I’m fairly certain I’m having a heart attack. Maddie just said she’s pregnant. I want to say, “Are you sure,” but of course she’s sure. She wouldn’t be here with that expression on her face if she only suspected.
Our night together flashes before me: how I took off the condom and intended to get another one, but then I lost my powers of concentration when Maddie straddled me. Not that it’s her fault. We were both sober, consenting adults. “You can’t be pregnant,” I say again.
I rake my fingers through my hair.
“So,” she says, gripping the edge of my desk, “You’re suggesting that because I am angry with you, my body would…reject your baby batter? That my womb would only open for the sperm of a man with whom my eggs find favor?”
“No.” God, I’m such an i***t. “I haven’t even gotten to
