Chris smashed his eyes shut, silently cursing himself for what he'd just said that sent the young woman across from him retreating into herself. His words impacted her forcefully, enticing a gasp that sent her hand precisely over the subject of their train wrecked conversation. When he opened his eyes from the cringe that had shut them, her hazel eyes were brimming with tears. Tears that she forced to retreat just to spite him thought her initial reaction had already spoken volumes of her true sentiments. Why couldn't he rewind the last moments of his life? Hit the immensely helpful but hopelessly mythical redo button? What could he say at this very moment as she was gathering herself up from the sofa to stop her?

He dipped his head, overtaken with the information. She glided past him, indignant, head held high with just enough strength to snub him and ignore the weak attempt at stopping her as her hand slid lifelessly from his own. He felt their entire life sift through his fingers like sand and disperse as she passed.

He turned his head to follow her down the hall, stood up briskly to stop her only when she was out of reach, and opened his mouth to speak just as she was closing the bedroom door.

A pace behind himself, what was done, was done.

BARRY BURTON

The walkway invited him up to the front door, illuminated by the house light casting a sleepy yellow glow on the rain slicked stepping stones. If he was in the frame of mind to retrace his steps, he still wouldn't be able to piece together how he found himself standing idly on Barry Burton's stoop. He pulled open the heavy screen and rapped his knuckles against the cherry wood door. He took a half step back with a sigh, trying to make sense of the distorted images through the decorative viewing hole. Two blurs darted by before the door swung open and a snapping set of jaws lunged at him.

"Jesus! Christ!" Chris exclaimed, throwing up his arms to protect himself.

The jaws snapped shut just shy of him, and Barry stood in the threshold dangling the unaffected Malinois just off the ground by its collar.

"Chris, my boy!" He shouted, pleasantly surprised. When Chris didn't make an attempt to come near him, he judged rightly by his pallor that the dog had done its job and with a single command the dog lost interest with Chris altogether and trotted off into the house, following the caprice of Barry's pointed finger.

"You could have warned me about Cujo! Fuck!"

Barry slid a finger over his lips to quiet him and jutted a thumb out over his broad shoulder. "The missus is having a ladies meeting," he warned with a wink, before spreading his arms.

Chris reluctantly stepped into Barry's outstretched wings but softened in the embrace of the bear hug he was swept up into. Barry had always been a real presence; a rustic sort of fellow in plaid flannel as loud as he was large. He always had a grin somewhere inside his full red whiskers now patched with grey, and a disarming way about his imposing generosity that lightened any situation. Normally, his grin was as infectious as his echoing laugh, but when Chris stood back from his crushing hug, he couldn't even lift the corners of his mouth to feign a smile. The paw he had resting on his shoulder guided him into a study he had off to the foot of the stairs.

"Have a drink," he offered Chris, forcing the sloshing glass of amber liquid into his hand before he had a chance to protest. "It's not considered a problem if I don't drink alone."

Chris sat up only to set the glass down on the end table next to him just as Barry was settling into the matching chair across from him with a cigar flagging from the corner of his mouth and a drink in his hand.

Barry's study was the definition of a man cave. His hunting escapades decorated the walls above them as well as below: a bear pelt was yawning at him with its lifeless eyes adrift just at his feet. He had a collection of recently used fishing poles jammed into a corner and a rifle undoubtedly loaded resting atop the mantle. It was all machismo posturing; if asked, he would probably have a harrowing tale of how he bagged each prize but in truth, he probably didn't have the heart to pull the trigger. He most likely still had the internet sales receipts.

Barry eyed him keenly, watching as he pried off his wet jacket and draped it over the arm rest of his chair with sluggish zeal. The skinny little insubordinate he remembered from their Air Force days was gone but there was still something of him left in the slumped form before him with his averted eyes staring off blankly into his unlit fireplace. It didn't stop him from addressing him like he always had.

"Start talking, kid."

Chris slid his reddening eyes over to the closet person to a father figure he had ever had. He couldn't even fix his lips to replay scene for scene what had gone down earlier. He sat up just enough to slouch over his knees and drag his knit fingers in his damp hair. If he stared talking now the truth would just fall out unfiltered without giving him time to rehearse and make himself look better.

"I didn't want this pregnancy for us."

If he had been looking up at his company, he would have seen Barry's eyes widen like saucers. The cigar threatened to tumble out.

Before Barry had a chance to say anything, Chris was talking again.

"I'm not a bad guy, Barry." The fingers he had knitted in this hair found their way between his knees, sheltered under his folded form.

"No…" Barry agreed.

"I don't want this for either of us, you understand?" It wasn't a question. It was an imploration.

Barry nodded slowly, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass. Chris mopped his face with his hands again. It was Barry's turn to stare absently at the fireplace.

He continued. "I'm not a villain, Barry, am I? For not wanting this?" Now he was pleading. His eyes were pleading. Begging him to suffocate all the adjectives he had affixed to himself with a firm denial. He was wringing his hands when Barry shook his head resolutely.

"No." He said firmly, taking down his resting foot from atop his knee. He settled them firmly on the floor and squared off his Chris, who seemed to be rewarded with his declaration.

"But you are a bastard." He swept the cigar out from his mouth and dropped it carelessly into the glass in his hand. It hissed out sharply.

Chris didn't have the energy to dissuade him. Maybe it struck him as the truth.

"What's the problem?"

Chris melted into the chair as though the conversation had exhausted him. Barry eyes were cutting into him sharply. It didn't help that a framed photo atop his desk of his wife and two daughters was angled toward him as though they were a part of the conversation.

Chris couldn't come up with anything valid other than, "I'm thirteen years older than her." He threw that point out matter of fact, as though that knowledge would have leveled any argument Barry had in his arsenal.

"Did it matter yesterday?" He fired back, without missing a beat. "She's pregnant, Chris. You're a forty-one year old man. This pregnancy is not a punctuation of your life." Barry, feeling the weight of the conversation settling over him suddenly, found himself swept away to a too distant past where he had been in Chris' very situation. But when his hand settled over his wife's stomach, barely puckered with the swell of life blossoming in her, he went pallid. He had missed the first few weeks of life while deployed. He hadn't missed any pivotal moments, any major developments, but guilt engulfed him and swallowed him whole. He wouldn't miss another heartbeat of his child's life.

"I'd do anything to be in your situation again." He set the glass down on the floor at his feet.

Chris didn't pick up on the desperation in his friend's voice. He was too encased in himself. "You've got two grown daughters. You've been here, twice," He reminded.

"Three times," Barry corrected, raising his fingers to emphasize his point.

Chris turned his head slightly to look at him.

"Three times. Two little girls and a boy. A boy whose father was too much of a man to hold his hand everywhere, even if it was across the street." He stopped right there, a slight break in his voice and turned his glassy eyes away from Chris. He didn't ever want to see anyone else's horrified expression.

Chris came to the edge of his seat, stunned. "I. Am. So. Sorry."

Barry took in a deep, slow breath and hissed it out through his nose. He swiped at his beard and waved off Chris' apology.

"Forget it. It kinda helps, putting it out there." He cleared his throat, easing up from his recliner with a grunt. The stillness that erupted in the room was eerie. Respectfully silent. Chris rubbed his sweating palms on jeans and sank back into the chair.

"In any case," Barry started, talking from over his shoulder. He was fixing himself another drink from the small wet bar in the far corner of the room. "Stop being a selfish son of a bitch." He turned to face him, leaning on the bar and dragged his sleeve across his face.

"This isn't the end of your life. It's the beginning."