lest you forget

I'm pregnant. I let the words roll around my mouth, my tongue. It's yours and I'm pregnant. It sounded foreign. Pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's yours. How do you tell an almost stranger that you're carrying their child? I sat in my car, the heater blowing stale air at my face, no tears. The trees were bare, the ground cold, hard. An empty bird's nest sat, half undone, in the crook of a branch. Just sitting. Waiting.

Chiseled jaw line, hooded eyes. He was quiet, secretive. I'd met him at work. Our first date was at a nondescript college bar, one gray, grainy afternoon, only one month prior. Two nights later, we apparently hit the jackpot. Fuck. How did I do this to myself.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror. Waiting. His truck pulled into the lot, circled and parked. I was out of my car in an instant, walking across the spaces, dead leaves crunching under my step. He got out and looked up, confused for a second and then his face lit up, a smile spread across, his white, perfect teeth shone.

He crossed the remaining space between us and walked to me, looking at me with an expectant grin. Then he saw my face. And his changed.

What's wrong?

I just looked at him, the words I'd practiced frozen in my throat, not even making it to my tongue. I looked down at the bottle he was carrying. Jack Daniel's. It dawned on me that it was New Year's Eve. I looked up, the air icy against my hot cheeks, chafing, burning.

You're pregnant.

It wasn't a question. It just was. There. It was out. I let my breath out.

I looked at him, stared through him. Nodded.

The crack of his knees on the ground was like a gunshot. That sound told me everything. I turned towards my car, as he kneeled, dumbfounded, in the middle of the parking lot.