His eyes narrow. I suspect he realizes what this is about. My throat is so tight I want to choke.

“I can meet you at Five Frogs,” he states, his face still blotchy and red. “But I can’t stay long.”

“Thanks,” I say and quickly return to my desk.

Clicking my mouse, I pretend to be absorbed in the graph on my computer screen. When I finally risk a look around, everyone has returned to work.

*

I’ve been waiting at a table in the corner nursing a lime and soda for twenty minutes before Elliot enters the bar. He strides over and sits opposite.

“I’m assuming you got the results,” he says, crossing his arms.

No idle chit-chat needed, then.

“Yes,” I croak before clearing my throat. “According to the DNA tests, you’re the biological father.”

“Right.”

I jolt at his abrupt and rapid response. From his expression, I could have announced I just bought a new vacuum cleaner. That is until I notice the red stain creeping up his neck and the prominent vein bulging from his clenched fist on the table. I’m now extremely glad we’re in a noisy bar with others around.

“I thought you should know, but I don’t expect anything from you,” I say in a rush. “You didn’t ask for this or want it.”

“No,” he snaps. “I didn’t.”

I stand up, wishing I could click my fingers and be at home.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I say to the top of his head. For a second I try to think of something else to say, but my mind is blank. “Bye.”

When I get to the door, I turn to look at Elliot and he hasn’t moved. Fair enough. The poor guy has a fair bit to get his head around: namely, he’s going to be a dad.

Whether he acknowledges the fact or not remains to be seen.

*

I’m surprisingly calm on the drive home. The hard part was telling Elliot and now I have, I feel as if a weight has been lifted. I make myself a simple meal of rice and stir-fried vegetables with a fried egg on top. Then I curl up on the couch with a gardening magazine.

When my phone pings with a notification, I don’t even contemplate checking it, but then as I turn the page, I have a sickening realization. I know what the notification is. It’s a reminder telling me I have antenatal class tonight.

For at least twenty minutes – having made the decision not to go – I try to read, but I can’t shake the feeling like I’m missing an important meeting and letting the side down. Correction: letting my baby down.

Sighing, I slam my magazine on the coffee table, put on some sandals, grab my bag and open the front door. A small scream escapes my lips as I come face to face with Elliot.