Boston in February is punishment for sins I haven't confessed yet. The cold cuts through my coat the second I step off the plane Saturday afternoon, wind whipping across the tarmac with vindictive precision.
I have Claire's cousin's address scribbled on hotel stationery and determination that's already crumbling under the weight of what I'm actually doing here.
The cab driver makes conversation I don't hear. I'm rehearsing speeches that all sound hollow, trying to figure out what you say to a woman who's pregnant with your child and ran across the country to escape you.
The address leads to a nice neighborhood—brownstones with actual character, coffee shops that probably serve overpriced lattes with foam art. Young professionals starting families, building lives, doing things right.
I stand on the sidewalk trying to remember how to breathe.
The cousin answers on my third knock. She has Claire's bone structure, same dark eyes that currently hold nothing but contempt.
"She's not here."
"I just need to talk to her." My voice comes out wrong. "Five minutes—"
"She's not here and she doesn't want to see you." She starts closing the door but I'm already moving, foot wedging into the gap.
"I know she's pregnant and she's trying to do this alone." The words tumble out desperate. "But I want to be involved. I want—"
Her laugh cuts like broken glass. "It's always what you want. You wanted her when you were lonely. You wanted both of them without choosing." She leans into the doorframe, blocking my view of the interior. "Now you want access to a baby you only care about because Claire's carrying it."
"That's not true—"
"Then what are you doing here? Why now?" Her arms cross, defensive posture that mirrors Claire's perfectly. "She's been gone for a week. Where were you when she was crying herself to sleep? When she was so sick from morning sickness she couldn't work? When she was terrified about being a single mother?"
The accusations land because they're accurate. "I didn't know she was pregnant when—"
"You knew she was struggling and that she ran." Her voice drops, goes softer in ways that hurt worse. "You could have come after her before the letter, before she had to spell out why staying near you was killing her."
My throat closes around responses that sound like excuses.
"She loved you, and you destroyed that by refusing to let go of that other blondie chick."
"I'm here now. Doesn't that count for something?"
She studies me for a long moment. I feel evaluated, weighed, found wanting.
"She's at a motel near the bus station. The Riverside Inn, room 114." She steps back, hand on the door. "But if you show up there and hurt her worse—if you're just here because you feel obligated—do both of you a favor and leave."
The door closes before I can defend myself.
The Riverside Inn makes the Denver motel look upscale. Peeling paint exposes rotted wood beneath, neon signs flickering like it's having seizures. The parking lot smells like cigarettes and desperation, the kind of place where people go when they've run out of options.
Claire's car sits in front of Room 114. Familiar license plate, proof she's actually here.
I knock and wait. Then knock again while my heart tries to escape through my ribs.
The door opens and she's there. Worse than Denver—dark circles carved deep under eyes that look hollow, skin gone translucent pale. Sweatpants and a hoodie that's clearly been slept in, hair pulled back in a messy knot.
"How did you find me?" Her voice is flat and empty.
"Your cousin told me." I'm staring at her, cataloging changes. "Claire, we need to talk—"
"There's nothing to talk about." She starts closing the door but I catch it, palm flat against cheap wood.
"Five minutes, and then I'll leave if you want."
She sighs and steps back, lets me in because apparently even pregnant and running, she can't quite refuse me.
The room is bare-bones basic. One bed with a comforter that's seen better decades, one chair with suspicious stains, her suitcase open on the floor. A bus schedule sits on the nightstand with routes highlighted to various cities.
She sits on the bed, arms wrapped around herself protectively. "Why are you here, Lysander?"
"You're carrying my child. And I’m here because you're trying to do this alone when you don't have to."
"I have to." Her voice is tired, carrying exhaustion that goes bone-deep. "Staying near you means watching you love Caroline."
"I'm not in love with her—"
She looks up and her eyes are devastated, wrecked. "You fucked her in your office and then got upset when I was hurt by it." She lists evidence with prosecutorial precision. "Those aren't the actions of someone who's moved on."
I want to argue but my mouth won't form the lies. She's right. Some part of me is still hung up on Caroline despite knowing it's over, despite the baby, despite everything.
"I'm trying—"
"It isn't enough." She stands, moves to the window overlooking the parking lot. "I need someone who wants me first," her reflection in the glass looks fragile, "and that's not you."
"What if I could be? What if I commit to being that person?"
Her laugh comes out hollow. "You've proven over and over that you can't do that." She turns to face me. "Why would a baby change that?"
"It's my child—"
"It's my child." She spins, voice rising for the first time. "I'm carrying it, I'm birthing it, and I'm raising it." Her hands press against her stomach protectively. "You're just the DNA donor who can't decide what he wants in his life."
The words hit like physical blows. I see the pregnancy test box on her nightstand—bright pink packaging, evidence of the positive result that changed everything.
"Let me see the test."
"Why? So you can have proof?" She moves toward the nightstand protectively, body blocking my view. "I told you everything, and you don’t believe me, really? Well, anyway, it doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything—"
"No." She grabs the test, holds it close against her chest. "Even if I showed you three positive tests, even if I let you come to doctor's appointments and feel the baby kick—you'd still be wondering about Caroline." Her voice cracks. "Still looking over your shoulder at what you gave up."
"That's not—"
"Life's not fair." She's crying now, clutching the test. "I'm pregnant and terrified and doing this alone because the father can't commit to anyone." Tears track down her face. "Nothing about this is fair."
I move closer, reaching for her. "Claire—"
She backs away, shoulder blades hitting the wall. "Don't comfort me and don’t touch me. Don't act like you care when we both know you're here out of obligation."
"I do care—"
She sets the test on the nightstand with shaking hands, turns to face me fully. "That's the truth you won't say: If given the choice, you'd still choose Caroline. I won't raise my child in the shadow of another woman. I told you that, and I am telling it again. That’s it."