The Unborn Witness Chapter 2

Gavin was truly furious this time. He locked himself in the study and didn't make a sound.

I was furious, too, and my pride refused to let me knock on that door and grovel.

Three years ago, I fell head over heels for Gavin the moment I saw him on a sunlit crosswalk downtown. I was the one who boldly asked for his number. Gavin had always been reserved, aloof, and maddeningly hard to pursue. It took me over a year of relentless flirting, bringing him coffee, and showing up in his orbit before he finally cracked a smile and asked me to be his girlfriend.

We had only been officially dating for six months when tragedy struck.

A reckless motorcyclist ran a red light and slammed into him. The low spinal cord injury left him paralyzed from the knees down.

Even when the specialists at the hospital gently told us that a full recovery was practically impossible, I never once considered walking away. If it hadn't been for that ridiculous pair of shredded stockings, I never would have thrown a breakup in his face.

I knew how Gavin’s mind worked. To him, only the two of us had keys to this apartment. Since he knew he hadn't brought anyone home, the only logical conclusion in his analytical brain was that I had planted the stockings myself—a manufactured drama so I could leave him without bearing the moral guilt of abandoning a disabled partner. That was why he had hardened his heart to "set me free."

Well, screw that. Why should I walk away and hand my man on a silver platter to some opportunistic, dimension-hopping parasite?

I had too much backbone for that. I was not breaking up.

Even if Gavin insisted on pushing me away, I was keeping this baby. I’d raise our son, build a good life, and make sure we were a permanent, living reminder of what he threw away.

Since I wasn't moving out, life had to go on.

I sat on the couch for a little while, washed my face with cold water, grabbed my canvas tote bag, and headed out to the grocery store.

On the walk down the street, I tried mentally asking my unborn son who this "tasker girl" was. But the little guy seemed to be fast asleep; no matter how hard I focused, my mind remained quiet.

I gave up for the moment. On my way back, I stopped by a pharmacy and picked up a box of early-detection pregnancy tests.

By the time I carried the heavy grocery bags back into the apartment, an hour and a half had passed.

The moment I unlocked the front door, I saw Gavin sitting stiffly on the living room sofa.

His face was a mask of cold indifference, but his dark, bloodshot eyes were fixed intently on the doorway—looking for all the world like a giant, heartbroken golden retriever that had spent the last ninety minutes terrified its owner was never coming back.

He looked utterly pathetic.

Seeing me walk in, Gavin tried to maintain his icy expression, but a spark of raw life instantly flared in his deadened gaze. He cleared his throat, asking the most obvious question possible: "You went grocery shopping?"

I kept my tone perfectly even as I slipped off my shoes. "I bought short ribs. Is slow-braised okay with you?"

Gavin blinked, a flicker of awkward relief crossing his face. "...Yeah. That sounds good."

Right on cue, the little voice in my head woke up, dripping with smug satisfaction:

[Look at him pretending to be tough! He thought Mommy left him for good and almost had a panic attack! Let's see if you ever dare bring up breaking up again, Daddy! Hehehe!]

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from grinning and carried the groceries into the kitchen.

Two minutes later, the rhythmic thud of crutches echoed down the hall. Gavin appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on his supports, looking uncharacteristically tentative. "Do you need help with anything?"

I knew his biggest fear since the accident was feeling useless and discarded. So, I grabbed a whole head of garlic from the counter and shoved it into his hand.

"Peel this. Then go start a load of laundry in the washer. And when that's done, take the dry clothes off the rack, fold them, and put them in the closet."

Gavin’s posture straightened instantly, taking the garlic like it was a classified military assignment. "On it."

He sat at the dining table, meticulously peeling every clove, and then hobbled over to the laundry nook.

Twenty minutes later, he was back at the kitchen doorway, leaning on his crutches. "What else?"

I dropped a few slices of fresh ginger into the simmering Dutch oven and turned around to look at him. "Nothing for now. If you're that bored, go do your physical therapy stretches in the study. And you better eat a huge dinner tonight, or I'm going to kick your butt."

Gavin went completely still. A tiny, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Okay."

I kept my face strictly deadpan. "Then get moving."

"Right."

He turned and hobbled back to the study.

This time, he left the door wide open. And he made his physical therapy movements deliberately loud—the metallic clinking of the resistance bands, the heavy thuds of his corrective boots—as if desperately trying to prove to me that he was working hard.

A quiet laugh slipped past my lips.

My son was right. This man was stubbornly proud to a fault. He could talk about breaking up until he was blue in the face, but the thought of actually losing me terrified him to death.

I tried checking in with the baby again to ask about the tasker, but the little guy had apparently dozed off once more.

Kid loved his naps.