I didn’t cry when Ryan cried... not because I didn’t want to, not because the sight of him breaking apart in front of me didn’t slice straight down the center of my already-melting spine... but because I couldn’t tell if I was about to cry or scream or slap him or kiss him or hurl myself into the Thames. My face was stiff, like my skin wasn’t sure if it still belonged to me, and his hand was on my cheek like he thought he had the right to reach for me after detonating my last bit of oxygen in the form of “twins” and “Mexico” and “Daphne.” His tears hit the space between my jaw and neck and felt heavier than guilt. He didn’t even blink when I whispered, voice dry like it had been beaten against rocks all night, “Is it true? Are you going to be a father?”
And he just... looked at me... like
