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“Strawberry ice cream is…” I serve my point with a nose-scrunch that has his eyes widening in horrified disbelief.

He gasps in mock outrage, “You don’t like strawberry ice cream?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“You and Holt have no taste,” he accuses, and I flinch. I don’t mean to, but I do.

Tate sees it.

I expect him to apologize for mentioning him when I’m clearly struggling with where we are in life, but he doesn’t.

The background music becomes suddenly too loud. The chatter of others seated at tables and booths. The chime of the door as a woman rushes in, pink apron in hand—belly swollen with the life she creates inside.

Suddenly, that little white pill stops working. I feel like I may be sick.

Tate takes another long pull on his milkshake, his sea-glass green eyes never leaving mine before he says quietly, “He’s been freaking out all day, you know?”

I feel my shoulders fall. “I know.”

“Why won’t you answer his calls?”

“I don’t know how to tell him, Tate.” When he doesn’t reply, I ask, “How do I tell him I’ve ruined his life?”

“This isn’t just on you.” Tate’s jaw hardens. “And you could never ruin his life. He loves you.”

I laugh, but not out of humor. I feel desolate. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true, Faye, he loves you.”

My hands curl into fists before they land a little too hard, a little too loudly, on the table. I can feel tears swarming in my eyes again. Emotion threatens to sever my air supply, and I gasp as though it may very well be my last breath.

It tastes of sweet treats and greasy burgers and fries. There’s a hint of coffee in there, too.

I croak, “He loves hockey, Tate.”

“He can love both you and hockey,” Tate tells me. “He can have both you and hockey.”

“Yeah.” I nod jerkily. “Yeah, he could have had me and hockey. He could, because if it was only me, I would have been fine to take the back seat to all his dreams.” The tears are spilling now, faster than I can swipe them away with the hoodie sleeve I’ve pulled over my fists. “But I’m not just me anymore, am I, Tate?”

His eyes never leave me. “You have to tell him.”

“No, I don’t.” I shake my head, voicing what I already hate myself for deciding. “I won’t.”

“How can you say that?” Tate demands, and I think it’s the first time he’s looked at me in disgust. It cuts like the dull blade that’s been cleaving me in two since I first flipped the test over to see two pink lines and the distortion of a beautiful future.

“How can you judge me when I’m doing this for him?”

Tate’s teeth grind behind the tight line of his lips. He leans into the table, grunting, “I’m not judging you, Faye. Shit, I could never judge you. But he’s going to figure it out.”

“Not if I tell him I slept with someone else.”

Tate flinches the way I imagine Holt would flinch. Hurt and horror flash across his expression just as I imagine it would flash across Holt’s.

My heart feels as though it’s been butchered.

My soul has never known exhaustion like this.

“That will kill him,” he tells me quietly, like I don’t already know.