"If it is yours," she nods, continuing to avoid eye contact.
"Sarah what is really going on here?"
"Please let it go," she begs.
"Let it go? How the hell am I supposed to let it go? I come home from a mission, and I find out that you're pregnant. My wife is six months pregnant, and she didn't tell me. I think that I get to ask questions. I have the right to be suspicious."
"If you have a question, why don't you ask it?" She suggests, as the vein in her forehead begins to pulsate.
"There is no other possibility is there? You just don't want me around. You want me out of your life, so you told me that the baby might not be mine. You thought that maybe you could convince me to stay away. I guess that I didn't realize that you were that bitter. Or maybe it has nothing to do with you being bitter. Maybe, you're just being selfish. You have waited for this opportunity for so long that you don't want to share your baby with anyone else, including me. I find it hard to believe that you would deny your child its father, though."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Did you tell me that I might not be the father to get rid of me?"
"No."
"Then why did you tell me that?"
"Because it's true," she begins to raise her voice.
"I don't believe you," he argues.
"I guess that you don't have to."
"Sarah did you cheat on me?"
She swallows hard, and finally makes eye contact. She contemplates how to answer for a few moments, before she says anything. She exhales, and chooses to answer honestly, "No."
"So what you said earlier was a lie?"
"No," she shakes her head.
"They can't both be true," he argues.
A lump begins to form in her throat, "I wish that they weren't."
He falls silent. He scrutinizes her facial expression. There are heavy dark circles under her eyes, as if she hasn't been sleeping much lately. There is a look of pain in her eyes that he hasn't seen before. He realizes how vulnerable she looks. Her jaw is clenched, in an attempt to keep tears from falling. He can see the tears welling up in her eyes.
He shakes his head, and breaks the silence, "I don't understand."
"I don't either," she admits as the tears begin to fall from her eyes. He shifts positions, and leans towards her. She allows him to hug her. She buries her head in his shoulder as she cries. After a few moments she pushes him away. She wipes the tears from her face with the palm of her hand.
"I'm sorry."
"I know that you're angry with me. I am angry with me for being stupid enough to walk away. I am angry with me for being delusional enough to expect you to be over it by the time I got home. Please talk to me."
"I can't," she says in a small voice.
She sits in the middle of the bed with her upper half leaning against the headboard. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, and her covers are pulled up to her waist. Harm is next to her. The upper half of his body leans against the headboard. He sits on top of the covers with his legs stretched out in front of him.
"You can tell me anything," he reminds her.
"Not this," she whispers.
He furrows his brow, "Sarah?"
She tosses the pregnancy test in the drawer, after finally mustering up enough strength to get up off the floor. She grips the countertop, in front of the bathroom sink. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. It has been five weeks since Harmon left. She notes the dark circles under her eyes, and the pale appearance of her skin. Her finger traces a scar above her eyebrow.
It is weeks before she makes an appointment with her OB/GYN. She sits on an exam table, in a paper dress waiting for the doctor to enter the room. Finally she enters the room, and takes a seat on a stool. She glances at the chart, and then at Sarah. She goes down a list of questions. Half-way through Sarah seems to zone out.
"Sarah," she repeats.
Sarah reinitiates eye contact, "I'm sorry, what was the question?"
"We established the date for the first day of your last period, but I like to deal with the whole picture," the physician explains.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you know what the possible dates for conception are?"
"September eleventh, or September fourteenth."
"Just two dates?"
"Yes," she nods.
"Those are all of my questions, so if you're ready I'll start my exam."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"Is there a way to determine which date…"
The physician cuts her off, "We also use measurement tools to help us determine accuracy. That being said, it would be nearly impossible to determine whether it was the eleventh or the fourteenth."
"Mac?"
She changes the subject, "I repainted the nursery."
"You mean to tell me that you got rid of the marine green?"
"I thought that it was too dark."
"I always thought that."
"That isn't what you told me."
"I still think that it is too militant," he adds.
"It doesn't matter now," she admits.
"What color did you paint?"
"Why don't you go look for yourself?"
He nods, and leaves the room. She follows him down the hallway. He finds the door to the nursery wide open. He flips on the light, and studies the room. It is much different than he remembers it. There aren't piles of boxes all over the room. The crib is empty, except for a mattress. There is no bedding in the crib. The room has even been rearranged. He studies the walls. Two walls are solid grey. The wall opposite of the crib is purple. The wall behind the crib is a chevron pattern with grey alternating with purple.
"You really shouldn't inhale all these paint fumes," he points out.
"I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"I had to hire someone," she admits.
"You did?" His eyes widen in disbelief.
"Something kept getting between me and the wall."
He smirks, "It's not very gender neutral."