I also don’t want to tell her before I tell the father.
Thefather.
Jackson Harper. The thousands of scenarios of what hemight say have been rattling around my brain. The most likely outcome is he’ll be horrified, demand I terminate or sue me. Can I get sued for getting pregnant? I mean, I did tell him I was on birth control, even if I didn’t know that modern medicine is apparently not enough protection from his super sperm.
It was one fuck against a balcony in the middle of a wedding. And we somehow conceived a child.
God, I hope it doesn’t ask any questions about its conception.
How am I even supposed to tell the man? He lives in America and has sixteen million followers on Instagram. Even if I messaged him, it would be a drop in the ocean. He likely wouldn’t even see it. Danny’s sister Pip did set up a group chat for the wedding party on a fancy high security app, mainly so no details could get leaked to the press, but that was closed after the happy couple left for their honeymoon.
I could ask Anya, but then I’d have to answer questions about why I even want his number. And then I’d have to describe how I defiled her wedding, because if I know my best friend she will demand every single detail. I know Pip and our other friend Cassie would have his number too, but I’m way too shy to message them out of the blue.
I never really considered if I would be a mother. My own wasn’t exactly a shining example. I never had dreams about a white wedding or a gaggle of children, but when I took that test in my empty flat, with no one to share the news with, I couldn’t help but feel…warm. It wasn’t just me anymore. I had a little sidekick.
The doctor handed me a bunch of leaflets when I had my appointment and talked me through all my options. I know I can schedule an abortion. I probably should.Jackson will likely want that right? He won’t want to be saddled with this for the rest of his life.
When I’d idly consider my future, I always thought I’d have an abortion, at least if it happened before I had a husband and a mortgage and aplan. I thought for sure that would be what I’d do if this exact circumstance happened.
But I can’t make that decision without telling him. I couldn’t do that to him. He deserves to know all our options.
I nibble on a plain cracker, one of the only foods I’ve been able to keep down ever since sushi-granola-gate. My phone buzzes on the arm of the sofa and I glance at the screen with surprise.
“Mum?” I ask, confused as I pull the phone to my ear. I can’t remember the last time she called me without a date scheduled in the diary or an important life update. “Everything okay?”
“Rosalie, how are you?”
I stumble. Should I tell her that I’m potentially making her a grandma? “Uh?—”
“Lovely, look I’m just calling because Cleo’s birthday is coming up.”
“Oh,” I say, quietly. “Right.”
“What are you going to buy her?”
“Uhm.” What am I going to buy the sister who has literally everything she’s ever asked for? “What does she want?”
“Really Rosalie, you should ask her,” Mum scolds.
“Okay.” I rub my eyes behind my glasses. “Yeah, I’ll text her.”
“I have to go now, but make sure it’s a good gift this year, yes? Let’s not have a repeat of her twenty fifth.”
I bite back my sigh. For Cleo’s twenty fifth a few years ago, I bought her a signed vinyl of our favorite band growing up. I was so pleased, I was convinced she would love it.When we gathered for her party in a fancy restaurant and I handed it over, she looked at me disgusted and said, “I haven’t listened to this since I was a teenager. Can you return it?” It was awful, and my family has not let me forget it.
I open my mouth ready to keep her on the line, but instead I get her dial tone.
Would I have even told her?
I don’t know much about pregnancy yet but I’m ready to blame it for the tear that gets caught behind my glasses. I yank them off and throw them on the coffee table before rubbing my eyes.
Get it together, I think to myself as I attempt a steadying breath.
I keep my hands over my eyes, the darkness allowing my racing thoughts to settle slightly.
The intercom buzzes and I do not have the capacity to direct a stranger to leave their parcel for my neighbor. My building is an old house converted into three flats so I often get asked to open the main door for deliveries, but the speaker is so old it’s impossible to ever speak clearly to the other person. It’s a game of telephone that I do not have the energy to play right now.
It buzzes again, this time for longer. With a growl, I roll off the sofa and snatch the intercom off the hook. “Yes?”
