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It begins – and ends – on Annalise Keating’s porch.
The night is frigid and thick around them. They’re both trembling, breathing heavily as they recover. He pulls out of her and tucks himself away, going in for another kiss.
But Laurel shakes her head and hops down off the railing. “No. N-no. That was a mistake.”
Frank breaks into an easy smile. “Mistakes can’t possibly feel that good, can they?”
Again, he tries to kiss her. Again, she moves away.
“That was a one-time thing. This isn’t… anything.”
Something like hurt flickers in his eyes. “Laurel-”
“Don’t,” she breathes, her knees still shaky. “I-I have to go.”
She stalks away before he has the time to protest. During the drive home, she squeezes her thighs together, feeling the warm stickiness there, and gulps.
It was a mistake. A mistake, and that’s all it’ll ever be.
–
Six weeks later, the nausea hits her like a freight train.
She buries her head in the sand for as long as she possibly can, coming up with increasingly irrational excuses for it. Food poisoning. The flu. Stress. A deadly stomach parasite, which is surely a thousand times better than the alternative.
She’s exhausted all the time, no matter how much she sleeps. Her breasts become tender to the touch.
Then, she misses her period, and after puking her guts out for what must be the millionth time in a week, she finally makes the walk of shame to a nearby convenience store and buys half a dozen pregnancy tests.
Laurel can’t say she’s honestly surprised when they all come up positive.
Frank hadn’t worn a condom. He hadn’t had one. Stupidly, she hadn’t pressed. She’s on the pill, after all, and everything she’s ever read says the pill is 99% effective.
But of fucking course she would end up being that unfortunate other 1%.
–
She doesn’t want an abortion.
Blame it on her Catholic upbringing, the endless pro-life lectures about hell-bound, Satan-worshipping baby-killers she’d sat through in school. Or blame it on her own morality. Her weird, suddenly present maternal instincts.
She doesn’t want a baby now, obviously. But she doesn’t want to kill it.
Laurel spends days agonizing over how to tell Frank. They haven’t been alone together since that night – she’s made damn sure of that – and she’s sure he won’t take it well. It’s not like he’s exactly father material.
Still, she approaches him one night at the coffee pot, and says, straight-faced, “We need to talk. Can we go to your place after this?”
Predictably, he takes that to mean another thing entirely.
“About time,” he teases. “I was wondering how long you’d be able to stay away.”
Laurel doesn’t laugh. She just lowers her eyes and plods back into the living room, her stomach roiling with a combination of dread and morning sickness.
Around eleven he drives her to his place, eventually giving up on his attempts to flirt when it becomes clear she isn’t having any of it. The instant they step inside, however, he presses her up against the wall and kisses her deeply.
For that brief instant when his lips press down on hers, Laurel forgets. Forgets everything, except how good it feels, how good he feels, and how much she wants him – but then the reality of her situation hits her, and she makes herself break away.
“Stop,” she pants. “Look, Frank, I… I have to tell you something.”
Frank stops, looking at her expectantly. And she’s about to open her mouth when –
A woman’s voice comes from the shadows instead.
“What a coincidence,” she says, emerging from the doorway with a glass of red wine in hand. “I think Frank has something to tell you, too. Sometimes he forgets he has a girlfriend.”
–
She panics. She runs.
Laurel calls her mom, crying pitifully, and tells her everything. Within seconds, she has booked her a red-eye flight back home, to Palm Beach.
She crams her clothes in her suitcase hastily. Says goodbye to no one. Her phone rings nonstop with calls from Frank, and he leaves at least twenty voicemails.
Pick up. Please, Laurel. You’re not just a student of the month to me. None of what she said is true. I screwed up. You gotta believe me. I’ll do anything.
Laurel tosses her phone in a trash can just before boarding, then watches the city lights of Philadelphia fade from view out the airplane window.
–
6:26 AM.
A boy. Seven pounds, six ounces. Ten tiny fingers and toes. Chubby cheeks, and a light dusting of dark hair.
Blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes.
–
“Mommy! I see Brady on the slide with his mom! Can I go play?”
Laurel laughs. “Only for a little while, okay? And make sure you stay where I can see you.”
Liam nods and takes off on his stubby little legs, tottering over to his friend happily. It’s their favorite place to go together, this little park in the middle of Philly a few blocks away from their apartment. Laurel had moved back into the city for her job last month, and almost immediately, Liam had taken to it.
Laurel had, too. He’s her whole world. She never thought it was possible to love another human being as much as she loves him.
Exhausted and amused by his hyperactivity, she takes a step over to the sidewalk, and glances across the street at the courthouse – and that’s when she sees him.
He’s across the way on the steps of the courthouse, briefcase in hand and Bonnie by his side. He’s in a three-piece suit, hair slicked back; Frank looks just as she remembers him, only a few years older.
And he’s looking back. Looking at her.
Laurel thinks about hiding, or running, or a combination of both, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just gulps and watches him cross the street to her, staring as if he can’t believe she’s real and not a mirage.
“Laurel?” he says, coming to a stop before her. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”
She nods. “Yeah. I, uh, moved back last month for work.”
“Never thought about stopping by to say hello?”
He plays it off casually, but it’s clear that it’s a loaded question. She bristles.
“I-”
“Mommy! Look what I found!”
Liam appears behind her just then, holding a wildflower he’d plucked from the grass nearby. The instant Frank sees him, he narrows his eyes, almost as if in recognition.
And she knows why. Of course she does. The eyes he’s looking into are his own.
Liam seems to sense something is amiss too, and stares back. “Who is this, mom?”
“Just an old friend, honey,” Laurel makes herself smile, and takes the flower from his hands. “Go play with Brady and his mom, all right? I’ll be over in a minute.”
He nods without protest and scampers away again, over to the playground. Frank watches him go, as a moment of tense silence passes between them.
“He yours?”
Laurel nods. “Yeah. His name’s Liam.”
Another pause. Then-
“How old is he?”
He looks suspicious, and rightfully so.
She hesitates, before murmuring, “Four.”
“Four years ago…” he drifts off, furrowing his brow. “You left five years ago. Skipped town. No one had a clue where you went-”
“Frank-”
“And that thing you were gonna tell me that night,” he continues, understanding flooding his eyes. “I spent years wondering what the hell it was. But that was it. You were pregnant.”
He stops, as though waiting for her to confirm or deny it. Instead, she just blurts out dumbly, “I-I don’t… I-”
“Yes or no, Laurel,” Frank lowers his voice. “Tell me the truth.”
For what must be the longest minute in the world, she only stands there, twisting the stem of the flower in between her fingers, a lump in her throat.
Briefly, she considers lying, but after all these years, hiding this from him, and watching her son grow more and more into the spitting image of his father – of Frank…
“Yes,” she tells him. “H-he’s yours. He’s your son.”