“I’m glad,” he says, his voice deep with emotion as he opens his door and swings his body outside. A second later, he opens the sliding back door for me and offers me his hand.

  It’s rough and warm but feels so good surrounding mine. And it’s at that moment—that very moment—that I feel our child move inside of me for the very first time. It’s a flutter. Not like the butterflies I felt before. Different. New. Like a fish swimming inside of me. Or the brush of angel wings. But it makes joyful laughter erupt from my throat as I look up at Gideon in wonder.

  “Oh, my God!”

  He smiles back at me, his brows lightly furrowed.

  “What just happened?” he asks.

  “I have to tell you something,” I say, my voice breathless, my heart racing. “Something…really important. Wonderful. Miraculous, even.”

  I pull his hand toward my belly and flatten it there, placing mine on top of his. Then I look up at him, straight into his confused…then surprised…then shocked eyes.

  “Wait…what? What’s going on here?”

  I swallow, gathering up my courage. “I’m pregnant, and I just felt the baby move for the first time.”

  He blinks at me.

  Blinks again.

  His eyes dart down to my belly, where his hand is still flattened over my sweat shirt, and then back up to my face. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks…distraught. We stand like that in the Best Western parking lot beside his van—staring at each other, with our hands covering my belly, for a good ten seconds before he finally says:

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  He tugs his hand out from under mine and places both hands on his hips for a second before crossing them over his chest tightly.

  My excitement plummets as I take a sharp breath and hold it for a second, my muscles tightening in an unexpected but instinctual, fight or flight response to his reaction. I know plenty about intimidating body language, and Gideon’s hasn’t crossed a line yet. But my personal history tells me to be prepared for anything, so my fingers curl into fists, just in case.

  “I’m pregnant,” I say in a firm, serious voice.

  He stares at me, frozen and furious, his face hard and unrelenting, but I’m still not afraid of him. In fact, my adrenaline surges, and I experience an intense “mama bear” moment, my own feelings of protectiveness and love for this child translating into a burst of anger toward Gideon.

  “You’re being a jackass.” I glare at him. “I’m going inside.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head, his arms still crossed over his chest. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’ll talk at dinner,” I snap, stepping around him.

  He doesn’t try to block my way—doesn’t grab me or touch me. I’m testing him by walking past him, and I’m relieved when he passes. It tells me something crucial about Gideon: that even though he’s upset and confused, he doesn’t resort to expressing that anger physically.

  My instincts were correct—I don’t need to be afraid of him. Maybe I can even trust him as badly as I want to.

  That said, I think he could use a minute alone to cool off.

  “I’ll see you inside,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Addison!” he yells from behind me. “Stop! I want to talk right now.”

  I whip around to face him. “Here, in the parking lot?”

  “It was your choice to spill the beans here.” His eyes dart to my stomach again, linger for a second, then slide back up to my face. “Jesus.”

  “Okay,” I say, reminding myself that up until a few weeks ago, I was a high-powered attorney, totally comfortable in taking over a courtroom. He needs a summation of the case at hand, and I can offer that to him. I match his stance, crossing my arms over my chest, planting my feet, and modulating my voice: “The last time I was here in Valdez, approximately three months ago, I’m sure you’ll recall that we had sexual intercourse approximately six times in a twenty-four hour period. As I am sure you comprehend, the biological ramifications of such activities—”

  “Aren’t you on the pill?” he demands.

  “No,” I say, feeling more pissed off with every passing second. “Are you?”

  He tilts his head to the side, his expression pained.

  “Have you ever heard of a condom?” I ask.

  “You didn’t ask me to put one on.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I see. So the responsibility of birth control was up to me alone?”

  “No,” he says. “Well…yes. I mean, look what happened.”

  “Exactly. Neither of us used birth control, and therefore we are pregnant.”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “You’re the father.”

  “How do I know it’s mine?”

  I lurch forward. The crack of skin against skin surprises me as much as it does him. I haven’t hit someone since I was a teenager, and my hand instantly aches from the force of my slap.

  “Fuck, Addison! What was that for?” he asks, cradling his cheek.

  “I don’t sleep around!” I say, rubbing my palm on my thigh.

  He gives me a look that says, All evidence to the contrary, counselor, and while I want to be furious, it occurs to me that I’m not being fair to him. I need to take responsibility for my choices, and I made a point to spin our sexual relationship as one-shot, emotionless, and transactional. Since that’s all he knows of me and my sexual habits, it’s fair that he’d question my claim.

  But the reality is that I don’t sleep around and math doesn’t lie. This baby is his.

  “Go online and find a conception calculator, genius. They’re easy to find. Type in the date January fourteenth.” I open the purse on my shoulder and fish around for an envelope, which I thrust at him. “Then check the date on that fourteen-week ultrasound photo…Dad.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, I round the van, open the back, take out my suitcase, and roll into the lobby without a backward glance.

  Chapter 9

  Gideon

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  FUCK ME.

  I stand there in the parking lot, rigid as a corpse, staring at the envelope in my hand and trying to get my head around the fact that in a few months, I’m going to be a father. A father.

  I don’t have any business being someone’s father. Do I?

  Not that it fucking matters, because I could see it in her eyes: she was telling the truth. She’s having a kid. And that kid is mine.

  I’m going to be a father.

  My hands are shaking when I look down at the envelope in my hand. Gulping back nerves, I open it up and take a look.

  I’ve seen ultrasound photos before, but I’ve never been totally certain of what I’m looking at and never really cared enough to ask. I mostly just glance at the blob I’m handed, say congratulations, and give the photo back. This time, I stare at it like my life depends on it.

  And it’s utterly amazing how clear it is to me.

  In the middle of a grainy triangle shape is a black oval and inside the black oval is a baby in profile. I can make out a large, round skull, ear, nose, and lips. My fingertip lightly traces the curve of a tiny spine, and I marvel at the two feet and teeny toes.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear plops down on the photo, and I sniff abruptly, wiping it away. This is my son or daughter. My baby. Mine.

  And I basically just called its mother, whom I genuinely like, a whore.

  “Great job, Gideon,” I whisper. “Great work.”

  Looking back down at the photo, I can feel myself falling in love with the tiny person in the picture. I’ve always wanted kids, and I was disappointed when my marriage to Tamra didn’t result in any. This is a second—albeit, wholly unexpected—chance to be a parent.

  I flick my eyes up to the hotel for a second, thinking about Addison, my heart swelling with profound feelings of gratitude as I have a sudden and intense fantasy of us falling in love, getting married, having the baby, and living happily ever after.

  How do I know it’s mine?

  Reality intrudes like cold wind on a warm day and smacks me in the face as hard as her hand. Damn, but she landed a good slap.

  In fairness, I called her a slut. I deserved it.

  But also in fairness, she didn’t act like what we shared back in January was special—she made a fucking point to devalue our day together as much as possible. Her behavior made me assume that I was one casual encounter of many. Fuck. My stinging cheek screams that that assumption was wrong.

  The reality is that we barely know each other. I didn’t know what was coming, and yes, I acted like an ass. But it’s not like we’re at a place in our relationship where I can anticipate her. We’ve spent less than a week in each other’s company and all of that time under duress, but from what I can gather, our lives are pretty damn different.

  She lives in LA and I live in Valdez.

  She’s worth a small fortune, and I’ve got a couple thousand in my bank account saved for a rainy day.

  She had a rough childhood that she won’t talk about, and while I had a loving and stable childhood, I’m also half Native American, which comes with its own share of challenges out in the wider world.

  Honestly, I have no idea how compatible we are.

  Ten minutes ago, I was hoping she’d stick around Valdez for a little while so we could find out. But suddenly, everything is much more complicated. We’re having a child together, and I want to be a part of that child’s life, which means that Addison and I are going to be a part of each other’s lives whether we’re compatible or not. Finding a place in each other’s lives isn’t optional anymore. If I’m going to be that baby’s father, it’s imperative.

  I take the photo out of my pocket and check it out one more time, doing math in my head. We were together on January fourteenth. In the upper left-hand corner of the photo, it reads, “FetalAge: 13wks 2days,” and the date of the photo is April 16. Wow. Right on the nose.

  It’s mine. My child.

  The goodness of it is so overwhelming and so awesome, all I want to do is set things right with Addison so we can celebrate this amazing news together.

  I put the photo back in the pocket next to my heart, pull the van door closed, then head into the hotel to eat crow.

  “Hi,” I say to the desk clerk. “Can you tell me which room Addison DeWitt is in?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “We can’t give out that information.”

  “Can you call her room? Tell her Gideon is here.”

  “Sure.” She picks up a receiver and dials a number. “Hi, Ms. DeWitt, it’s Tracey at the front desk. There’s a Gideon here to see you.” Her eyes widen and she blinks. “Mm-hm. I’ll tell him.” She hangs up and looks at me. “She said…um…”

  “What?”

  She leans forward with a grimace and whispers, “…to go f-u-c-k yourself.”

  Right. I sigh, nodding my head. “Okay. Will you call her back and tell her I’ll be waiting for her in the restaurant, please?”

  She gives me a look that tells me she would really prefer not to call Addison back.

  “I’ll wait as long as it takes,” I say.

  “Fine.”

  She picks up the phone as I cross the lobby and step into the restaurant, which looks out onto the harbor. I tell the hostess we’ll be two for dinner and ask for a table by the windows. Once I’m seated, I order a vodka and soda. It may be a while before she comes down.

  A father.

  I’m going to be a father.

  I never met my own father, a Swedish tourist named Kristof, who visited Alaska the summer between his junior and senior years in college. What I know of him came from my mother, who was a waitress in Valdez that summer. They spent a whirlwind two weeks together before saying a tearful good-bye. It’s not like my mother had an e-mail account or cell phone back in 1985, and phone calls would have been astronomically expensive—the only cheap way to keep in touch would’ve been through writing letters. She did have Kristof’s address, which he scrawled hastily on a bar napkin on the afternoon he headed back to the airport, but three letters to that address went unanswered, which led her to believe he’d either miswritten it or moved.

  At any rate, all I have of my biological father is that napkin with his name Kristof Jonsson (or Jansson?), a couple of curled-at-the-corners photos of him and my mother, and my eyes.

  I wonder if my child will have Kristof’s eyes too or if they’ll be brown like Addison’s. My father was blond, and Addison is a redhead, but my mother’s hair, like mine, is jet black.

  My mother. Lord, I’ll need to tell my mother.

  A smile creeps across my face.

  I already know how she’ll feel: overjoyed to be a grandmother. She’s been pestering me about starting a family for years, and she’ll love my son or daughter with her whole heart. I take out my phone and consider writing her a quick message when I realize that Addison is standing beside the table with her arms crossed over her chest and a sour expression on her face.

  “Hi. Hey!” I say, standing up so fast I jostle the table, spilling my drink a little. “You came down. You’re here.”

  “You were a total jerk, Gideon.”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Yes, I was. Sorry about that. I had no right to imply—”

  “—that I’m a slut?” she asks, jerking out her chair and plopping down.

  I wince, taking my seat across from her. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, Addison. You caught me totally off guard.”

  She scans my face, looking at me thoughtfully. “I know.”

  “I guess I just assumed that—”

  “—that I have lots of one-night stands with random guys?” she asks, nailing me with icy eyes. “Well, let’s set the record straight: I don’t.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She blinks at me, her lips tilting up just a touch. “You don’t have one-night stands with random guys?”

  “N-No! I don’t sleep with guys. I don’t—not that there’s anything wrong with that if that’s what you’re into, but—fuck, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t have one-night stands with anyone. You’re the first woman I’ve slept with since…since—it doesn’t matter.” I’m bungling this like crazy. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I shake my head and shrug, opting for total honesty: “You surprised the hell out of me.”

  “I surprised the hell out of me,” she says. “I only found out I was pregnant last week.”

  “Last week?” I pause. Not that I have any idea what it feels like to be pregnant, but wouldn’t it be a hard thing to miss? “You didn’t…notice?”

  She takes a deep breath, ordering a cranberry juice from the waitress before folding her hands on the table. “I’ll tell you everything, but I need to ask you something first.”

  “Okay.” I lean forward, folding my hands to mirror hers.

  “Do you want to be involved?” she asks, then quickly adds, “You don’t have to be. I’m keeping the baby either way, and you’re welcome to be a part of his or her life, but you don’t have to be. I mean, I’d understand if—”

  “Yes!” I cry, without needing to think it over at all. “Yes, I want to be involved. It’s my baby. Mine and yours. Of course I want to be involved. I’m already involved. I’m its—I mean, his or her—dad.”

  Her lips wobble for a moment, but she doesn’t let herself smile. “Okay.”

  “Good okay? Or bad okay?”

  “Awesome okay,” she says softly, looking down. “I don’t know how to do this all alone.”

  I reach for her hands, covering them gently with mine and grateful when she doesn’t pull away.

  “I’ve always wanted kids,” I tell her.

  “I never did,” she says, “but I’m already in love with this baby. I can’t—I mean, I won’t give him or her up. Not for any reason.”

  “Why would you?” I ask, wondering why she’d even bring this up.

  She slides her hands away, placing them on her lap, as her tiny smile fades. I can hear her take a deep breath, feeling like she needs to muster up her courage to look at me. “You asked how I missed this pregnancy.”

  I nod, suddenly feeling a little nervous, like I’m about to hear something I’m not going to like.

  “Remember in the van when you asked if I wanted to get a cocktail?” she asks.

  “Uh-huh. And you said…” I drank a lot after Elliot died. I hear the words in my head as I search her face. “You were drinking. A lot.”

  “For a couple of weeks, I was finishing a bottle of scotch every four days,” she says, her jaw clenching and releasing several times in a row as her eyes fill with tears. “That’s over a cup and a half a day. About fourteen shots.” She bites her lower lip, then releases it. “You’re not supposed to drink at all when you’re pregnant.”

  She stares at me unflinchingly as this information—this devastating information—sinks in, and my heart breaks in about a hundred ways all at the same time: for her pain and loneliness these past three months, for the guilt that she so obviously feels right now, for the bravery it must have taken for her to tell me so directly… and yes, for the health of our child, which may be affected.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. But I didn’t know. I thought I was sick in the mornings because I was drinking so much. I thought I was tired all day because I was grieving so hard for Elliot. I had no idea I was pregnant, Gideon. No idea. Please don’t hate me.”

  I look into her eyes, and for the first time, I realize that my feelings for her are shockingly profound, and gratitude for the life she’s carrying doesn’t even cover half of it. I don’t feel anything close to hate. What I feel is so much closer to love, it should steal my breath away. That it doesn’t, tells me I’ve likely felt this way for some time, and I’m only discovering it now.