James stepped up in more ways than I thought possible. He snuffed any reservations our friends had, reassuring them we’re two consenting adults, not some teenage delinquents with raging hormones—though that last part is disputable. Even though the conversation ended with a round of hugs and heartfelt congratulations, I couldn’t help but worry how our news would be taken on Christmas Day. This time with a larger group who are more invested in our future.
Will we be asked the same questions? Like what will our future look like after the baby’s born? How will we pivot parenting and a new relationship that didn’t even get a chance to hit the honeymoon stage? And again, that question about marriage. We haven’t even thought about that. At leastIhaven’t. HasJames? It seems so far-fetched to talk about getting married. I mean, I get it. Things are backward with us. The whole kissing in a tree followed by a marriage and that baby in a baby carriage has been tossed up in the air, only for it to land back on solid ground in a jumbled mess.
Just as my brain starts to skitter with worry and doubt, James re-enters the bedroom balancing a plate of eggs and a separate bowl of fruit. He carefully sets it down on the nightstand before disappearing again. He’s all business and determination when he returns with a mug, a ribbon of steam hovering over it, and I move to settle back in bed.
“I got more of that decaf chai,” he informs me, gently setting it down next to my breakfast.
“Thank you,” I say with a half-smile. One that leaves so much to decipher. And I see it in the way James looks at me, concern drawing his brows together.
“Is everything okay? Are you not in the mood for eggs anymore?”
“I’m fine,” I assure, shaking my head. “I think I’m just a little anxious about having to tell people next week.”
“I thought we were past that,” he states. “That’s why we bought the crib. And why I’ve been collecting cardboard boxes at my place.”
“I know,” I agree. “I guess it’s just the hormones or whatever.” I wave a hand in his direction, brushing off my concern with nothing other than a bout of pregnancy-related side effects.
“Is it because of what happened when we told Syl and Tommy?”
I bite my lip. I offer a small nod, unable to speak into existence my fears. Because if I do, then that means they’re right. We’re playing house as if we bought a Cabbage Patch doll and placed it in our crib fresh from the box.
“Baby, you know there are going to be people who don’t agree with our choices,” he admits. “We’re doing things backward, and some people are going to give us their two cents even when we don’t ask for it.
“Not making me feel any better,” I mutter, a wavery laugh ending my sentence.
“But,” he adds with a lighthearted chuckle. He runs his hand down the side of my face. “We’re doing what’s best for us. We aren’t children. You and I both have jobs that pay…enough. We’re responsible adults who will love the heck out of this baby.”
“Yeah,” I agree with doubt plaited in my body language.
“Would you prefer we tell them one at a time?” he offers for what feels like the hundredth time. The tenderness in his voicemakes me wonder how he came to be this patient, constantly letting my ambivalent nature rattle up my insides without growing irritable or frustrated.
We played with the idea of going door to door, repeating the rehearsed words until they start to lose meaning. A less of a rip off the Band-Aid approach by dragging it out, letting their reactions pile on, one after the other. But what if they all react like Sylvia did? What if they shun us for making such a huge decision without even a single conversation with our parents? Maybe ripping off the Band-Aid, clean and quick, might be better.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, leaning into a more seize the day approach. “We already decided this. I just have to put my big girl pants on.”
He gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me, and I run my hand over his jaw.
“Really,” I assure him. “I can’t hide this for much longer anyway. They’re going to find out.” It’s inevitable, and I have to stop acting like it isn’t.
“But if you change your mind, you can tell me. You know that, right?”
“Of course,” I say softly. “But I won’t.” I lean in for a quick peck to his cheek and eye the food.
He smiles, picking up the extra fork he brought with him. There’s enough on the plate for the both of us, but I can see he’s waiting on me before he starts on his share. He nudges a lone blueberry in my direction while leaving a good chunk of eggs untouched.
“That was yummy,” I say as I’m sipping on my tea, the plate scraped clean.
“You want anything else?”
I shake my head. “We have to get going.”
He leans in for a kiss, deepening it until I’m left breathless. “I’m going to miss you.”
“You’re going to be gone for four days.”
