She responded:
I was worried about you.
I did not answer.
Then:
You’re making me sound crazy.
Still nothing.
By the fourth week after the breakup, Marissa and I had gone on three dates.
We decided to keep seeing each other.
Slowly.
Neither of us wanted to pretend the circumstances were normal.
I asked her directly whether she worried this was rebound behavior.
“Yes,” she said.
“That’s comforting.”
“You asked.”
“What do we do about it?”
“We don’t move in together next Tuesday.”
“Reasonable.”
“We see whether we still like each other after the drama stops.”
Also reasonable.
That was one of the things I liked most about her.
No riddles.
No tests.
No invisible expectations.
If Marissa wanted something, she generally said it.
Tara reacted badly to the relationship becoming real.
First came old messages.
Marissa showed me her phone one evening.
Tara had sent screenshots from my relationship with her.
Love notes.
Birthday messages.
Photographs of us on vacation.
One image of the two of us asleep on a couch, fully clothed, Tara curled against my chest.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Marissa asked.
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“She says you’ll never love anyone the way you loved her.”
“That seems difficult to measure.”
Marissa laughed.
“I think she wants me jealous.”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
Then she became serious.
“It mostly makes me sad.”
“For her?”
“For both of you.”
I looked at her.
“You clearly loved her.”
“I did.”
“That doesn’t scare me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re allowed to have loved someone before me.”
That sentence should have been obvious.
It felt revolutionary.
Tara’s next escalation came at two in the morning.
We need to talk.
I had stopped replying to anything unrelated to property logistics, but the next message caught my attention.
I’m late.
I answered:
Late for what?
You know.
Then:
I think I’m pregnant.
I sat up in bed.
Whatever boundaries existed, possible pregnancy was not something to ignore.
I called once.
Tara answered crying.
“You believe me now?”
“I’m taking you seriously.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I’m trying not to panic.”
“You’re the father.”
I did the math.
“Tara, we haven’t had sex in around two months.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means timing matters.”
“You think I’m lying.”
“I think if you’re pregnant, we should confirm it medically and handle paternity properly if there’s any uncertainty.”
Her crying stopped slightly.
“You want a paternity test?”
“I want facts before anybody makes life decisions.”
“That is disgusting.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You know it’s yours.”
“I don’t know anything yet.”
“God, you’ve changed.”
Maybe I had.