At first I didn’t respond, because my body seemed to understand before my pride.
The room slowly bowed around me, as if the floor had turned to water beneath my bare feet.
Lucie’s hand remained pressed against her belly, fingers tense, as if she could hold everything back by force.
I saw the phone on the nightstand, the screen down and the charging cable half-unplugged from the wall.
A glass of water had fallen beside it, which explained the stain, but not the fear in her eyes.
“Adrien,” she whispered again, and this time my name sounded less like a call and more like a plea.
Then I moved, awkwardly and belatedly, kneeling beside the bed, shame already reflected in my eyes.
His skin was cold when I touched his wrist, and that cold scared me more than the wet sheets.
“How long ago?” I asked, though my voice sounded hoarse, almost like someone else’s.
He watched me blink, trying to concentrate, trying to get the words out despite the pain.
“Since ten,” he said. Maybe earlier. I thought it was cramps. Then I tried calling you.
I looked at my phone again, and the dark screen suddenly seemed heavier than any accusation.
Twenty missed calls, I told myself, hanging in the air, content with my surprise.
I wanted to tell her I’d come early because I loved her, but words now seemed pointless.
Instead, with shaky fingers, I picked up his phone and turned it over.
The screen lit up.
My call history filled the glass as if it were a test against me.
