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“There’s something I have to tell you,” I say in a voice that sounds way surer than I’m feeling.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
I can’t see the disappointment in his face at what I’m about to say. I can’t bear it.
Emerson waits, patient.
He can afford to be.
He doesn’t have the slightest idea how what I’m about to say will blow everything up, will change everything, throw the blurry into focus, force a swerving car into a specific lane.
My fists ball so much that my knuckles crack. My breath thrashes. My shoulders slump.
This is the last thing I want to do. This is what I must do.
The words come out like a curse, like a what-the-hell flip-off at fate. “I’m pregnant.”
Emerson exhales sharply. “What?”
“I was getting sick, was late for my period.” My voice is dull with the mercilessness of fact. “I took a test. It was positive.”
I wait.
Long enough for Emerson to control whatever’s happening on his face.
But when I finally have enough courage to face him, he’s rising, heading for the balcony.
I watch him leave while the thoughts, circling me like vultures, finally descend.
What did you expect?
That he’d be happy? Anything other than horrified?
That he’d wrap his arms around you and lie that it was going to be okay?
I sink back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s a different style here, less flow and suggestion, more line and state.
How long am I going to lie here and pretend that Emerson’s leaving, getting away, wasn’t an answer in itself?
How long am I going to delude myself?
I sit up, rise. My eyes are blinking, my cheeks wet.
I head for the door.
“Wynona?” he says.
I pause.
“Just... can you look at me?” he asks softly.
I look at him.
Behind the tears, it takes a minute for me to make out just what’s on his face. Sheer puzzlement.
“What?” I ask.
“I...” He shakes his head, scowling, annoyed. “I don’t know why, but for some reason, I don’t feel like this is the worst thing. I almost feel like it’s... okay.”
“Really?”
He nods, still with that puzzled expression that I could kiss. “Really.”
He takes me in his arms and kisses me first. “One thing, though. Can you give me some time to think about this? A few days or nights should be enough. I just have to get my head around it.”
“Of course.” I find myself laughing. Out of all the reactions I expected and feared, this didn’t factor into it. “Hell yes, of course!”
Looking at me, he starts to laugh, big booming ones that light up his whole face. “Okay.”
I laugh too, I can’t help it. The laughs are coming out riding on a wave of wild relief. “Okay.”
And then we kiss some more, all the way back to bed.
And this time, when Emerson plays a Beatles song on his keyboard, we both sing along. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night...”
Chapter 20
Emerson
What. The. Fuck.
From the balcony, I stare out into night sky, smiling like a fool.
As if it had an answer for me, anything other than a nice view of the beach and further-on forest, along with a star-studded sky.
If you had asked me about babies a few hours ago, I would’ve chuckled and said, “Maybe someday.”
But someday is... now?
Jesus, Wynona and I have barely started getting to know each other again.
My hands close on the railing.
There’s the practical aspect of the whole thing, too. I’m well-off enough, but a baby needs more than that.
It needs time. Responsibility. Huge amounts of both.
And a house. Wouldn’t it be needing that sooner rather than later?
And what about Wynona and me? Sure, things have been going great here on the island... but what about back home?
I give my head a swift shake.
Too many questions and not enough answers.
All I need to know now is what to tell Wynona. I stand on the balcony, looking out, until I do.
I go back to bed, and when we wake up, smiling and kissing sleepily, I have an idea. “Have you checked out the little town nearby yet? Maybe before the wedding?”
Wynona smiles as she shakes her head. “Not yet.”
“You game?” I ask.
An hour later, we’re walking down the town’s tidy cobblestone streets. Every other block smells of cinnamon and sweet candy, while each one-story, white-doored building is a different pastel color. Storefronts brim with artisanal crafts, clothing, and the odd smiling shopkeeper.
It’s almost like being in an art gallery, with all the vibrant paintings of seascapes and fish and unique sculptures of wide-hipped women with fish heads or shark fins.
“This was a good idea,” Wynona says as we sit on a pink and blue polka-dot bench, sharing a chocolate-mint ice cream cone.
I take a bite, grinning. “Agreed. Ice cream is never a bad idea.”
Licking a stray smear of it from her fuchsia-lipsticked lower lip, Wynona chuckles. “I didn’t mean that. I meant this.” She gestures at our Easter-colored surroundings. “Checking out the town. Who knew there was such a vibrant local art scene?”
