"Shit, shit, I can't believe I just did that." Turning away from me, he buried his face in his hands. "I spend so much time making sure I don't demean women and I just did that to you. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Well, it goes both ways, babe, I didn't say aloud. I held him against my chest, his head beneath my chin, and I wanted to squeeze all the fear out of the room, shove it back and out and away into the chilly deep-blue early morning air that I could see through the windows.
I couldn't tell him--I didn't dare and anyway I didn't know how--that I wanted his child. That I felt he'd given me something that I wanted--that I needed--to keep. Later, days after Plan B, it was as if something valuable were bleeding out of me, as if it were something real and important being flushed down the toilet. You're sick to be thinking like this, you freak. Stop it. I was angry at myself because I wasn't angry at him; I couldn't hold him responsible.
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