“The problem? Really, Tomasetti? Is that what this is to you? A problem?”

“You know what I mean,” he growls.

“Maybe you should spell it out for me.”

“Kate, don’t read anything into this that isn’t there. We have a situation on our hands. We need to talk about it. Deal with it. That’s all.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He says nothing.

“I didn’t get this way by myself, you know. You were involved. You played a role, too.”

His mouth goes tight. “I was counting on you to be responsible. I had no way of knowing you were playing it fast and loose with your birth control.”

Anger sweeps through me with such force that I feel it all the way to my bones. A shock wave that topples my balance, striking some vital part of me I thought was safe. I can’t believe he would lay blame on me. “I may be a lot of things,” I tell him through clenched teeth, “but I am not irresponsible.”

“The only other scenario is that you meant for it to happen.”

I step toward him, jab my finger at him. “There are some words that can’t be taken back,” I say. “I suggest you shut your mouth before you take that line of thought too far.”

We’re standing about four feet apart but it feels like a mile. For a moment, all I can hear is the blood rushing through my veins. Vaguely, I’m aware of our elevated breathing. The tension as thick and suffocating as glue.

“We owe it to each other to be clear, Kate. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to dress this up all pretty for you. I don’t want a baby. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

The words fall down on me like hammer blows, so painful I can’t take a breath. It hurts me to my core. I stare at him, not wanting him to see it. Not wanting to make myself that vulnerable.

“This isn’t exactly optimal timing for me, either.” I try to keep my voice even, but I run out of breath, and when I try to get oxygen into my lungs, it sounds like a gasp.

He stares at me for a too-long moment and then he steps back, sets both hands on the counter, and leans heavily. “I don’t want kids,” he grinds out. “I can’t love like that again. Not like that. I don’t have the capacity.”

My initial hurt augments into a powerful sadness, a sense of finality and loss as cruel and penetrating as a machete blade. “You’re capable of love,” I say quietly. “You love me.”

“I do.” He stares blindly at his hands as they grip the edge of the counter. “That’s different.”

“No, it’s not. Love is love.”