Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
We talk about nothing at first—the best bakery in town, how he hates the Century College parking lot, why Salinger is overrated. The words are easy, background noise to the click of knives and the faint hum of NPR coming from the living room speakers.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “You want to talk about last night?”
I almost choke on a crumb. “Sure. What part?”
He shrugs, but his jaw tics. “You said you were safe. That I didn’t need to use a condom. I trust you, but I wanted to check. Does that mean you’re on birth control?”
The heat creeps up my neck, and I set my croissant down. I look at my hands instead of him. “Actually no. I can’t get pregnant for a different reason,” I say, and the words hit the table with a thud.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Why not?”
I trace a circle on the countertop, my pinky smearing a bit of stray jam. “It’s stupid. I have fibroids. In my uterus. Basically it’s a jungle in there—doctors said it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to keep a pregnancy.” I try for a joke: “It’s like trying to park a car in a garage that’s full of pool floats and Christmas decorations.” My voice catches and I hate myself for it.
Liam is completely still, the way he gets when he’s reading a student’s confessional essay and doesn’t want to tip off how much it matters. His fork is suspended midair. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” he asks, voice gentle.
I laugh, brittle. “Sometimes. Not so much lately. I get cramps, and every now and then the cramps get so bad that I go for an ultrasound. But I’m okay.” I touch my lower belly, a reflex I can’t control. “I’m fine, really. Just defective, I guess.”
He sets his fork down with a clink, then turns to face me fully. “Don’t call yourself that,” he says, low and fierce.
I shrug, fighting the urge to look away. “It’s not a big deal. Most guys don’t care because honestly, we always use protection. But we didn’t last night, so I thought you should know.”
He surprises me by reaching out and placing his hand gently over mine, thumb stroking the back of my knuckles. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up so suddenly like that.”
I want to make a joke, but I can’t. Instead, I stare at the juice in my glass and try to make the room stop spinning.
He gives my hand a final squeeze before letting go. “Do you want kids?” he asks.
The question lands like a stone in a pond, sending out a hundred tiny ripples. I think of the foster homes, the years of feeling like I was a burden someone else had to tolerate, the way I never learned to imagine a future that included anyone but myself.
I say, “I haven’t decided,” and it’s the closest thing to the truth I’ve ever said out loud.
Liam nods, slow, like he’s reading between lines that haven’t been written yet.
We sit in silence, just the sound of the fridge and the fork clinking against the plate. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I didn’t expect. I wonder if he’ll take it back, decide I’m not worth the trouble.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my glass and tops it off, careful not to spill.
We eat in silence for a while, the mood changed but not ruined. I watch the way the sunlight moves across the countertop, the tiny particles floating in the air, the way Liam’s shoulders tense and relax as he chews.
At one point he asks, “Are you in pain right now?”
I shake my head. “Not at the moment.”
He seems to file the information away, then finishes the rest of his croissant, not making a big deal out of it.
I let my gaze drift to the windows, the world outside glimmering with October blue. I wonder what it would be like to be the kind of girl who never had to explain herself, who could just be soft and pretty and uncomplicated.
But then Liam says, “You’re not defective, Simone,” and the words hang in the air, solid and warm. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I don’t answer, because if I do, I’ll cry.
We finish our food. The sun keeps moving, and the house settles into a different quiet. I start to clear the plates, but he stops me, saying, “Leave it. I’ll get it later.”
Instead, he leads me to the living room, where we collapse together on the couch. He pulls me close, one arm around my shoulders, and I let myself relax into the weight of him.
We watch nothing on TV, just the muted color bars, but it feels like the safest place in the world.
I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown out the rest of my doubts.