Jackson lifts the wine bottle and motions to my empty glass. I quickly halt him by covering the rim. He looks at me with concerned eyes. “You don’t like white?” he asks, as if he’s horrified he got the wrong bottle.
“No, no,” I say, swallowing against my dry throat. “I—uh, I’m going to have a Coke instead, do you want one?” I jump out of my seat and head to the fridge without looking at him.
“White wine and coke, I’ve heard that before.”
I wince at the memory of catching him doing drugs in Anya’s bathroom. I’ve never done anything more than thehalf a spliff Anya split with me when we were nineteen and watching the Da Vinci Code. I spent the first half of the evening loudly rewriting the film, and the second half holding Anya’s hair as she threw it all back up.
“Just to get it out there,” Jackson holds his hands up. “That time at Dan’s party wasn’t my…finest moment. It’s not something I really do anymore, I think that was the last time I even touched the stuff.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I say awkwardly, though relief washes through me.
“I know, but I wanted to,” he says softly.
I hold the fridge door open, letting the cold air cool me down but instead all I can smell is the garlic that has probably passed its use by date. I grab the drinks and breathe through my mouth as I rejoin the table.
“Thanks. Are you okay?” Jackson asks when I sit.
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” I say, unconvincingly.
He eyes me warily. God, I probably look like a loser who can’t even hold a conversation with the man without stumbling or rambling. I need to just get it out. Just get it over with. I can’t keep it inside for a second longer.
“This rice is gre?—”
“I’m pregnant.” I announce, placing both hands on the table. I take a deep breath before I let my eyes rise to his face.
Jackson is frozen, his mouth hanging open like he is ready to continue the sentence I just interrupted. He slowly adjusts in his seat, his large body causing my old wooden chair to creak.
I reach to my face for the glasses that I’m not wearing before bringing my hands back to my lap.
He’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
His mouth moves like he’s trying to form words. He tries a few times before he croaks out, “How?”
“Oh, uhm. Well, you know your sperm met my egg and fertilized?—”
“Rosie.”
I take a breath. “At the wedding.”
“You said you were on the pill.” A flicker of something washes across his face.
“I am!” I insist. “Honestly, I never do anything like—I would never have let—I mean I wouldn’t have taken the risk if I thought for even a second that I wouldn’t be protected, but I spoke to my doctor and they said it’s not one hundred percent effective, and because I’d been running around in France and drinking and throwing up, I don’t know, it just decided to not work.”
He doesn’t blink. I don’t think he’s blinked once since I dropped the bomb.
I wring my hands together. “It was definitely the wedding,” I say. “I mean I haven’t been with anyone but you for at least ten months. And I really don’t think sperm can live in the womb for that long. And even the last few times I saw my ex, I don’t think he even came anywhere near my vagina so it’s been more like ten and a half months without any sperm in the vicinity of my eggs apart from yours.”
“Rosie,” Jackson says, running his hand across his face. “Please stop talking about sperm.”
I nod my head and mime sealing my mouth shut.
“Pregnant,” he repeats. “You’re pregnant.”
I nod again.
“With my baby.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I only found out last week and I’ve been trying to figure out how to reach you. And then you literally showed up at my door.”
