Something changed in his expression. Doubt, maybe. Or fear. He was quiet for a long moment, and I let the silence stretch because I needed him to feel the weight of what he’d done.
“Fine,” he finally said. “First thing tomorrow.”
We sat in the clinic waiting room like two strangers sharing a bus stop. Evan sat four chairs away from me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles jumping under his skin. Every few minutes he’d glance at me and then look away like even the sight of me made him sick. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to grab his face and force him to look at me—really look at me—and see that I was telling the truth. But I just sat there with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the wall, trying not to cry in public.
The nurse called my name first, and I went alone because Evan refused to be in the same room while they drew my blood. Afterward, she told me I’d have to wait seven to ten business days. I sighed heavily. That meant seven to ten days of this hell. I nodded and thanked her and walked back to the waiting room on legs that didn’t feel like mine.
The texts from his family started on day two. His mother went first. I always knew you were a— Now my whole family knows it, too. His sister followed an hour later. You disgust me. I hope you lose that baby. His aunt sent a paragraph about how she’d warned Evan not to marry me, how she’d seen the trash in me from day one, how I’d fooled everyone with my nice girl act, but now the mask was off. His cousin sent a photo of me from the party mid-fall with the caption, Cheaters always get what they deserve.
I sat on my bed reading message after message until my phone screen blurred from tears. These people had hugged me at holidays. They’d sent me birthday cards. They’d told me I was part of the family. Now they were calling me names I’d never been called in my life and wishing harm on my unborn child.
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