“Why do you want me to move in with you? We’ve been together less than a year, and you’ve never been in a serious relationship before. You just know?”

“I’m sure that I love you. I’m sure that being away from you drives me insane. That’s all I need to know.”

“I can’t argue that the distance sucks. If you can commute for three more months, I’ll hop. That will give Phaedra time to find and train someone.”

Taylor exhaled as if the wind had been knocked out of him, and then a small smile curled up his lips. “I’ll apply for the station job this week.”

He shook his head in awe of my huge gesture. He had no words, so he leaned down and touched his lips to mine, slow at first. Then he touched his hands to my cheeks, and my mouth parted.

We celebrated between the sheets for hours, and halfway into the night, I collapsed next to him. Within minutes, he was asleep.

As his breathing evened out, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The uncertainty and guilt swirled in my stomach, making me feel sick. I had overturned my life once before and survived.

Why does moving in with my best friend, with the man I love, seem more frightening than leaving my parents while penniless?

I rubbed my temple, feeling as blurry as my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’d thought maybe if I made a decision, that feeling would go away, but my experiment was an utter failure. The uneasiness became worse. The harder I tried to understand my feelings, the less it made sense. There was something we needed to talk about, something that was still in the way.

Taylor shifted, letting his hand rest on my stomach, and then the answer came. If he stayed with me, Taylor would have to make a sacrifice, one with which I was all too familiar. Family was important to him. He had said it before. He couldn’t do what I had done.

Why did I think he could give up the possibility of having his own child?

My stomach sank. He had done so much for me, and I was going to take that away from him.

How can I really love him and allow him to make such a choice?

Chapter Eighteen

Pete chopped green peppers while I spoke, nodding occasionally to let me know he was listening. The sun wasn’t up yet, and his white apron was already covered in smears of brown and green.

The kitchen was quiet, except for Pete’s knife against the carving block. Like a typewriter, he tapped over and over before sliding the pieces to the side when he was finished, only to start again.