At First Sight - Nicholas Sparks [37]
He suspected his problem was a lack of confidence. It was an odd feeling, one he hadn’t ever experienced before moving to Boone Creek.
He wondered if that was it. The move itself. That’s when the problem started; it wasn’t the house or the wedding plans or anything else. He’d been blocked from the time he’d rolled back into town, as if the choice to move here had come with a hidden cost. That suggested that he would be able to write in New York, however . . . but could he? He considered it, then shook his head. It didn’t matter, did it? He was here. In less than three weeks, on April 28, he’d close on the house and then head off to his bachelor party; a week later, on May 6, he’d be married. For better or worse, this was home now.
He glanced at Doris’s journal. How would he start a story about it? Not that he intended to, but just as an experiment. . . .
Pulling up a blank document, he began to think, his fingers poised on the keyboard. But for the next five minutes, his fingers didn’t move. There was nothing, nothing at all. He couldn’t even think of a way to begin.
He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated, wanting yet another break, wondering what to do. There was no way he was going to the house, he decided, since it would only put him in a worse mood. He decided instead to kill some time on the Internet. He heard the modem dial in, watched the screen load, and scanned the main page. Noting that he had two dozen new messages, he clicked on the mailbox.
Most of it was spam, and he deleted those messages without opening them; Nate had sent a message as well, asking if Jeremy had noticed any of the articles concerning a massive meteor shower in Australia. Jeremy responded that he’d written four columns about meteors in the past, one as recently as last year, but he thanked him for the idea.
He nearly deleted the last message, which lacked a subject heading, but thought better of it and found himself staring at the screen as soon as the message appeared. His mouth went dry, and he couldn’t turn away. Nor, suddenly, could he breathe. It was a simple message, and the blinking cursor seemed to taunt him: HOW DO YOU KNOW THE BABY IS YOURS?
Seven
HOW DO YOU KNOW THE BABY IS YOURS?
Jeremy knocked back his chair as he rose from the desk, still focused on the message. Of course the baby’s mine! he wanted to scream. I know because I know!
Yes, the message seemed to ask, you say you know. But how do you know?
His mind raced for the answers. Because he and Lexie spent a wonderful night together. Because she told him it was his baby and she had no reason to lie. Because they were getting married. Because it couldn’t be anyone else’s. Because it was his baby. . . .
Wasn’t it?
Had he been anyone else, had his history been different, had he known Lexie for years, the answer would have been obvious; but.
That was the thing about life, he knew. There was always a but.
He shook the thought away, focusing on the message, trying to get control of his emotions. There was no need to get worked up about this, he told himself, even if the message not only was offensive, but bordered on . . . evil. That’s how he viewed it. Evil. What kind of person would write such a thing? And for what reason? Because he thought it was funny? Because he wanted to start an argument between Lexie and Jeremy? Because . . .
He went blank for an instant, fumbling, his mind racing, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it.
Because