She’d break his heart, but she had no other choice. Tears leaked at the idea of never seeing Jake again, his pain, imagining him with another girl, but she couldn’t have two men.
Confirming the pregnancy was step one, but that meant solving two mysteries: how many weeks before a test would work, and who would give her an exam without her parents finding out.
She prayed that Rob would offer answers.
Her stomach churned. She searched for the ladies’ room, just in case, hoping the queasiness signaled only nerves.
Rob walked in wearing a sports coat and a wide smile. Blood rushed from her head so fast that she knew her skin matched the white of the chipped mug in front of her.
After a not-so-furtive glance around, he pecked her on the forehead. His chaste lips brought heat back to her heart, even if the rest of her was still made of ice.
“Tea?” He cocked his head to the side as he examined her cup. “I thought you were a coffee person.”
“My stomach’s been off,” she said. “My mother served tea with tons of milk and sugar when we were sick.”
“No milk there.” He pointed to the dark liquid, the tea bag sunk to the bottom of the cup.
“I grew up.” Dairy nauseated her these days.
“So you did.” Rob’s smile became tender. “So you did.”
He picked up the smeared menu, studying the plastic-wrapped paper, looking proud of his newfound knowledge of Jewish delicacies. “Can one eat blintzes for breakfast?”
“Any time of day is fine,” she said. “They’re like pancakes: breakfast, lunch, or dinner.”
“I ate a bowl of Wheaties at six.” He weighted his gaze with significance. “Writing.”
Together they worshipped at the altar of Rob’s novel. The first few pages immediately revealed his worship of J. D. Salinger, but in a good way, she told him—and she believed what she said. He wrote as Salinger would have written if Salinger had composed with more heart.
Salinger had children, right?
“How about we share a plate?” he asked.
“A plate of what?”
“Blintzes, of course. Where are you this morning?” Only after studying her face did he reach for her hand. “Whoa! You’re cold.”
“I’m freezing.” With those words she began chattering so loud she heard her teeth clicking.
“Phoebe, are you sick?” Rob rushed around the table and sat in the empty chair beside her.
She squeezed her eyes tight against tears. “I—I can’t eat any blintzes.”
“Forget the blintzes!” He moved the glass sugar pourer to bring her hands closer. He covered them with his own, sharing his heat.
“My period is late,” she whispered. “Two weeks.”
Rob dropped her hands. She twisted her tiny locket, twirling until the chain would twist no more, then unfurling the necklace and starting over. Perhaps she’d put a picture of Rob on one side and the baby on the other.
“You can’t be pregnant. I used a condom every time.” He offered this as though arguing an irrefutable point of logic.
“They’re not infallible.”
The ancient waiter arrived carrying his small green pad and nub of a pencil. “Order?”
“Coffee. Just coffee,” Rob said.
The old man shook his head and left.
Her hands trembled as she reached for him. “We need the name of a doctor where I can go.”
He drew back, leaving her hands in the tundra of the empty table, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hear Mexico is the place.”
“Mexico?” She struggled to make sense of his words.
“You can get what you need there. Easy.”
“Why would I go to Mexico for a pregnancy test?”
“Don’t act ignorant.” The waiter placed a mug before him, halting Rob’s words for a blessed moment. She built a tower of wrapped sugar cubes until he covered her hand. “Stop.”
“Mexico?” she asked again.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” He lightened his coffee, stirring the liquid until small riptides appeared. “Girls take care of these problems with doctors in Mexico.”
She cocked her head in confusion until awareness came, and she realized what he meant. A ragged cry emerged unbidden.
“What the hell were you asking for when you said you needed help?”
“What I said,” she whispered. “Where to go for a pregnancy test.”
“Aha. So you’re not sure that you’re . . .” He rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. “Can’t your girlfriends tell you?”
“It’s hardly something I want to ask about.”
He nodded. “Of course. You don’t need to spread rumors and such.”
“Rumors?”
“You can hop down and get put right. Nothing’s public this way.” He gazed off to the side as though receiving information. “No. Not Mexico. Wrong place. Sorry. Puerto Rico is what I meant.”
“Maybe I’m not pregnant. I’m not very late.” Protective instincts kept her from telling him about her morning bathroom sessions. Her sore breasts were no business of his.
“The sooner, the better.” Rob clipped off the words as though talking to a student seeking advice on whether to major in sociology or political science.
Phoebe shivered. “We need to figure this out. First we’ll get the facts and then think about what’s ahead.”
“Can I ask what you mean by ‘what’s ahead’?”
Did Rob work at speaking as though he were the fucking Prince of Wales? Impatience replaced fear. “Can we end the polite charade, please? I think I’m pregnant, and if I am, well, we’ll be parents.”
Rob shook his head. “First, I’m not going to be anyone’s parent. Second, are you crazy? You’re my student. Do you want me to lose my job? Are you trying to ruin my life?”
“Rob—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll help you find out where you can go in Puerto Rico.” His eyes darted around the restaurant. “If need be, I’ll ask my father for money.”
? ? ?
Rob became a stranger. She didn’t ask for anything again. He didn’t offer. In class he treated her as though she were invisible.
After two weeks spent praying he’d become the man with whom she had fallen in love, class again passed in a haze of her stares and Rob’s snubs. Each time she raised her hand, he disregarded her waving arm so pointedly that Phoebe wondered if everyone noticed his deliberate refusal. Rob picked Mary Alice to speak about typhoid management in the late 1800s, even though containing infection had been Phoebe’s topic in the most recent paper assigned.
Five minutes before the end of class—Rob glanced up at the clock on the wall and nodded at the 3:55 time—he put down the chalk and brushed off his hands.