Page 97 of One More Chance
Epilogue
JENSEN
I watch Harper meticulouslyplace pickles onto a grilled cheese in the pan. Her precise placement is out of character as she generally just pops them on without much thought to where they land. She’s taking her time crafting our sandwiches.
During this brief travel interlude, we’ve gone back to the loft in North Carolina, the place we now both call home. Of course, we’re not here often. Over the past year, I’ve been able to show her so many cities across the states, places she’s always wanted to see. We’ve taken two trips outside the country. The first was to London, the second to Paris. Harper takes photos everywhere we go, capturing something special with her lens in each place, something I can’t explain, but people love. She began sharing her photos on Instagram, and soon captured the attention of a gallery who wanted to feature her photos in a special exhibit about how ordinary places hold beauty. Since then, her photography has really taken off and when we travel, she’s never bored or restless.
Now, I help Harper carry the plates to the table, her quiet demeanor giving me pause. As we sit, I can tell she’s in deep thought.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You’re quiet.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just thinking,” she says.
“I can see that.” I give her a knowing look. Harper wears everything on her face. Every emotion, every change in mood can be detected. She has no poker face.
Harper takes one triangle of her sandwich and cradles it in front of her mouth but doesn’t take a bite. Meanwhile, I’m already starting on my second half.
“You’re not hungry?” I ask, somewhat worried when she isn’t even eating our favorite sandwich. We eat them any time we can manage on the road, and when we’re home. We still sneak in nights of staying up late, talking, and eating the sandwich that brought us together.
“It’s not that I’m not hungry. I’m just not hungry for this. In fact, I think this pickle is going to make me sick,” she says, pressing the back of her hand to her lips, as if she’s fighting the urge to vomit.
Taking the sandwich from her hand, I put it back on the plate and shove it far away from her. I slide my plate to the side too, not wanting my sandwich to make her ill. I take her by both hands, studying her face. It’s pale and I briefly wonder if she should make an appointment with her doctor.
“I’m pregnant,” she says, her eyelids squeezing shut.
It takes me a full twenty seconds to register what she’s just said and still, I can’t help myself.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I saw a doctor yesterday to confirm it,” she says, removing her hands from mine and opening her eyes to dig into her purse next to her.
Harper slides a black and white sonogram across the counter toward me. I stare down at a small white blurry dot in the center. A tiny arrow points to it, with the word “baby” written beside it.
“You’re pregnant,” I say on an exhale, more statement than question.
“Yes,” she says, emotion in her voice.
I pick up the photo, rubbing my fingers over the little dot. “When? How long?”
“They said about eight weeks,” she says, some sort of hesitation in her voice I can’t place.
“Eight weeks,” I repeat, working my way back through a mental calendar. “We made a baby in Texas,” I say, recalling that’s where we were then.
Harper nods. “I’ll understand if you’re upset,” she says.
“Upset?”
“Yeah, we didn’t exactly plan this, you know. I’ll understand if you’re mad or panicked or want to consider our options.”
“Harper, stop.”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, seemingly preventing herself from saying anything further.
I smile, a small but genuine smile, attempting to ease her fears. “I’m not mad. Or panicked. Okay, maybe a little panicked because we’re going to be parents, but not panicked in a bad way. More like oh-my-god-am-I-going-to-be-good-at-this panicked,” I say. “I’m happy.”
“You are?”
“Hell yeah.” I squeeze her hand tight, trying to make her really see me.