This chapter features lyrics from the songs: time to go, Is It Over Now?, invisible string, Maroon, Superman, High Infidelity, the lakes, Begin Again, illicit affairs, Everything Has Changed, and Labyrinth by Taylor Swift.

Ranger was here. Standing next to my car. Here. In Long Beach. Outside my office. I stood and stared at him, dumbfounded. He looked good. I mean, he always looked good; even when he was hungover, he'd still been completely edible. Today he wasn't in Rangeman black; he was Corporate Ranger, in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a dark grey tie with lighter grey stripes. God, I loved Corporate Ranger. His face was blank, but knowing him as well as I did, I could see the hint of apprehension on his face. He was worried about how I was going to react. He was out of luck if he expected me to blow up at his unexpected appearance. I was too emotionally drained after nearly three weeks of my constantly tingling Spidey Sense, and my afternoon session with HHN had sapped any reserves I had.

Pulling myself out of my stupor, I made my way to him, trying to tamp down the rush of longing that swept over me every time I laid eyes on the man. Almost against my will, there was a yearning that spread through me, my body reacting to the proximity of his. It was as if his body was calling out to mine, the magnetic pull strong, and the desire to be close to him, to be one with him, pull him into my body and never let go was nearly overwhelming. There was also that sense of safety, which I thought would've faded with our recent history, with all the pain we'd caused each other, but there it was, beating as strongly as my own heart. I knew without a doubt, no matter what, he would die for me, protect me with his life, and I would do the same for him in return. There was a silent vow between the two of us, to keep each other safe from all outside danger. Unfortunately, the living, breathing thing that existed between us, and the anguish it caused us both, was exempt from that agreement.

I read the question in his eyes, and there were no words needed as I silently acquiesced, allowing him to draw me into his arms in greeting. The familiar feeling of being in his embrace soothed some of the tension in my body, and I allowed myself to enjoy the sensation. I dropped my load of work bag, purse, and lunch bag to wrap my arms around him in return, and I heard a low sigh of contentment escape him, echoed by my own. My body started to thrum and warm in familiar places at his touch, and I pulled back before I made a fool of myself in the FBI parking lot. The intense sexual dreams had been a nightly occurrence for more than a month, and my Hungarian hormones seemed to have multiplied accordingly.

"It's good to see you." His voice was deep and rich, even though he tried to hide the longing, I heard it all the same.

"You too," I told him honestly. We stood staring at each other for a beat, my heart aching at the awkwardness that hadn't existed before, before the fights, before the hurt and anger, before our agreement, leaving me thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end. Things had always been so easy, and comfortable between us, and I missed it like it was a tangible thing, throbbing like a phantom limb. I was overcome by that old familiar body ache, the snaps from the same little breaks in my soul; it was what finally made me realize it was time to go.

Breaking eye contact, I started to stoop to grab my bags. "Let me," he offered, and smoothly retrieved my things with the same graceful ease with which he did everything. He came up with my keys in hand, and pushed the button to unlock the doors, opening the back door on the driver's side, placing my things inside, and adding his travel bag and briefcase that I hadn't even noticed.

I eyed them and nodded to his attire. "Just in the neighborhood?"

The corner of his mouth tipped up the slightest bit. "Not exactly. I was in D.C. for meetings when I got your message."

I was still slightly shocked at his sudden appearance, although I shouldn't have been. Ranger always liked to control the situation, and if he felt he needed to fly across the country and talk face-to-face, he was going to do just that. "So you got on a flight? Rather than talk to me on the phone?"

He shook his head. "Rangeman jet." Like that was any more logical.

"And you thought a cross-country flight was better than a phone call?" I was ridiculously pleased to see him, even if I was somewhat annoyed by him not giving me a heads-up. Of course, if he had, I'd have told him not to come, and he knew that.

"Stephanie, your text this morning was the first time you've reached out to me in more than a year and a half." Pain seared through my chest and I barely managed to keep myself from correcting him, twenty months. It had been twenty months. It was the day before what turned out to be the first of many painful what? Arguments? Fights? It's hard to fight with someone who doesn't talk. Maybe that's why I made sure to push all the right buttons with him. I wanted to see that I made him just as crazy as he made me. The last time I'd texted him was the morning before that fateful night in his apartment. He'd also been in DC for meetings and was supposed to return that night. I'd messaged him to confirm our dinner plans. He'd agreed, and cooked dinner for the two of us, rather than having Ella do it, and I'd even helped. We'd spent the rest of the night in bed together, making up for the time he was away. He'd been so loving, so tender. There was a longing, a reverence in the way he touched me that night that hadn't been there before, like he was savoring every touch, every moment. I felt worshiped and cherished, relief had settled over me, feeling complete now that we were together once again. His absence hadn't been long, but I'd felt the loss of him in a way I hadn't before, and it seemed he felt the same. So when he was once again inside me, I celebrated the feeling of being whole, utterly satisfied, and allowed those three little words to slip out. My lapse in self-control was the beginning of the end of our ill-fated affair.

However, in recent months, I began to wonder if there would ever truly be an end to us, or if I was forever fated to be linked to him, tethered by an invisible string, tying him to me. Was it over then, and is it over now? All the turmoil of the last twenty months had flashed through my mind in just a moment, while it felt like slow motion, it had been so quick, and at first, I didn't think Ranger even noticed, but what he said next made me realize he did.

"Twenty months," he corrected himself. I blinked, shock written all over my face. "You haven't messaged or called me in twenty months." Regret was written all over his face. His voice was soft. "Whatever it is, I figured it was important enough for us to talk face-to-face." Needing to get out of the parking lot at my workplace before I burst into tears over his words, or before I kneed him in the balls for causing the rust to grow between our telephones, I held out my hand for the keys, not expecting him to actually hand them over. Ranger quirked an eyebrow, but placed them in my hand, his own lingering a bit longer than necessary.

I tried to downplay the shudder his simple touch sent through me. Trying to cover, I teased him, "You don't have the same rule as Tank? He said he only allows women to drive in his bed."

Ranger frowned. "For the sake of my fifteen-year friendship with the man, I'm going to ignore that, and not ask why Tank felt the need to share his sexual preferences with you." I rolled my eyes and tamped down the desire to point out he had no claim, and I could talk to anyone I wanted, about anything I damn well pleased, but experience told me that particular conversation wasn't one I wanted to start here and now. In the past, it led to yelling followed by hot, angry sex. I was pretty sure fucking Ranger up against my car violated the FBI employee code of conduct I'd signed.

"Besides," his mouth curved up, the hint of this wolf grin evident. "I'd let you drive, anywhere, anytime; all you have to do is ask." Flashes of me doing just that nightly in my dreams flooded my brain, and I blushed. His eyebrow quirked up again at my reaction, and the grin was now full-blown, I half expected his canines to grow, long and sharp, right in front of me.

Refusing to back down and bolstered by Dream Stephanie's take-charge attitude, I snatched the keys and turned to climb in the driver's seat, throwing over my shoulder in a flirty tone, "I don't need your permission." I shut the door with a little more force than necessary and took a deep breath as I watched him in the rearview mirror, wholly unsuccessful in my bid to suppress the zing of pleasure that hit me at simply being able to lay my eyes on him once again, and I wondered if he knows how much I miss him? Things were weird between us now. While we hadn't spoken since he'd returned me to my parent's house after our time together at the hotel, I still felt the weight of him daily, and it completely overwhelmed me in my sleep.

He climbed into the passenger seat, his big body and even bigger presence filling the small space. I drove on autopilot towards my apartment, trying my best to ignore my body's reaction to the nearness of his. I briefly considered stopping at the store to pick up a large quantity of alcohol, but Shirley had done me dirty the last time we'd been together, and I didn't think it was the wisest choice.

Traffic was heavy, as it typically was on a Friday evening, and I let myself get lost in the music coming from my iPhone linked to my speakers. In deference to having a passenger, I hadn't turned it up to full volume and kept my singing and driver's seat choreography to a minimum. My friends knew that riding in my car bought them the additional bonus of a front-row ticket to a concert, performed by me. Ranger was most likely unaware of this perk since we'd always traveled in his vehicles, and I squirmed a bit, remembering that traveling wasn't all we'd done in his cars. As we inched through traffic, my self-control waned, and I was left with the option of putting on my one-woman show, or pulling over to the shoulder, and climbing over the console onto Ranger's lap and driving him, right here and now, like I was trying to win the Indianapolis 500.

My playlist of the last few weeks had been one I'd titled Anger. When I couldn't keep my mind busy with work, mindless tasks, or cross-stitching, focusing on my anger allowed me to push the growing anxiety aside. It was the same when I was driving. Since leaving Trenton, my music taste has changed. I'd left Metallic and Gobsmack behind and started to listen to mainly female artists, sad and angry songs mostly; Taylor Swift was heavy in my rotation. Angie and Mary Alice were fans, but their favorite songs were the popular tunes and love songs you heard on the radio. I related more to the ones with gut-wrenching lyrics about lost loves, angry songs about being wronged, and songs begging the fates for a sign, wondering if she'd ever find someone to love. She wrote from her own personal experiences, but the feelings were so universal, they were painfully relatable.

With no other option in the small space, Ranger was treated to me singing loudly and slightly off-key to Mr. Perfectly Fine, I Bet You Think About Me, and Mad Woman. When I aggressively sang the bridge to The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived, I could feel his eyes on me as I nearly shouted:

Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?

Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?

Were you writing a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy?

In fifty years, will all this be declassified?

And you'll confess why you did it

And I'll say, "Good riddance"

'Cause it wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden

I would've died for your sins

Instead, I just died inside

And you deserve prison, but you won't get time

You'll slide into inboxes and slip through the bars

You crashed my party and your rental car

You said normal girls were boring

But you were gone by the morning

You kicked out the stage lights

But you're still performing

And in plain sight you hid

But you are what you did

And I'll forget you, but I'll never forgive

The smallest man who ever lived

From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was uncomfortable, some of the words hitting close to home. I couldn't bring myself to feel too badly about his choices; they'd caused us both to suffer. He was dealing with it his way, and this was how I dealt with mine. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only thirty-five minutes, we reached my apartment. Parking in my designated spot, I took another deep breath before collecting myself enough to climb out of the driver's seat. By that time, Ranger had already gotten out and retrieved both of our bags and was standing next to the car waiting for me. I thought briefly about telling him I was perfectly capable of carrying my own bags, but knew it would get me nowhere, so instead I locked the car, turned, and headed towards the building. I entered the security code on the external door, and we made our way inside.

The elevator was already on the first floor, so we avoided the awkwardness of standing silently, side by side, and waiting for it to arrive. The downside was we fast-forwarded to just the two of us, standing in the enclosed space of the elevator cart, the tension so thick, you could almost see it like a fog settling over us. I hit the button for the fourth floor, narrowly controlling the impulse to push the button multiple times, in an attempt to speed our assent. Ranger's larger-than-life presence filled the tight quarters, my body warmed, and I felt flushed, remembering the dream rooted in the memory of the two of us in the hotel elevator in Lawrenceville, drunk and savagely groping each other. The memory had only surfaced recently, along with a few others from that night, hidden in the back of my mind blurred by the copious amounts of vodka I'd consumed.

In my dream, we hadn't made it to the room. I'd been insistent that Ranger fuck me, then and there, up against the elevator wall, going so far as to swat his hand away from the emergency stop button, the thrill of possibly being discovered adding to the rush. At least I was pretty sure part of it was a dream, and not the reality of the evening. I wasn't sure if Ranger remembered, and even if he did, I wasn't about to ask him. Hearing him clear his throat next to me and the sexual tension ramp up another notch, I figured he had. I kept my eyes focused on the numbers above the door, willing them to move faster. When they finally opened, I was so relieved to hear the ding sounding, alerting us to our arrival. I quickly exited, and made a beeline for my apartment. It was only after I had the deadbolt open, and inserted the key into the lock on the doorknob, that the realization hit me.

"You can't come in," I blurted out. He just stared at me. I told him again, "I can't let you into my apartment."

Confused, he said, "Steph, I don't care if it's a mess. Your place in Trenton always looked like a bomb went off in your bedroom. I don't care."

I got pissy. It was true, my shitty little apartment had always been in a state of disarray, but it reflected the chaos of my life then. Besides, even if it was clean, it was still a shitty apartment with woefully inadequate closet space, crappy mismatched furniture, and an orange and brown tiled bathroom from the 70s that somehow was never impacted by the numerous firebombs, and other acts of violence that happened all too frequently in my previous life as a BEA. But here in Long Beach, I loved my apartment, and had worked hard to make it a home I could take pride in. That motivated me to keep it clean and tidy. Well, that and the fact that anything I left out Jessica Fletcher claimed as her own, laying on it, chewing on it, or peeing on it, in an attempt to not so subtly remind me it was time to change the litter box.

I scowled at him. "My apartment is perfectly clean, thank you very much."

Ranger tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise before his face changed, his jaw got tight, and his whole body tensed. Now it was my turn to stare at him, confused by this reaction. "Are you seeing someone? Is he inside?"

Shock, then annoyance, and anger flared, evidenced by my sharp tone. "No, I'm not seeing anyone, and there's no one inside except Jessica Fletcher. Not that my relationship status is any of your fucking business."

He visually relaxed, and ignored my last statement. Now he looked confused again. "The lady from Murder She Wrote?"

My eyebrows shot up. I never knew Ranger to watch TV. He'd occasionally watch a movie or a ballgame with me, but I couldn't imagine him watching a sixty-year-old woman in New England solving murders in his free time. I actually doubted he ever had any free time.

He rolled his eyes. Holy shit, he rolled his eyes! "My Abuela loved the show and made me watch re-runs in the evenings when I lived with her in Miami." I smiled, picturing a scowling, sullen teenage Ranger on a floral sofa, watching Angela Lansbury fight crime while his grandma sat next to him, crocheting an afghan.

He looked exasperated. "So who is Jessica Fletcher, why is she in your apartment, and why does that mean I can't go in? Is she your roommate?"

"Sort of, I guess. Jessica Fletcher is my cat, and that's not why you can't come in." I felt like we were in an old Abbott and Costello bit.

Surprise showed on his face, he teased me, "You have a cat? How does the rat feel about that?"

A sharp pain went through me at the mention of the only man in my life I could ever really count on. I whispered angrily, "Rex wasn't a rat, he was a hamster, and he died a year and a half ago, the Thanksgiving before I left."

His whole demeanor changed, softened. "I'm sorry, Steph, I didn't know."

I got angry, remembering how hard the little guy's death was on me. Even though he'd lived an exceptionally long life for a hamster, it had still been a shock. Not having Ranger to comfort me at the time had been especially painful. Hector had been sweet though, helping me bury him in the nearly frozen ground of my parents' backyard, even buying a little garden statue of a hamster as a grave marker. I blinked away the tears that had formed in my eyes, and bit back the urge to yell, 'And whose fault is that?!' at him. Instead, I focused on our current predicament.

"That's not why you can't come in. You can't come in because neither of us can be trusted when we're alone together. Drunk or not, history has shown that when we're alone, we always end up in bed together!" I hissed at him, exasperated with both of our lack of self-control.

His wolf grin appeared. "That's not true. It's not always a bed, sometimes it's the dining room table, the kitchen counter, the shower, in my car, on top of my car, the elevator–"

I cut him off. "You know what I mean!"

He just laughed and then got serious. "Is what we need to talk about something you want to do in public?" Shit. He was right. I shook my head. He vowed, "I promise to be on my best behavior." Holding up three fingers, he added, "Scout's Honor." I scoffed; as if Carlos Manoso had ever been a Boy Scout, but then I looked at those three fingers and remembered what having them inside me felt like, what he could do with them, and how he could play my body like a finely tuned instrument, pulling orgasm after orgasm from me before he'd allow himself his own. He tried unsuccessfully to hide the grin that appeared as he read my dirty thoughts. He challenged, "I can control myself if you can."

That was the problem. When it came to the two of us, resisting the overwhelming desire that crackled between us, I didn't trust either one of us. He was right, though, this was not something we could discuss in public, so I resigned myself to the fact that we didn't have any other option. Looking at him skeptically for a minute, I finally turned back to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside, thinking to myself, 'With my luck I'll trip, fall, and end up landing on his dick anyway.' I heard a bark of laughter behind me, surmising I had not, in fact, kept that thought to myself. I didn't comment but turned and took my bags from him, avoiding his eyes. I set my purse on the table in the entryway, before walking into the living room to drop my work bag next to my desk in the corner, and then to the kitchen, setting my lunch box on the counter, before grabbing two of the reusable bottles of water I kept in the fridge.

I found Ranger still standing in the archway, between the entry hall and the living room. Jessica Fletcher was at his feet, investigating every inch of him she could reach; even going so far as to go up on her hind legs, front paws on his shins as she inspected his kneecaps. Ranger watched with amusement as she apparently found nothing suspect, before moving around to sniff his calves and heels. After a brief once over, she deemed him acceptable, and rubbed up against his pant leg as a sign of approval, leaving him the gift of some orange hair on the lower part of his otherwise pristine suit pants. A small frown appeared on his face, so I tried distracting him by handing him a bottle of water. I toed off my shoes, and set them in the empty cubby space where they belonged, in the storage unit that sat against the wall. Ranger followed suit, removing his expensive Italian leather dress shoes, and setting them off to the side, before removing his suit jacket and tie, hanging them on one of the empty hooks on the wall next to my jackets.

I turned and followed the cat into the living room, to the couch, where she hopped up and waited for me to settle in next to her. Once I was seated, she climbed into my lap, giving me a quick once over before giving me a sharp "meow" when I didn't commence petting her immediately. Ranger had trailed behind me, settling into the armchair, with an amused look on his face as he watched Jessica as she clocked in and started her nightly shift at the biscuit factory, kneading my upper thighs while she purred. Normally, our little evening routine relaxed and settled me a bit, but not tonight.

I wasn't ready to dive into the difficult topics of mystery man Marco Ruiz, and the murder of Sophia Mendes, so I made small talk. Pulling out my phone and opening the Uber Eats app, I asked him, "Do you have a preference? Chinese, Thai, or Indian for dinner?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not pizza?"

I shook my head, "No, the one place that makes anything remotely close to Pino's doesn't deliver. Most places out here make wood-fired or flatbread pizzas, with ingredients no one in New Jersey would consider suitable toppings." I shrugged. "They're fine, but don't hold up well with delivery." I took a sip of my water. "Normally I have drinks and dinner with coworkers on Friday nights, but my friend Kat has to get up early for her rugby tournament tomorrow, Handsome Nick is taking his wife out of town on a weekend, kid-free getaway, and Adam has a big Dungeons and Dragons campaign that will last all weekend." I shrugged. "I was planning on cooking, but it's been a long day, and I'm not really up to it."

He didn't even try to hide his surprise. "You cook?"

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Yes, I cook. Nothing terribly complicated, but I do manage to feed myself. I took some classes, made a few friends, and we get together twice a month and make dinner together."

He grinned. "Your mother must be proud."

I shrugged, "Maybe a little, I guess, but I don't cook things like she does; no pot roast or gravy. My lasagna has spinach and white sauce, and I make things with vegetables she hasn't even heard of." He looked surprised. I explained the change, "Once I had the time, and could afford real groceries, not frozen entrées and boxed mac and cheese, I found I liked cooking and vegetables." I laughed. "Who knew?"

He looked smug, like I'd finally seen the light and was treating my body like a temple, just as he did. I set him straight, "I still hate lettuce, but I make a lot of salads with veggies, different kinds of beans, and grains like brown rice, couscous, or quinoa." I defended myself, "I can follow a recipe." As an afterthought, I added, "Well, except for the cheese. How much feta I add is no one's business. I measure that with my heart." I grinned. "And I have a pretty big heart."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "You do." I blinked, surprised, but incredibly pleased by his words.

Sensing I was a little uncomfortable with the compliment, he broke eye contact and looked around my living space. "I like your place, it's different from your old one, but very you."

I snarked, "Well it's not a shithole, if that's what you mean." I shrugged, realizing I was a little embarrassed of my old place. "And I can afford furniture that doesn't come from Goodwill or the Salvation Army."

He frowned. "I didn't know it bothered you. You could have worked for me, at Rangeman, I tried–"

I cut him off. "No, I couldn't have, and I know you did. Thank you." I felt bad for snapping at him. "I hope you don't think I'm not grateful; you were always very generous with me. I don't know if I ever really thanked you for everything you did for me, so thank you. But no, I couldn't have worked for you."

"Joe?" he questioned.

I nodded. "Partially Joe, yeah, he would have blown a gasket, but mainly for my own reasons. It would have been too hard to be around you so much. As it was, I couldn't control myself when we did work together." I sighed, a little ashamed. "It made me a shitty girlfriend. If I was working with you every day, I couldn't have kept my distance, and I would have hated myself for my lack of self-control. He frowned, so I added, "I'm not blaming you. I was the one in a relationship, not being faithful. I told myself it wasn't cheating, but I bent the truth too far."

He sounded apologetic. "I didn't make it easy for you, though."

I agreed, "No, you didn't, but I'm a big girl. I should have put a stop to it, but I was in love with you, not him, so I justified it to myself. It was all you were willing to offer me, so I let it happen, and kept hoping you'd change your mind." I couldn't believe I said all that to him, but I was tired of living with all these revelations alone. What should be over, burrowed under my skin in heart-stopping waves of hurt, keeping it all inside was killing me.

He apologized, "Steph, I'm sorry."

I cut him off again. "It's over now, what's past is past." I waved my hand in dismissal. "Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." As nervous as I was about how he'd react to me digging into his past, it was preferable to continue rehashing our past. He nodded his agreement but looked like he had more to say on the previous topic.

I searched for the right way to bring up the fact that I suspected he was a person of interest in my murder case, and admitted I'd gone so far as contacting the CIA to find answers. I worried my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to find a place to start.

He took pity on me. "Steph, it's okay, whatever it is you need to tell me, it's okay, it'll be okay," he promised. The stab of pain that pierced my heart every time he used my name, instead of Babe, was almost unbearable. I barely stopped myself from wincing each time I heard it, or saw him have to stop and think, remind himself of my wishes. It had been at my insistence that he stopped, screaming at him when he came to my apartment after the night we closed the case for the FBI. I'd yelled that he didn't have the right to call me that anymore, not the way he treated me, that I wasn't his Babe anymore, not his woman, that I felt like his dirty little secret, his whore. I'll never forget the look on his face; he'd looked like I'd slapped him.

It's how it felt at the time, like what we had was some sort of illicit affair. I'd kept telling myself I could always stop, but inside I died a million times. He'd come to me in the night, but in the morning he'd leave no trace behind, like he didn't even exist. As he sought comfort in my body, I took his words for what they were, but it was like a dwindling, mercurial high, a drug that only worked the first few hundred times.

Looking back on it now, I see it differently. I'd felt then like he'd been using me, taking what he needed, not caring for me, loving me, not the way I loved him anyway. After that Christmas night, when he finally told me the truth, and what I saw, and felt between us when I was home for the holidays, I knew the truth. He loved me, and needed me, but didn't have any idea how to deal with it, his own emotional baggage weighing him down. Like I told Handsome Handsome Nick earlier, neither of us had any control over what existed between us. We both hated it, and how because of it, everything had changed.

He'd slipped up at Christmas, first drunk, and then sober, using that one word, the term of endearment that was reserved just for him. Hearing it sent a wave of pleasure through me, having missed hearing it for over a year. I told him he could call me Babe for the weekend, and he did. In that safe space we'd created inside the hotel room, it seemed as if all the hurt, anger, and the reality of what we'd become to each other had melted away. It was then that I realized no matter what name he called me, it didn't change anything, I would always be his Babe. Even if someday I managed to move on, and find someone else, that wouldn't change. I didn't think that would ever happen, though. I knew deep down, I'd be getting over him my whole life.

My voice was tentative. "Can you not call me that? I mean, I know I'm the one who told you to, but I don't like it. Actually, I hate it. Can you stop calling me by my name?" It all came out in a rush.

A genuine smile graced his beautiful face. "Yeah, Babe, I can do that." He paused. "If you're sure."

I swallowed around the lump in my throat, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"What is it you need to tell me, Babe?" I warmed, hearing his name for me once again. It gave me the courage to finally tell him what I suspected, and what I'd done about it.

I started. "Before I tell you, I need you to know this wasn't something I wanted to have to talk to you about. I mean, I kept hoping I was wrong." I was so tense that Jessica Fletcher got annoyed with me, and jumped down off my lap. I took the opportunity to stand, and began pacing back and forth in front of the couch. "Believe me, I didn't want to believe it at first. I tried to ignore my gut feeling, thinking if I ignored it, it would just go away, but it wouldn't." I was wringing my hands, refusing to look at him, trying to spit it out, and get to the point, but I just kept babbling. "I knew you wouldn't like it, you might get mad. I even thought about not telling you, but I then thought that wouldn't be fair to you, that I owed you that much, after everything you've done for me." I finally looked at him, nearly in a panic. "No matter how fucked up things have gotten between us, I needed to tell you. You have a right to know." I kept talking, worried about what his reaction was going to be. He said it would be okay, but he hadn't heard what I had to say yet. I wasn't so sure. It was a miracle he and I could even be sitting in the same room, having this rational discussion after some of the things that had transpired between us. Would this be the last straw, the thing that would put an end to our friendship, or relationship, or whatever this was, for good?

In an instant, he was out of his chair and had me wrapped in his arms, holding me tight against him. I kept going, my brain unable to stop the words from spilling out of my mouth, I was so worked up, I was close to tears. "I mean, I could just make it go away, if that's what needs to happen, what you want me to do. I don't want to ruin everything you've worked so hard for. I mean, I wouldn't feel good about doing it, but I would to protect you."

He pulled back from me and took my face in his hands, he didn't look angry, he looked a little worried. For some reason, I thought he looked happy, but that didn't make any sense. "Don't say that, Babe, don't ever say that." His voice was weird, like he was pleading with me. His eyes were locked on mine, warm and loving, I was so confused. "I know you didn't plan this. I'm not angry. We'll figure it out together. No matter what, I'll always be there for you and the baby."

The baby? What baby? I wriggled out of his grasp, completely dumbfounded, and nearly shouted at him, "What the fuck are you talking about?"