Chapter 69

Sofia Baker's Voicemail:

"Gabriel, it's me, Sofia. I'm sorry to intrude, but please listen. When I left your house, I never intended to contact you again. I don't want anything from you.

Since I left, and even before, when my grandpa passed, I've been sick—constantly nauseous and vomiting. We dismissed it as grief, but it didn't get better. Last week, a doctor told me to take a pregnancy test.

I'm pregnant. I'm about ten or eleven weeks along—a little over two months. It's yours, and there are twins. I haven't been with anyone else. If you want, we can get a paternity test.

I'm not doing this for anything from you. If you've moved on, you don't have to be involved. I don't want your money. I'm just letting you know. I'm keeping the babies.

Call me back if you can. This is my new number. Bye."

Sofia's Day:

I breathed deeply, placing my copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting on the cashier's counter. I paid with the last twenty-dollar bill in my wallet—a crumpled note I'd forgotten in my jeans pocket for weeks. Actually, I hadn't forgotten it; I was just desperately low on cash and avoided the ATM. I knew I needed to get a job, even if only for a couple of months before returning home. I needed to save those paychecks for my third trimester and after the babies arrived.

"You pregnant?" the cashier, a goth girl, surprisingly asked. I nodded.

"Congrats," she said, bagging the book. "Your change is $1.50. Keep it or donate it?"

I took the change, realizing it was my bus fare. Luckily, it was only a twenty-minute walk.

"Nice ring," she commented, noticing my wedding ring. I hadn't even realized I was wearing it.

"Thanks," I mumbled, leaving quickly. The sweater I'd grabbed was inadequate against the chill. I hadn't packed a coat, and couldn't afford to buy one. Maybe I'd start thrifting again.

I checked my phone—every fifteen minutes since sending the voicemail—but there were no messages from Gabriel. My hope of an explanation or closure faded as I fell asleep.

My sleep was interrupted at 5:00 a.m. by my rock-guitarist neighbor's practice. I found Luna, my roommate, in the living room.

"I don't like him," she grumbled, heading to the bathroom. "Rest. I'll make breakfast."

I was about to return to my room when loud banging stopped me. No one was at my door, but someone was knocking on my neighbor's. My tattooed neighbor emerged, looking frustrated.

"Keep it down, d*ckhead! Your neighbor is pregnant and needs rest!" a familiar voice shouted. He looked at me, then smiled. "Sorry. I'll keep it down. If you need anything, ask."

"Can you flirt any less obviously?" Maeve, the cashier, shook her head.

"You didn't have to do that," I said, "Thank you."

"Someone needed to tell my brother that 5:00 a.m. practices aren't making him a lead singer," Maeve replied, smiling. "I'm Maeve. My brother's Brown."

"I'm Sophia," I said. "Coffee?"

"Maybe another time. I'm late for class," she said, hurrying away.

Brown's guitar remained silent after that. Maybe this place wasn't so bad.

I'd considered various reactions from Gabriel: demanding a paternity test, avoiding involvement, or even fighting for custody (which I'd probably have countered aggressively). But him never contacting me? That hadn't occurred to me.