Page 115 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
“You have school tomorrow,” I argue.
“So?” She volleys. “She picks me up from school. Can’t she take me?”
She has a valid point that I can’t argue with. “You can ask grandma, but I make no promises she’ll say yes.”
“She will,” she says with confidence, pausing by the front door to stuff her feet in her sneakers.
Oh, to have the confidence of a six-year-old.
I swipe my phone and keys from the counter and see that I have a text message. I read it while grabbing my bag that has my laptop in it.
Jameson: I won’t be over tonight. I have to work late.
I frown. That’s a bummer, especially if Monroe spends the night with my parents, but it’s his job.
Me: That’s okay. I understand. Love you!
He replies right back that he loves me to. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I open the door and let Monroe run out like a cat who can’t wait to escape to the outdoors.
After dropping her off, I head to a café to work, but when I park, I find myself unable to get out of the car. My stupid brain is still hung up on the magazine headline. I suppose it’s not even the headline. It’s Spencer I can’t get off my mind.
I lean my head back and take a deep breath.
I know if I pull out of this lot, I’m going to make a decision I regret.
But I do it anyway.
CHAPTER 44
SPENCER
SEVEN YEARS AGO
“Whoa.” I stare at the grainy, black and white image on the screen. A head and arms and legs. “That’s really a baby?”
The ultrasound tech laughs. “Yes, that’s a baby.”
“Harlow,” I breathe out, looking down at her with tears in my eyes. “That’s our baby.”
Harlow’s eyes fill with tears too and she squeezes my hand. “Wow … it’s … it’sreal,” she says with awe.
Her mom sits in the corner of the room, giving us some semblance of privacy, but I catch her dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
“I’ll print some of these out for you Mom and Dad,” the sonographer says.
It hits me like a ton of bricks hearing that word—dad. I’m going to be someone’s dad. But not just any someone. This little baby on the screen ismine. Half me and half Harlow and so fully perfect.
Harlow gives my hand a squeeze and I laugh, drying my face with my other hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she tells me.
The sonographer finishes up and gives us a sheet of ultrasound photos as we return to the original room we were in to wait for the doctor.
Harlow hops up on the exam table while her mom and I take the other chairs in the small room.
I can’t stop looking at the photos. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.
That’s my kid. My little boy or little girl.
