Golden State: A Novel by Michelle Richmond Page A

terrible aftermath of a roadside bombing. “All of it runs together,” she said. “It’s hard to remember what came first.” She told me about a friend who had died when he jumped off the back of a truck and broke his femur. “His femur,” she said, incredulous. “A perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-old with a wife and baby at home. The break sent an embolism to his heart.” She shook her head. “I spent seven months sitting in Suwayrah playing Xbox and reading novels and practically peeing in my pants every time I heard an explosion. The place was a magnet for incoming rocket fire. The one bright spot was the food. We had Pakistani civilians cooking for us. They were amazing. I talked this one guy into giving me his recipe for Lahori beef karahi. You’ll have to come over one of these days so I can cook it for you.”
    “Come over?”
    “I’ve decided to stick around. A friend of mine is letting me borrow his place in the Mission while he’s back East.” She glanced up to gauge my reaction. “You don’t look too thrilled.”
    “I’m glad you’re safe,” I said. “I really am. But you can’t expect everything to just magically go back to how it was.”
    “Fair enough.” She broke a twig from an overhead branch. “But maybe you should let me know just how long you plan to keep punishing me.”
    “I’m not punishing you.”
    She tossed the broken halves of the twig into the underbrush. “It sure feels like it.”
    Was she right? Was I was measuring out some sort of long overdue punishment for the hell she’d put us through? I just didn’t know how to be with her, how to act. Every time I looked at her, I thought of Ethan, and the anger came rushing back.
    We walked in silence. Finally, I asked, “Have you thought more about what you’re going to do?”
    “Of course—I think about nothing else.” She turned to me. “One day I want to have the baby, the next day I don’t. Here’s the thing: if it was five years ago, it would be easy. Back then, I would have just ended it. But I’m twenty-nine, more than old enough to take care of a child. At some point along the line somebody decided that you have to go out and live this whole productive life, make a ton of money, satisfy all your desires, travel the world, and sell your start-up before you can have a kid. But think about it: Mom was twelve years younger than I am now when she had you.”
    “How does the father feel?”
    “He’s hard to read. When I first told him, he was ecstatic. Now I’m not so sure. But his wife never wanted children, and that’s been very difficult for him. He loves kids.”
    “How do you know his wife didn’t want children? You can’t exactly trust a man you’re having an affair with on the subject of his marriage.”
    “Julie, I’m not naïve. And technically, it’s not an affair.”
    “You’re sure he’s being straight with you? If it’s really over between them, why aren’t they divorced?”
    Heather brushed my words aside with a wave of her hand. “He’s spent a long time getting to where he is. If the story got out about an extramarital affair, with a love child to boot, it would completely derail his career.”
    “That sounds like a convenient excuse,” I persisted. “People get divorced all the time.”
    “This is different.”
    “How?”
    “He isn’t—” She paused, searching for the right words. “He isn’t normal.”
    “What does that mean? You make it sound like you were impregnated by an Oompa-Loompa, or Edward Scissorhands.”
    “Funny. What I mean is, he’s kind of a public figure.”
    “Seriously? How public?”
    “Very.”
    “Really,” I said. I wanted to give her an out, a chance to tell me that she was kidding, to stop this train before it ran off the tracks.
    “Yes, really,” she insisted, a defensive note in her voice. “It’s a weird situation. That’s why I want to have the baby at the VA, with you. It will be just you and me and the father, maybe a