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“You heard me.”
“I don’t think I did. You’re what?”
I took a deep breath, readying myself for the reaction I knew was coming. “Pregnant,” I said, holding his gaze. “I’m pregnant, Tristan.”
The room fell quiet again, so still that you could have heard a pin drop. He just stared at me, and I couldn’t read anything in his gaze. Then slowly, almost as if he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing, Tristan put down his beer and rubbed his hand over his face.
“You’re pregnant,” he echoed, as if trying to make sense of the words. “And it’s…?”
“Yes,” I cut him off, my voice firm despite the lump forming in my throat. “It’s yours.”
A quiet curse slipped through his clenched teeth and he raked a hand through his short-cropped hair, disbelief etched on every line of his face. “I thought you were on birth control.”
“I am on birth control. I’m also on antibiotics. Well, I was,” I said. “I don’t know how it works, okay? But I know I’ve only slept with one person in several months. You.”
Frustration colored his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, pacing the length of the room, the tension radiating off him in waves. “You know that antibiotics can interfere with birth control.”
“I know that now!” I snapped, regretting it immediately. This wasn’t the time for a fight. Slowly, I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Look, Tristan,” I said, my voice softening. “I didn’t know about the antibiotics. Genuinely, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. And to be clear, I take birth control because of my period, and you know, just in case. I’m not super in the know about it. And when I found out…I just…I didn’t know what to do.”
His features twisted as if in pain, and for a moment I thought he would explode. Instead, he stepped back, looking away from me. “You’re sure it’s mine?” he asked, his voice a low rasp that barely concealed his shock.
“I’m not in the habit of going around making unconfirmed accusations,” I snapped, defensive under the weight of his gaze. “I took a test. It’s positive.”
“One test?”
“Three,” I told him. “I’m definitely pregnant.”
He stopped his restless pacing and turned to look at me, those sharp blue eyes reflecting an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. He suddenly seemed very far away, as if he was lost in a world of his own. Then, he slowly crossed the distance between us, standing so close that I could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“I believe you,” he said. His gaze was unreadable as it lingered on my face, studying my features as if committing them to memory.
“And what does that mean–you believe me?” I asked cautiously, acutely aware of how close he was now, of every inch where we almost touched.
“It means…it means I believe you’re pregnant.” He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair again. “And if you’re sure it’s mine…then it’s mine. Is that why you were so desperate to get in touch with me?”
I nodded. “I don’t care that you don’t want to marry me. I don’t want to marry you. I hardly know you,“ I said. “But I thought you deserved to know. Because it’s your baby too.”
His eyes flicked down to my stomach and back up to my face again, a shadow of something indiscernible crossing his expression. He was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he was trembling.
“And what do you want to do?” he asked gently. His voice was calm, but I could see the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.
I chewed on the inside of my mouth. “I think I’m going to terminate the pregnancy,” I said. “I didn’t tell you to rub it in, I’m just…I just thought it wasn’t fair not to tell you. To have you never know. I thought this would be kinder.”
His gaze, previously sharp and focused, suddenly seemed distant, as if lost in some unseen depth. His fingers clenched into a fist, the only hint of his internal struggle evident in his otherwise impassive façade.
“Kinder,” he echoed, his voice hollow.
“Yes,” I affirmed, keeping my voice steady. “Given our circumstances, our families… Tristan, I’m not ready to be a mother. I…I don’t think I’ll ever be. We’re not married. We’re both Catholic. My dad already wants to kill you. This just guarantees that he will.”
Silence stretched between us again, heavy and suffocating. For the first time that night, Tristan looked lost. He took a step back, raking a hand through his disheveled hair before turning his back to me.
I watched as he paced the floor in an aimless pattern, each stride layered with tension. A part of me felt guilty for dropping such a bombshell on him, for adding to the burden he already carried. But it was necessary. It was right.
“We should discuss this, shouldn’t we? Not just…not just make a unilateral decision?” His voice was soft, almost pleading.
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t at all going how I’d imagined. Tristan was supposed to lash out, tell me it was my problem, or worse–he was supposed to say nothing at all.
“If you’re worried about money, I’ll take care of it all...” he continued.
