Chapter 21
Of all the questions she could have asked, that was the one that made something inside me become perfectly clear.
I thought about the first miscarriage.
The second.
The white towel.
The airport.
The lawyer.
Miami.
London.
The first meeting where someone listened when I spoke.
Tuscany.
Three positive tests.
Gabriel’s voice saying, You’re not scared alone.
I thought about all the versions of me that had existed inside other people’s stories.
The brilliant girlfriend.
The supportive wife.
The invisible strategist.
The infertile woman.
The abandoned ex.
The vanished embarrassment.
And finally—
Me.
I looked at the reporter.
“I think I spent too long believing showing my face meant explaining myself.”
She waited.
“It doesn’t.”
“What does it mean?”
I looked across the ballroom.
“Sometimes it just means refusing to hide.”
She smiled slightly.
“Can I quote that?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
I thought for a moment.
Then I shook my head.
“No.”
Because there were things the public did not deserve.
They did not deserve every detail of my miscarriages.
They did not deserve my medical history.
They did not deserve Gabriel and me at three in the morning after the first ultrasound, sitting silently in the car because neither of us was ready to drive.
They did not deserve the exact sound of our baby’s heartbeat.
Privacy was not shame.
That was another thing I had finally learned.
When I turned away from the reporter, Julian was standing behind me.
Not close.
Just close enough.
Dalia was already near the coatroom.
I looked at him.
He looked exhausted.
“I’m not going to bother you,” he said.
“Good.”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“I wanted to say one thing.”
I waited.
He glanced toward Gabriel.
“He loves you.”
It was not a question.
I looked at Gabriel too.
“Yes.”
Julian nodded.
“Do you love him?”
That question, strangely, did not offend me the way the first one had.
Maybe because this time he wasn’t asking about my body.
Maybe because he already knew the answer.
“Yes.”
His jaw moved.
Then he nodded again.
“I’m glad.”
I almost laughed.
“No, you’re not.”
A sad smile appeared.
“No.”
For once, he didn’t lie.
“I’m not,” he admitted. “But I think I will be.”
I said nothing.
He looked at my stomach one last time.
“I’m sorry.”
I had imagined that apology so many times.
In London, I had imagined him calling.
I imagined him showing up.