Chapter 9: The Heartbeat

Delilah's hatchback pulled away from the cemetery gate before I reached my car, and it did not come back.

She sent no text that night, and I heard of her telling no one, and the quiet scared me more than shouting would have.

Dean called twice that day, and I let both calls go to voicemail.

I gave him my terms on Wednesday, in the back booth of the diner, with Connie standing at the counter pretending to count ketchup.

I had written them on a napkin.

"One," I said. "You come to every appointment, and you sit in the waiting room."

"Okay."

"Two. You don't touch me. Not my arm, not my back, not a hand on the door."

"Okay."

"Three. You never say Wyatt's name to me."

He looked at the napkin for a long moment.

"Never?"

"Not to me, and not about this baby. He's not here to be anybody's tribute."

"Di, I don't know if I can..."

"Then you can't come."

His shoulders sank, and he nodded.

"Never," he said.

I folded the napkin and put it in my purse.

"The appointment is Friday at nine. If you're late, you're not in."

"I'll be there at eight."

"Don't."

"I'll be there at eight-fifty."

I almost smiled.

I caught it, and I put it away.

Connie drove me to the clinic on Friday because I asked her to, and I did not tell her why until we were in the lot.

"I'm pregnant," I said, with my hand on the door handle.

She put the truck in park slowly.

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