Now I could only think about how much I wanted to be back there, to hear the mellow baritone of his voice and the flash of those green eyes in their frame of thick, sooty lashes. To lie in his arms as the sunlight poked through the blinds and lay in faint glowing lines across the brick-colored comforter that covered us.
In that moment, it all got to be too much, and I set down my glass of water, got up from the booth, and rushed out of the bar, my eyes blurring with tears. Outside, the air was cool against my fevered cheeks, and I stumbled a few paces down the side street, stopping in front of a closed jewelry shop, where the glow from the little white lights in the display window provided some faint illumination.
Goddess, I can’t do this. I can’t.
“Angela!”
Shit. I put up a hand to blot away my tears, noting that at least Sydney had come alone. Then again, what guy, even one as seemingly kind and enlightened as Anthony, would willingly barge in on a girl weeping alone? That was what girlfriends were for.
“I’m okay,” I said, not looking at her when she stopped a pace or two away from me.
“No, you’re not.” Setting her hands on her hips, she watched me closely.
At least we were alone; people did hang out on the sidewalks around the Spirit Room to have a smoke or chat where they wouldn’t disturb the band, but as the jewelry store and the gift shop next to it were both closed, no one had much of a reason to come this far down the dark little side street.
“Come on,” Sydney said, her tone even gentler this time. “This is more than being sad about Connor. I’ve been paying attention these past few weeks. It seemed like you were doing better. And now a meltdown?”
“It’s just — hearing that music,” I finished lamely.
Silence, her blue eyes sharp on my face. I knew some people thought Sydney was kind of an airhead, but she really wasn’t. She knew people.
More importantly, she knew me.
“You really expect me to believe that?” she asked, after a long pause.
No, I didn’t. And we’d been friends too long for me to believe that she was going to let this go. She’d prod and she’d pry — not in a mean way, but because she knew I’d clam up if she didn’t keep after me to tell her what was wrong.
And so, since I knew she’d find out eventually anyway, I blurted, “I’m pregnant.”
Dead silence. She just stood there, brain clearly on overdrive as she stared at me. Finally, “Oh, shit. Shit.” Obviously she’d recalled what I’d told her about the curse, and how this was a little more complicated than just an unplanned pregnancy.
“Shit, exactly.”
Another long pause. “What are you going to do?”
I slumped up against the brick of the building and watched my blurry shadow fall against the cracked pavement. “I don’t know. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“So you were…careful?”
Well, I thought I was. I allowed myself a bitter chuckle, then said, “I was a good little witch and performed a charm to prevent pregnancy every time Connor and I had sex. I guess it didn’t work as well as I thought it would.”
She pursed her lips as she appeared to work that over in her mind. Maybe she was wondering whether to inquire why I hadn’t used a more conventional method of birth control. Luckily, she didn’t, instead saying, “Are you….” The question trailed off, as if she didn’t quite have the nerve to ask it.
That was all right. I knew exactly what she’d intended to ask. “Yes, I’m keeping it.”
“But — ”
“I know.” Yes, I’m keeping it…even if that means I’m sealing my own death warrant.
Her eyes suddenly seemed too bright, even in the dim reflection from the little fairy lights in the shop window. She blinked, asking, “Okay. It’s just — okay. It’s your decision. You’re going to tell him, right?”
“Why should I?”
“Because — it’s his baby, too.”
“So? Obviously he doesn’t care enough to have even tried to contact me once during the past few months, so why should I bother?”
Rubbing the side of her head as if it suddenly pained her, she was quiet for a moment. Finally, she dropped her hand by her side and began, “Look, Ange, I watch a lot of reality shows — ”
“And that qualifies you to give me advice here?”
“Well, yeah, it kind of does.”
I crossed my arms and gave her a skeptical look.
Undeterred, she went on, “Anyway, what I was about to say was the only thing worse than telling a guy you’re pregnant is not telling him you’re pregnant. You can’t hide this from Connor, Angela. You just can’t. Sooner or later he’d find out, and he’d never forgive you. Or at least, he’d find it a lot harder to forgive you.”