Twenty

TWENTY

Dahlia

R aindrops struck the shop's tin roof, serving us the sounds of soft percussion. Occasionally, thunder rumbled somber chords in the distance, but Everett and I never added lead vocals to the weather's symphony.

His eyes were locked on mine, and my breakup reasoning hung in the balance—unchallenged and unanswered for what felt like forever.

"Dahlia, Dahlia, Dahlia…" he said, his voice hoarse.

I waited for him to say something else, but he stood and walked toward the hydrangea display. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head slowly.

"Why did you keep the positive pregnancy test to yourself?" he asked.

"I wanted to surprise you," I said. "I wanted to give the ultrasound picture after I went in for the appointment."

"And you honestly think I would've left you if I came along on the day you miscarried?"

"That's not the point, Everett…"

"You don't have one." He gritted his teeth, still looking as hurt as he did when I left him. "None of what you just told me makes any fucking sense."

"You would've kissed me, told me that things would be okay, and that we could keep trying," I said. "You would've sacrificed years of your life waiting for a day that had a five percent chance of coming."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it fucking is." I could see it in his eyes. "And even though you're the best man I've ever known, you would've silently wondered what would've happened if you didn't stay with me. If maybe we were only meant to last a season instead of a lifetime because you've always— always, wanted a child of your own."

Silence.

The thunder strikes up another round of percussion; this time, its song is angry.

"Thank you for finally telling me the truth about why you left me," Everett stepped back. "I need some fresh air."

I didn't mention that we were steps away from the open garden.

I just watched him leave.