Chapter 7: The Wrong Question

Winslow's POV

Coralie put her napkin on the table, folded in half.

"Excuse me," she said, to nobody in particular, and walked out through the glass doors to the lawn.

Twenty-two people watched her go.

"Oh dear," said my great-grandmother. "I thought you had told her."

"You did that on purpose."

"Everyone should know what a man will do for love," said Winifred. "Go on."

I went.

She was standing at the end of the dock with her arms crossed against the wind off the water.

I stopped three feet behind her.

"Tell me it's a joke," she said.

"It's an appointment."

"For what?"

"A vasectomy. I booked it three weeks ago."

She turned around.

Her face was flushed, and her eyes were furious and wet at once.

"Three weeks. A week after we met."

"The week you told me you never wanted children."

"I told you that in a hotel room, over a pill!"

"And I believed you."

"You cut yourself open because I said one sentence?"

"It's a ten-minute procedure with a local."

I heard how ridiculous it was, and kept going.

"I wanted you to never have to take a pill again."

She stared at me.

"That's the worst romantic thing anyone has ever done."

"It's the only thing I could think of."

"You didn't ask me if I meant it."

"Did you mean it?"

The wind pulled a curl across her mouth.

She didn't push it back.

"I don't dislike kids," she said.

My chest went tight.

"You said you didn't want any."

"I know what I said. I said it fast, so I wouldn't have to say the rest."

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