“Yeah,” I say. I turn around to get in my car. I don’t need to talk to Irene. I don’t need to have this conversation.

“I named her after you,” she says. “I mean, sort of. You know, like names that go together.”

“You left me there,” I say.

“I’m sorry, April,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, that’s good. That just fixes everything.”

“I had these blinders on,” Irene says. “I wanted a dad for David. I kept thinking that somehow your dad would turn into the man I needed him to be.”

I watch her for a minute, watch tears rolling down her cheeks. “He was really good at not being who anyone needed him to be,” I say.

The doors to the church open and everyone starts the reverse trickle to the parking lot. I don’t want to be their entertainment.

“Take care of July,” I say, and wave to my sister. She waves back with her perfect little hand.

I cross the street to my car and don’t look back. I’ll call Margo from the road to say goodbye. It’s easier that way.

— Chapter 66 —

It’s after midnight when I finally make it to Binghamton. I took every back road and lingered at rest stops, steeling my nerves and searching for words. The walk from my car to Justin’s door feels longer than the whole entire drive. The baby kicks. I have to knock for a long time before anyone answers. I worry he doesn’t even live there anymore, that I won’t be able to find him at all. But I have to try.

Through the window, I see some guy with messy hair and sleepy eyes turn on the porch light. He opens the door and says, “What?” his face freezing when he sees my belly. “I don’t know you,” he says, loud and fast, like he’s reassuring himself, and I realize that I am every college boy’s worst nightmare. That I’m about to be Justin’s.

“Justin,” I say, and it’s all I can say before the guy runs from the door and yells for him. I hear bare feet on the wood floor, harsh whispers. Someone says, “What the fuck?” And then there’s Justin, in his boxer shorts and nothing else. He closes the door behind him and stands out on the porch with me, even though it’s freezing. Even though a few minutes ago he was sleeping soundly with no idea that his child had the hiccups and was kicking my ribcage.

“It’s not mine,” he says in a sharp whisper. “You have to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you sooner.”

“It’s not mine.”

“It is.”