Her shoulders — which a second ago had been tensed in battle stance — go limp. A single sob escapes her lips. She reaches a hand up to catch it, but it’s too late.

“You got married … you had a baby…” Her tears are flowing freely, mingling with her mascara and tracking black across her cheeks. “You were supposed to marry me. That was supposed to be my baby.” She drops to the sofa behind her and wraps her arms around herself.

Her tiny frame is racked with sobs. Her hair has cascaded over her face and she bends her head with the purpose of veiling her face.

I go to her. I scoop her up and carry her over to the counter, setting her down so we’re eye to eye. She is trying to hide behind her hair. It’s almost to her waist again, like it was when I met her. I pull the hair tie from her wrist and divide her hair into three pieces.

“Is it weird that I know how to do a braid?”

She laughs in between her crying and watches me. I tie off the braid with the hair tie and flip it over her shoulder. Now I can see her.

Her voice is raspy when she speaks. “I hate that you always make jokes when I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.”

“I hate that I always make you cry.” I rub little circles on her wrist with my thumb. I want to touch her more, but I know I shouldn’t.

“Duchess, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I thought that if we had a clean slate…” My voice trails off because there is no such thing as a clean slate. I know that now. You just embrace your dirty slate and build over it. I kiss her wrist. “Let me carry you out. I’ll never let you touch the ground. I was made to carry you, Olivia. You’re fucking heavy with all of your guilt and self-loathing. But, I can do it. Because I love you.”

She has her pinky pressed against her lips as if she’s trying to hold everything in. This is a new Oliviaism. I like it. I pull her pinky away from her lips, and instead of dropping her hand I lace my fingers through hers. God, how long has it been since I’ve held her hand? I feel like a little boy. I fight back the smile that is trying to take over my face.

“Tell me,” I say. “Peter Pan…”

“Noah,” she breathes.

“Where is he, Duchess?”

“He’s in Munich right now. Last week, Stockholm, the week before that, Amsterdam.” She looks away. “We’re not … we’re taking a break.”

I shake my head. “A break from what? Marriage or each other?”

“We like each other. Marriage, I guess.”

“Fuck, that doesn’t even make sense,” I say. “If we were married I wouldn’t let you out of my bed, never mind my sight.”

She pulls a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There are guys like me out there, and I wouldn’t let them get near you. What’s he playing at?”

She’s quiet for a long time. Then she blurts:

“He doesn’t want children.”

Estella’s face blurs my vision before I ask…

“Why not?”

She shrugs; trying to pretend like it’s nothing. “His sister has Cystic Fibrosis. He’s a carrier. He’s seen how much she’s suffered and he doesn’t want to bring children into the world with the risk of them having it.”

I can see how much it bothers her. Her mouth is pinched and her eyes are darting around the tabletop as if she’s searching for a crumb.

I swallow. This is a touchy subject for me too.

“Did you know that before you married him?”

She nods. “I didn’t want children before I married him.”

I stand up. I don’t want to hear her talk about how Noah made her want things that I couldn’t make her want. I must look sulky because she rolls her eyes.

“Sit down,” she snaps. “I see you still play footsie with your inner child.”

I walk to the floor-to-ceiling window that circles her living room and look out. I ask the question I don’t want to ask, but I can’t not know. I am jealous.

“What changed your mind?”

“I’ve changed, Caleb.” She gets up and comes to stand next to me. I glance at her and see that her arms are crossed over her chest. She is wearing a long sleeve, grey cotton shirt and black pants that sit low on her hips so that a few inches of flesh are exposed. Her hair is loosely braided over her shoulder. She stares out at the traffic that is zooming below us. She looks badass. I smirk and shake my head.

“I never felt worthy enough to have babies. Duh — right? I have all those super cool daddy issues.”

“Aw, man. Are you still working through those?”

She grins.

“Little bit here and there. I can have sex now.”

I cock up one corner of my mouth and narrow my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I cured you of that.”

Her eyelashes beat so rapidly they could blow out a match. She chews on her lip to keep from smiling.

I tilt my head back and laugh. We both get such a kick out of making each other uncomfortable. God, I love this woman.

“You did though,” she says. “Despite what you think, it wasn’t because of your bedroom moves. It was what you did to get me back.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“The amnesia?” I’m surprised.

She nods slowly. She’s still looking out the window, but my body is pivoted toward her now.

“You’re not that person … the one who lies and does crazy things. That’s me. I couldn’t believe you did that.”

“You are crazy.”

She shoots me an annoyed look.

“You broke your own moral code. I figured if someone like you would fight for me, I might actually be worth something.”

I look at her earnestly. I don’t want to say too much, or too little.

“You are worth fighting for. I haven’t given up yet.”

Her head snaps up. She looks alarmed.

“Well, you should. I’m married.”

“Yeah, you got married, didn’t you? But, you only did it because you thought we were over — and we’re not over. We’ll never be over. If you think that little piece of metal on your finger can shield off your feelings for me, you’re wrong. I wore one for five years and there wasn’t a day that went by where I wasn’t wishing it were you.”

I look at her lips, lips that I want to kiss. I turn and grab my keys to leave before we can start fighting — or kissing. She stays at the window. Before I walk out of the living room, I say her name.

“Olivia.”

She looks at me over her shoulder. Her braid swings across her back like a pendulum.

“Your marriage won’t last. Tell Noah the truth; be fair. When you do, come find me, and I’ll give you that baby.”

I don’t stay to watch her reaction.

I feel guilty that I’m offering my ex-girlfriend a baby when my current girlfriend is probably at my house, waiting for me — wanting me to offer her a marriage. My life comes into focus when I walk through my front door. There is music playing loudly from my stereo. I walk over and turn it down. Jessica is at the stove, flipping something in a frying pan. It amazes me that she wants to cook even when she’s not at work. You’d think she’d be sick of it by now. I sit at a barstool and watch her until she turns around.

She must see something on my face. She sets down the wooden spoon she is holding and wipes her hands with a dishtowel before walking over to me. I can see the sauce of whatever she is cooking pooling on the counter under the spoon. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop looking at that spoon.

I grind my teeth as she walks toward me. I don’t want to hurt her, but if I do what I did with Leah, I’ll land up staying just to protect her heart. It’ll be halfhearted, because the only thing I want in life is to protect Olivia’s heart.

When she reaches for me, I grab her hands and hold them. She can see the breakup in my eyes; she shakes her head before I’ve opened my mouth.

“I’m still in love with Olivia,” I say. “It’s never going to be fair to anyone I’m with. I don’t want to give you pieces of me.”