I stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
"I asked whether—"
"I heard what you asked."
I was on my feet before I knew it, the chair scraping across the floor.
"You want me to get rid of it?"
His expression changed. "That isn't what I said."
"You found a very elegant way of suggesting it."
"Juliette—"
"You couldn't wait to talk about the risks the morning after. Now the risk has two pink lines, and you're asking whether I'm keeping our baby?"
Even as I spoke, I knew the anger was covering something colder. He hadn't suggested ending the pregnancy. But that morning had lived under my ribs for six weeks, and suddenly we were back there.
"Please sit down."
"No."
He started to rise, thought better of it, and remained seated, hands flat against the table.
"Then please listen."
"I'm listening."
"You think I want you to terminate the pregnancy."
"You asked if I was keeping it."
