I’m sobbing before I can stop myself, all the disbelief and the yearning for self-esteem and everything clashing together.
Rachel has her arms around me, rocking me softly, reminding me of when I was a kid, and she’d comfort me at night. Of course, we were friends, but we felt like sisters, bonded when her family took me in.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to push.”
“It’s not your fault.” I paw at my cheek, leaning back and offering her a shaky smile. “I need to stop being so dramatic. It’s just…it’s true, Rach.”
“You don’t know that.”
I glare. “Look at him, now look at me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how he’d feel if we met, does it?”
She frowns. “I don’t agree with this. I want you to know that. I think you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks, Rach. Really. I think it’s better if I try to put all this behind me.”
She shrugs and picks up her book, stopping to let her gaze linger on me for a few moments. I return the look with a smile, hoping it’s somewhat believable.
What I can’t explain is how contradictory my feelings are.
One second, I agree with what I just told Rachel, that I need to accept this is over.
Next, my mind has taken me to a magical place, where Felix is my husband.
Our children are happy. Life is perfect.
“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” Rachel says a few minutes later.
I’ve been staring down at my sewing book, trying to make the words stick, but they keep shifting off the page, refusing to stay in place.
Visions of the impossible future take their place, forming in black and white, before bursting into tempting color.
“I know,” I smile across at my friend. “This is my thing, not yours. I need to get my feelings under control.”
Rachel shrugs. “You know I don’t mind if you want to cry. Or scream. Or do whatever else you need to so you can handle this. I’m with you every step of the way.”
“Thank you. Really. I mean that.”
We exchange a look and then go back to our reading, which means I go back to imagining what life with Felix would be like. Depending on how it pans out, I wonder if he’d accept my passion for making clothes, my budding passion…or my waste of time.
I wonder if he’d think I’m silly for modeling the clothes in my bedroom, turning this way and that in the tall mirror. I’m making the clothes for women of my size anyway, so it doesn’t matter. And at this stage, it’s about the fit, not the appearance necessarily.
But there have been moments – small fleeting ones – where I catch sight of myself and think that I look attractive for a bare breath. I look like the sort of woman men might want, Felix might want.
I wonder what sort of father he’d be.
For some reason, my body pulses when I think about that, something deep within going tight. It’s like my womb is sending me a message, silently screaming that he’d make the perfect father. Like, I can just know that without having to ask.
Laying my book down, I smooth my hands over my belly, drawing in soft breaths to stop my chest from trembling. It’s like there’s an explosion coming, and it’s going to tear through me, make me howl just to release some of the pressure.
My hand strays to my cell phone, almost as if it has a mind of its own. I pick it up and unlock it, automatically navigating to mine and Felix’s text thread.
Biting my lip, I study my response, angry and disgusted.
Was that really the best tactic? But what was the alternative?
“Tempted?” Rachel asks quietly.
I giggle, even as my eyes still sting from the tears.
“A little. Does that make me….”
I stop when a text flashes on the screen.
It’s from Felix.
I’m outside.
My mouth falls open. I rub my eyes. Surely I’m just tired, misreading something.
But no. It’s there. The notification window disappears, and I click on the messages app.
It’s still there.
I text back quickly.
How is that possible?
Three dots appear, making my belly warble, and my pulse quicken.
It’s even worse when they suddenly disappear.
I think maybe that’s it. He’s bluffing. He’s angry because I ghosted him for five days.
Then a photo appears. It’s the outside of our apartment building, taken from across the street.
I almost drop the phone, the evidence so clear, my throat going tight.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asks.
I flash the phone at her. For a moment, she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing. I can tell by the way she just stares, eyebrows narrowing. Then I watch as the realization hits her, her eyes widening, becoming saucer-like, and then her hand flies up to cover her mouth.
“How?” she whispers between her fingers.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s just responded.”
I turn the phone, looking at it again.