if we try, and if our lives -- the way we want to be. . .

"Erika?" Jacob cleared his throat, not eating his lunch quietly like he normally did, and I didn't even hear him except as a passing sound neglibly registering on my consciousness. (Jacob may be possibly familiar as the intellectual attraction [scroll down, I mention him by name]).

"Erika." I made some noncommital noise at the repeated sound of my name as I continued reading, and Jacob continued speaking, his voice controlled and quiet, cutting through the hum of the AP Biology room around us with the sheer seriousness of what he's saying, and not by force of voice. "Erika, Liz is two weeks late."

I blinked, not certain what I'd just heard, but immediately looking up from my book. "What?"

"She's two weeks late."

. . . there's a pause, to allow the enormity of the possibilities to blossom wide between us, and I focus not on Jacob's news, but on searching for a bookmark. I finally, bizarrely decide to use a twist-tie, which I straighten carefully. The twist tie is probably from Jacob's lunch, since he traditionally consumes the last remnants of said lunch in the AP Bio room as we wait for class to start.

I don't say anything, because I'm not sure what to say. Then I catch his eyes. His eyes are gorgeous, I randomly notice, brown with this incredible ring of green around the outsides, and I suddenly hurt that there's any chance at all he could be a father right now, hurt bad that there's a look in his eyes I've never seen in all the years I've known him, in all the years he's lived 3 blocks away. I think it's fear.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage to say, and he watches my face as if I'll magically pronounce it all impossible. But all I can do is repeat again, "I'm sorry."

And then there is talk of the likelihoods, of whether blood test at the Emma Goldman clinic, or whither wait & see. He seems dumb-founded this could be happening to him, and I mention my nephew. I start giggling at one point, because this all seems so absurd, and Jacob tells me it's not funny, but a smile starts on his face too. Him, a father? Never. He makes absurd promises never to have sex again until he's 45, and we laugh, and I think maybe we've distracted ourselves, that maybe this isn't that bad, that maybe . . . maybe this isn't a big deal.

But when I turn to him to tell him how far the pigment has crept up the solvent strip we're using in our experiment that period, he's looking off in the distance and I see tears in his eyes. I touch his shoulder and tell him, you know, if there's anything I can ever do, or if you find out more, please just call, Jacob. Please call.

He nods and says he will, and I want to hug him, but don't.