Page 103 of Dr. Bad Boy

That he accepts your safeword, that he accepts that you left his house.

I screw up my face and growl at my coffee maker, which doesn’t have any answers.

Can I even have coffee? I pull out my phone. The internet seems divided. I make half a cup.

I think about Max’s silence all the way to work. It’s of my own making.

And it’s not what I want. No matter what, I don’t want to be unfair to him. He didn’t ask for this, but he has a right to know what’s going on, and a right to react however he wants.

I open an email window and type in his address.

Then I minimize it.

Call a lawyer, my lawyer brain tells myself.

I open it again. We don’t need lawyers. Not yet. Even if this gets complicated—and I don’t think it will. If anything, I’m more sure that it’ll be dead simple, because Max won’t want anything to do with me or the baby.

But we’ve got nine months to reconcile how we’re going to move forward here.

I swear it’s going to take me every last second of those nine months to wrap my head around what’s happened. I owe the exact same amount of processing time to the father-to-be. Especially to him. The father-to-be-who-never-wanted-to-be.

Fuck.

I minimize the window again.

Back and forth I go, all morning long. While I eat lunch at my desk, a salad that tastes like sawdust going down.

I spend the afternoon on the phone so I don’t have to look at my computer screen, mocking me.

Finally at the end of the day, after Hannah leaves, I screw up my courage and type it up before I can chicken out again.

From: Violet Roberts

To: Max Donovan

Subject: I need to tell you something

The reason I left your house the other night was because I went to the doctor’s earlier that day and found out, much to my surprise, that I’m pregnant.

Just a few weeks along.

I don’t expect anything from you, but you have a right to know. If you would like to hire a family law attorney, another lawyer in our office can recommend one for you. Chinese wall would be in effect. I’d appreciate that you not use my name until I have time to get my own representation, as this will complicate my role within the firm.

I hope you know I intend to act in good faith on this matter, and we can be civil about any necessary discussions.

I read it back. It’s cold, but I’d rather be objective. Maybe that’s my legal instincts, or just my hurt woman’s instincts. I can’t bring myself to pour all that I’m feeling onto the page when I have no clue how Max will react.

As soon as I hit send, my heart starts hammering in my chest. How long will it take him to read it? How will he reply?

And what if he doesn’t?

I open another window. I had three patent applications to review this afternoon, and I’m mostly done, but I should double-check my work. The words all blur together on my screen.

It takes me a minute to realize I’m crying.

Shit.

And then my computer dings.

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