“Send her in.” I get to my feet, but don’t move from behind my desk as Jamie disappears from the doorway.

What feels like a lifetime later, Francisca walks through the open door and into my office, her steps slow and unsure. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t talked myself out of going to her apartment and knocking to see if she’s home about a million times over the last few weeks, but I didn’t because sometimes things are better left as they are, and I have nothing to offer her.

“Umm, hey,” she says quietly as I take her in.

She looks nervous but still as beautiful as I remember, with her hair flowing down her back. She’s wearing a long, floral-print dress with thin straps that’s clinging to her breasts, with a light, loose sage-green sweater over it that has slipped off one shoulder, exposing a good amount of skin.

“Sorry for just popping in like this, but I didn’t know how else to get a hold of you.”

“It’s okay.” I motion to the chairs in front of me. “Do you want to sit?”

“I….” She licks her lips, looking at the chair, then me. “Sure.” Once she’s seated, I sit back down in my chair and wait, wondering what’s brought her here.

“I guess there’s no easy way to start this,” she whispers, almost like she’s talking to herself, as she fiddles with the handle of her purse on her lap. I notice then that her hands are shaking. “Do you remember when we…?” Her cheeks get red, and she shakes her head, dropping her eyes to her lap. “Of course, you remember. That’s such a stupid question.”

“Fran—”

“I’m pregnant,” she cuts me off, then lifts her wide eyes to mine. “Oh… God.”

“Pardon?” I ask, sure I misheard her.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that. I’ve just been so scared to tell you, and I know that we don’t really know each other.” She lifts her hands toward me. “I’m not trying to trap you. I promise I’m totally okay with you not being involved… or being involved. It’s up to you. Totally up to you. I just wanted you to know because⁠—”

“It’s not mine.” The statement sounds harsh to my own ears, and her lips part.

“What?”

“It’s not mine,” I say a little more calmly.

“It is, Dayton. I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” The conviction in her tone gives me pause, but I carry on.

“I had a vasectomy years ago, Francisca, so I know for certain that I’m not the father. You need to figure out who else you were with.”

“You had a vasectomy?” Her brows drag together.

“Yes.”