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Twenty-Four
It takes me a moment to register what’s going on. I was asleep until Kalon showed up. I take in his disheveled hair, his rolled shirt sleeves, and his slightly panicked expression.
He asked me if I have something to tell him.
Oh, shit.
My stomach drops. Tala threw me under the bus, I’m sure. That’s the only explanation I can come up with considering it’s almost midnight, and he’s here and not at his kids’ birthday party. I open the door wider and let him in, but I don’t bother waiting. He can shut the damn door himself. I tug at the shirt I’m wearing, only now realizing that I’m only wearing a shirt — his — and panties.
“Well?” he hedges, following me into the living room. I turn to face him and allow some kind of anger to show.
“Why would I have something to tell you?” I cross my arms over my chest, and then drop them when I realize it emphasizes the size of my breasts.
“I don’t have time for games, Channing. Tell me it’s not true.”
I stare at him, willing the sensation in my eyes brought on by tell me it’s not true to go away. When I’m confident I can speak without getting emotional, I reply, “I can’t do that.”
“Then tell me how?” he demands. “Were you fucking someone else?” I flinch. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Kalon truly mad, and his blunt accusation hurts me in a way I can’t explain.
“Yes, Kalon, I was fucking multiple men at the same time I was fucking you,” I snap. It’s his turn to flinch. He exhales through his nose, and his chest falls as he does.
“You’re pregnant,” he states, voice low. “And it’s mine?”
“You’re the only man I was with ten weeks ago, so it’s safe to assume it is, yes, and you should probably sue your urologist for leaky pipes.” This does not amuse him, and the poor man looks confused, so I explain, “Whatever pipe they cut during your vasectomy has probably grown back. Which means the, uh, sperm can, you know…” I leave it there because I’m positive I don’t have to draw pictures for Kalon to understand what I’m saying.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. Now I’m nervous because he’s not losing his shit, or storming out the front door. “I’ve barely gotten used to the idea myself, so…”
He goes from resting his hands on his hips, to pinching the bridge of his nose, to pulling both hands through his hair. “Fuck.”
“Uh, yes. I believe that’s what got us into this.” It sort of slips out, and I blame my hormone-infested, sleep-deprived brain for the slip-up.
“Now’s not the time for snark, Channing.” He shakes his head. “We have to decide what we’re going to do.”
“We don’t have to decide anything,” I retort. “I’m keeping it, and if that’s—”
“Of course we’re keeping it, I would never tell you to get an abortion. Jesus. What I mean is, do you want me to propose? Are you going to move in with me? Wait, do you even want me a part of our child’s life?” His voice rises a few octaves at the end, as if the idea of me not wanting him a part of our child’s life is unthinkable.
I, however, am still stuck on his first two questions. “What?” I splutter. “Propose? That's just as crazy as me moving in with you, Kalon. God!” It’s insanity. Straight up put-me-in-a-strait-jacket crazy.
“So you don’t want me to propose, and you don’t want to live with me?” Fuck, now he sounds wounded, as if I’ve just rejected him. In a way, I have, but he can’t propose out of obligation, or move me into his house for the same reason. It doesn’t work that way. Maybe other women would grab the opportunity, especially if their baby daddy was as stinking rich as mine, but not me.
“It would be stupid for you to propose just because I’m pregnant, Kalon, and what’s wrong with me staying in my house?”
“Compared to my place, yours is run-down. It would make sense for you to live with me, Channing.”
“On what planet?” I half-shout.
“On this one!” he yells back. “I can’t take care of you and our baby if we’re living apart!”
“Who said I needed you to take care of us? I’m quite capable of doing it a-alone!” My voice cracks because hormones and shouting, nowadays, equates to ugly crying. Kalon reads the situation all wrong and closes the distance between us when I burst into tears. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Channing, I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“It’s not you, it’s my fucking hormones,” I cry. “You and your stupid leaky plumbing!” He allows me to lose my shit, just a little, and then he’s hugging me. Well, pulling me against his chest, really. I’m breathing hard and trying to clean my face, not even the slightest bit mortified.
He rubs my back, kisses the top of my head, and says, “We’ll figure it out. I would never expect you to do any of it alone, even though I know you probably can.”
Something about his embrace, his reassurance, flips a switch. I’ve been doing a bang-up job of keeping myself together since my birthday weekend, since I peed on a stick that told me I was going to be a mom, since I heard my baby’s heartbeat for the first time, and it takes one hug, one, from Kalon to unravel it all.
