The farm is beautiful at dusk. As I pull into the gravel lane, I’m reminded of all the reasons I’ve come to love this place. It’s the kind of beauty that settles over you in layers. The old farmhouse with its kind, grandfather face. The massive maple trees that stand like proud sentinels. Beyond, the lush green of the pasture and the mist rising from the pond. As I draw nearer, I spot the lilac bush Tomasetti discovered when he cleared away brush from a bramble in the side yard. The peonies we planted together a few weeks ago. At some point in the last few days, he mounted a hammock between two trees, a chore I missed out on because I was working.

Usually, I’m looking forward to seeing him, no holds barred. That rise of pleasure in my chest when I spot his form on the dock where he’s fishing, and I can’t wait to tell him about my day and ask about his. Or that moment when I walk inside and he’s standing at the kitchen sink chopping something, smiling at me, a towel thrown over his shoulder. This evening there is no quickening in my chest. No pang in my gut because I haven’t talked to him all day and he thinks it’s silly that I miss him. It’s as if a fault line has shifted between us, opening a crevasse that’s deep and dark, and neither of us is quite sure how to traverse it.

My pregnancy has been a constant in the periphery of my thoughts since the moment I found out. A weight that rests uneasily on my shoulders, on my conscience, on my heart. I know it’s a cop-out, a delay tactic, but I haven’t let myself think too hard about what I’m going to do. I’m not ready to be a mother; I’m not sure I’d be a good one at this point in my life. I work too much, putting in long hours and, sometimes, all-nighters. I take risks. I carry a gun.

My stomach flutters uneasily as I park next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and shut down the engine. I don’t know if it’s nausea or nerves or maybe a little bit of both. I take the sidewalk to the back door. I step inside to find him at the sink, washing dishes. He looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are warm, but there’s no smile. On the table, he left a plate for me. A napkin and silverware and a glass. No wine.

“Hey.” I hang my jacket on the coatrack next to the door. “Sorry I missed dinner.”

“It was just leftovers,” he says. “I saved you some.”