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“It’ll kill the dream of me. Of us. But it’ll save every other dream he’s ever had.” I push away the last of my milkshake and shove from the booth. “I’d like to go home now, please.”

Tate sits for a solid thirty seconds, staring down into his cup like the flavored sugar and cream might reform to offer him a glimpse into a future that doesn’t look quite so bleak.

I figure he fails when he throws a couple bills on the table before sliding from the booth to walk beside me to the door. Only this time, he doesn’t touch his hand to the small of my back as he had when we’d entered.

It’s probably wrong, but I miss that small touch. That small comfort.

That touch tethered me to the world when all I really want is to float away.

But it’s better this way. It’s probably wrong that I’m taking any comfort at all from Tate, considering the ruin I intend to wreak on Holt’s heart.

If only he didn’t love hockey.

If only I could tell him, and he wouldn’t choose us.

If only life were simple.

But it’s not, and I fear that it’ll never be simple again.

Tate doesn’t touch me, but he does open my door for me, so I guess that’s something. Tate always opens my door, so if he didn’t, I’d know I’d really disappointed him.

We sit in silence as Tate drives for about ten minutes before he says, “Convince me, Faye.”

I glance to him to see his eyes are fixed out the windshield, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly, his knuckles are white.

“I don’t understand.”

“Convince me why I shouldn’t call him as soon as I drop you off and tell him the truth.”

I pause. When the air between us expands with a heaviness that feels like it might just suffocate us both, I murmur, “He’s not making good money. That comes later, you know?”

I dare a peek at the man in time to see him scowl. His brows bunch as his eyes glide over me in disbelief.

He asks incredulously, “This is about money?”

“The plan was for me to work until he’d made enough to support us. Then it would be my turn. Then I’d find something I liked to do.” I shrug. “I’d go to school for something—or I wouldn’t. But in the beginning, the plan was for me to work. To help him.”

“You both have savings.”

“We do, yes.” I knot my fingers in my lap. “Babies are expensive.”

“He’ll make money.”

“I know. He’s destined to make a lot of money.” I inhale deeply through my nose. “The plan was for him to make a great team and to work his ass off to keep it. He’s got training scheduled like you wouldn’t believe, Tate. I knew he wouldn’t be home much, that I’d be alone.” I shrug. “I could wait for him—when it was just me.”

“I don’t understand. What difference does it make?”

Tearing my eyes from Tate, I look out the window. We pass by trees that plunge from the base of a rocky stretch of mountain. Everything is so lush and green and full. April came with enough rain to make a dangerous river deadly, infusing the forest with deep, rich shades of green that pop against the cloudless blue sky.

It’s all so pretty and bright. It’s a total contradiction to how I feel on the inside, all doom and gloom.

And then there’s the spark. The tiny spark of something bright wading through the muck of my life. It’s there in the core of me, growing. It’s something to be protected even as it’s the very thing that tossed me into this mess.

I touch my hand to my belly, still too flat to feel any proof of life.

But there’s a flutter. A flutter that tethers my heart to that spark deep inside me. A flutter that pushes me to make this choice—the choice that hurts—for the life I’m forming.

“The difference is that I’m afraid to be alone now.”