(Find chapter 1 and a description of the project here.)

It is 1:07 am and she cannot sleep. Her body is begging for rest, but her thoughts will not turn down the volume. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is the dark blue cross in the test result window. So, she keeps her eyes open, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what everyone will say when she starts to show.

This is a third baby. She will start showing well before she is ready to tell.

She has told no one except Jesse. Not her mother, not her sister Cindy, not Brett and Finn, her sons. Not her best friend, Anna. Not her oldest friend, Martha, whom she is sure will be the first to shame her for it. Not her favorite cousin, Kristen—the one who would never judge her, even if she admitted she’d been sleeping with her minister for the past year and half. She thinks that perhaps she should tell Kristen. Kristen would listen without condemning her. Kristen might take her shopping for new maternity clothes and nursing bras. Kristen would have a lot of nasty things to say about anybody who has nasty things to say about her.

She sighs. Kristen is also likely to let it slip to her sister, Jessica, who will tell their mom. And when Aunt Rachel finds out, then so will Rebecca’s mom.

It is 1:12 am. She decides not to tell anyone else until after she sees a midwife. If she can keep it to herself. This secret feels more invasive to her. It feels like it will grow until she can’t contain it. She catches herself biting her nails as she thinks. There may not even be a heartbeat. Hasn’t she heard that an estimated 1/3 pregnancies aren’t carried to term? It feels like a cruel thing to hope for. She can’t let herself think it; it feels too shameful.

She turns over in the bed, laying on her left side, as she knows is best, though the baby is little more than the size of a blueberry at this point. What week is it? She tries to count them, but needs a calendar. She reaches for her phone, looks at the calendar app. Week 6, she thinks. She should call the midwife tomorrow.

She sets the phone down on the bedside table. It is 1:18 am.

She knows Jesse will still be awake. He rarely goes to bed early. She picks up the phone again, easily finding his texts. She types out a question. Are you awake? Her finger hovers over the send arrow before she taps the screen.

He is calling her. When she sees his name float across the screen her heart flutters. She slides her finger across the surface to answer. “Hey,” she says thickly.

“Hey,” he answers.

“Did I wake you?” she asks. She knows she did not. His greeting was energetic.

Jesse laughs. “No,” he says. Then, a pause. “Are you okay?”

She hesitates. It is a such a bizarre question. Yes, she is okay; she is just thinking too much and can’t turn off. No, she is not okay; she is worried about her reputation and his, about his job, about having a baby at age 39, about another secret taking over her life. “I don’t know,” she says.

She can hear him shifting, and she wonders if he is sitting on his couch or lying in his bed. “What are you thinking about?”

He knows her. “How to tell the truth.”

Jesse is silent for too long. She doesn’t understand what this might mean. For a moment, she thinks she’s lost the connection, but then she hears his breathing. She waits until she can’t stand the silence. “I’m only 6 weeks. There’s still time if we wanted to…”

“No,” he says before she can finish, and she is grateful she doesn’t have to say the awful word: terminate. It is ugly. She hates herself for even thinking it.

               Relief floods through her. “Thank you,” she says, crying now. “I didn’t want to, but I don’t know how to go forward.”

               “We’ll find a way forward, Rebecca,” he says.

               She wants to believe him, but belief is a tricky thing. It doesn’t simply spring up from inside you when you need it. It needs to be cultivated and tenderly managed. It must be curated and nurtured. She has not done enough of that since Alan died, and she has not received enough nurturing from others to make up for her lack of attention. “Will we?” she asks, her voice frail. She is cracking, the tiniest splinters beginning to slide from her. She is afraid this will break her in the way Alan’s death broke her. She is already fractured. How can she survive a second shattering?

               “You’re not alone, babe,” he answers.

               She wipes her face with the back of her hand. She rolls to her back and stares at the ceiling. “I just want to sleep,” she complains. “I can’t.”

               Jesse is silent again for a time. “Do you need me to come over?” He is quiet, almost apologetic. She hears his uncertainty.

               He has never spent the night with her. She has never allowed herself to ask it of him. “If you come…can you…stay?” she finally manages.

               “Okay,” he answers quickly. “I’ll be there in a little bit.”

               She wants to ask him how long a little bit is. Is that 15 minutes? Is it a half hour? But she swallows the questions, and says instead, “I’ll leave the door open for you.”

               “Okay, babe,” he says. It sounds like he is getting up, moving around the room. “Bye.”

               “Bye,” she echoes. She drags herself from the bed, padding up the hallway to the living room, then turns to the right towards the foyer. She unlocks the front door and opens it wide. She considers turning on the porch light for him, but she instead presses her face to the glass of the storm door and shuts her eyes. A tear runs down her cheek. They will all be so angry with me, she thinks. She pushes the thought away, wipes her face again and slowly moves back to the bedroom.

               It is 1:27 am. She is staring at the ceiling again. Now she is more awake than ever, wondering when Jesse will be here. She lifts her phone from the nightstand, opens her text messages again. I’m in the bedroom, she writes. She sends it before she can reconsider. She is tired. She closes her eyes, but everything is still blue behind them. She can hear her heart beating in her ears. She takes deep, centering breaths to try to still herself. She imagines herself filled with light, and the light spilling out into the room around her. The meditation soothes her. She calms, but she is still restless. She turns over in the bed.

               The storm door opens. She hears Jesse shut and lock the front door. He comes towards the bedroom slowly, moving almost silently through the house. She waits, glancing at the clock. It is 1:42 am. She sees his shadow fall across the doorway and then he is standing there, just inside her bedroom door. He sets something on the floor—a bag. She wonders what he brought with him for the morning, and how she will hide him from the boys when they wake. She watches him slip off his shoes in the dark. Then he moves towards the bed and takes off his shirt. He slowly slides between the sheets next to her.

She curls herself into him. He is warm and she feels immediately comforted. “Are you sure you can stay?” she asks, her face pressed against his chest.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he answers.

She doesn’t ever want him to leave. She never wants to get up from this bed. “You’ve never stayed before.”

“You’ve never asked before,” he replies.

She shuts her eyes as Jesse presses a kiss to her forehead. His hand moves through her hair. He whisks away some of her anxious thoughts. She feels her body releasing the tension she has held all day.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

“Try to sleep,” he says. His voice is smooth. It reminds her of butter—rich and wonderful.

“Aren’t you worried?” she wonders aloud, some frustration leaking through.

He tightens his arm around her. “Of course, I’m worried, Rebecca.”

She loves the way he says her name. It enshrouds her with feelings of safety and love. “We can’t keep this secret too, Jesse.”

He is quiet. She turns over, facing away from him. He scoots closer to her. She presses her body against his. He wraps his arm around her and his hand comes to rest on her hip. “Are you sure you want me to…to have it?” she whispers into the dark. She has already suggested this once. It is easier not to look at him as she asks.

Silence stretches between them. “Do you want to?” he finally asks.

She can hear the fear in him, can feel him tighten as he questions her. “I do,” she answers honestly. “And I don’t.” He shifts beside her. His silence feels like a wound in her chest. “Jesse?” she asks into the darkness.

“I want this,” he says, and his voice is thick with what sounds like grief, but it might be disappointment. “But if you don’t, then I won’t ask it of you.”

She is curious now. She lifts her head from the pillow, turns back around in the bed so she can see the outline of his face in the dark. “What do you want?” she asks, her whisper hovering near his cheek.

“This,” he repeats, touching her face. “A life with you. A real life. Not a secret one.”

She feels warmth slide through her, filling her from her toes to fingertips. “How?” she asks. This is always the question they can’t answer. How do they make a life together when they aren’t supposed to be together at all?

He kisses her, and the question falls away from her mind. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “There are consequences no matter what we do.”

She lays her head on the pillow. “It’s not fair,” she says, voicing the very idea she promised herself she would never dwell on. “It’s such a stupid rule.”

Jesse hums in reply. “It’s to protect the congregation,” he says.

“But you were mine before you were the pastor,” she says, angry now.

Jesse shifts beside her, turning his head. “I was yours?” he asks.

She can’t decide if he thinks this is funny. She hears the amusement in his tone and feels embarrassment bubbling inside her. “I just mean…you wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for me. We’ve been friends for twenty years.”

He is rubbing his hand over his beard. “I don’t think when they wrote the rule they were thinking of a situation like this. They were thinking of that choir director.”

He is referring to the biggest scandal in the history of the church. Amos Gilly and Deborah McDonnell. She thinks of her father, sitting at the kitchen table after the news of their affair got out, spooning his oatmeal into his mouth between his methodical words. Well, if there isn’t a rule about it, there should be one now. So, the personnel committee had written one down: Staff members are not to engage in romantic relationships with church members. Consequences of non-compliance include disciplinary action, up to and including termination.

“We’re not having an affair,” she says quietly. “My husband is dead.” The words still taste like acid.

He presses another kiss against her forehead. “I don’t like it either,” he offers.

She lets the anger roll through her, taking her complaints as it fades. There is no point in wishing for something different, or for an exception. They are unlikely to receive any mercy. She wonders where she will go once they force her from the congregation. Will she even want to go to another church? Will the boys understand what is happening? She resists the urge to cry. She is too tired.

“Brett is usually up by 7,” she says sleepily, still worrying.

“I set an alarm for 6:30,” Jesse says, nuzzling against her now. He kisses her again. “I knew you’d be worried about it.”

She would smile but it feels like an effort. “You’re so good to me,” she whispers. She turns over again, and lets him clutch her tightly. She relaxes against his touch. His breathing is steady, and it calms her. She glances at the clock. It is 1:56 am. She closes her eyes, and now everything is dark instead of blue.