catch up on, Max? I know what you want for your future and children aren’t part of it. You said so . . . Ican’t even remember when but I don’t plan to impose anything or anyone on you.” I wince, cursing my past self and his flippant words.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My mind races, trying to reconcile the life I thought I wanted with this new, unexpected reality. Images flash through my head—Zoe’s smile in Fiji, the warmth of her touch, the inexplicable emptiness I’ve felt since returning.
The realization hits me like a tidal wave—I’ve missed her. Needed her. And now, faced with the prospect of losing not just her, but a child—ourchild—the pain is almost unbearable.
My hand moves unconsciously to my chest, pressing against the spot where the ache is most intense. I struggle to draw a full breath, the weight of potential loss crushing down on me.
“Zoe, please let me explain myself . . .” I finally choke out, reaching for her arm. My fingers tremble slightly as they make contact. “I know what I said before, but this . . . changes everything. I need time to process, and to think. Don’t make any decisions about the baby—aboutourbaby—just yet.”
My eyes search hers, silently pleading. The fear of losing something I didn’t even know I wanted until this moment is written plainly across my heart.
I gently grasp Zoe’s arms, leaning closer. The familiar scent of her perfume reminds me of Fiji, of moments I’ve been trying desperately to understand. “I’m just . . . shocked,” I admit, my voice soft. “This is a lot to take in. It’s scary to learn that in nine months, I’m going to be a father, you know?”
“A little less than seven,” she corrects, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m ten weeks pregnant. I know it’s terrifying. This wasn’t part of the plan, you know. I wanted to save enough, have a stable income, and now . . .”
Her vulnerability hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been so caught up in my own shock that I’ve failed to see how much she’s been struggling. My eyes soften as I truly look at her—the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. And yet, she still manages to look beautiful.
Glancing toward the bistro, I repeat my earlier words, but this time with genuine conviction. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be, Zoe.”
Zoe manages a shaky smile. “That’s not how it works. I’m not going to make you do anything. As I said?—”
“Okay, so it’s my choice then,” I interrupt, a newfound determination settling over me. “I’ll be the best father any kid can have. I’m not sure what that will look like, but I have seven months to prepare for it.”
She opens her mouth and closes it, stunned. “You?—”
“We’ll figure this out, Zoe Harper,” I say softly. My hand moves of its own accord, cupping her cheek gently. My thumb brushes away a tear that’s beginning to fall.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the busy street around us fades away. My other hand moves to rest lightly on her stomach, a gesture both protective and awestruck. “You’re not alone in this,” I murmur, myforehead nearly touching hers. “I’m here. For both of you.”
“Max,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin. “Don’t make promises like this.”
“Because you’re afraid I’ll let you down?” I ask softly, then press a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. The gesture feels natural, right. “Babe, I don’t break my promises, ever. You’re stuck with me. We just need to figure out how this is going to work out for us.”
Her posture relaxes slightly, some of the tension ebbing away. “We’ll co-parent and try to become friends,” she suggests, her voice a little steadier now.
I nod, but inside, my heart constricts. Friends. The word feels inadequate, almost painful. Because standing here, with Zoe in my arms, our unborn child between us, I know friendship is the last thing I want from her.
But I swallow those words for now. This isn’t the moment for grand declarations or confessions. We have a long road ahead of us, and rushing things could jeopardize everything.
“Friends,” I agree, forcing a smile. “That’s a good place to start.”
My hand lingers on her cheek, thumb tracing small circles on her skin. I drink in every detail of her face, committing it to memory. The way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when she’s uncertain, the small freckle just below her left ear, the curve of her lips as they quirk into a hesitant smile.
“How about we start with dinner?” I suggest. “Not here,” I add quickly, glancing at the bistro. “Somewhere quieter, like my place—I’ll cook. We cantalk, really talk. Get to know each other beyond Fiji and . . . this.” I gesture vaguely at her stomach.
As I look at her, I make a silent vow to myself. I’ll be the friend she needs right now, the co-parent our child deserves. But I’ll also show her, day by day, moment by moment, that we could be so much more. That the connection we felt in Fiji wasn’t just a fleeting thing, but the start of something deeper.
I’ll make her fall in love with me, not through grand gestures or empty words, but through support, genuine care, and the kind of love that builds slowly, surely, until it becomes as natural as breathing.
“What do you say, Zoe?” I ask. “Dinner? A fresh start?”
“Maybe. Why don’t you think about this whole new change and then we can decide where to start—if you’re still sure of it?” she insists.
I scoff. “You’re a stubborn little thing. Fine, be that way.”
