She finally looks at me, her blue eyes flying open, her frown intensifying in her own offense. “Yours.”

I jump to my feet and move away from her. Right away, I know it’s a mistake, but I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Space. I need space.

Running a hand through my hair, I pace a few steps, then stop. “When?” I manage to choke out.

“I miscarried in New York.” Unlike her earlier ramblings, she says those words plainly. They’re flat. Factual. As if she is familiar with these. She must be, if she’s lived with it for five years.

Realizing my hand is lodged painfully in my hair, I drop it to my side with an angry slap. “You went to New York pregnant, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know. I found out in New York when I realized my period was late, and then I wanted to tell you in person.”

There was a phone call. It comes rushing back to me, the memory of it weakening my knees enough that I sink to the edge of the bed.

I was barely able to contain my excitement. The ink wasn’t even dry on the draft of the contract yet. But the desire to see the look on her face when she saw it was stronger than my need to tell her. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I have some amazing news.

“Oh yeah? Well…I have news, too.” She sounded more nervous than excited, but that was okay. I was nervous, too.

“I want to wait to tell you in person, though.”

A pause. Was she disappointed? But then she said, “Same.”

I try to fill my lungs with oxygen, to no avail. “You had news.”

She twists around in the chair so she can face me, and she presses her chest into the back of it as she nods. The position is so similar to the one she took the first time she told me she loved me that my heart aches at that memory, too.

So many memories between us. They’re almost unbearable.

“I didn’t know how you’d feel about it,” she says. “It was an accident, obviously. So I wanted to tell you in person. I was so tired. I couldn’t think.”