Mycat, Mrs. Potter, waddled into the room, looking like she had just woken fromher hundredth nap of the day. She plonked her round butt down beside the coffeetable and, starting with her paw, began her cleaning ritual. I watched her,mesmerized by the systematic motions as she repeatedly took her furry, whitepaw from her mouth to the top of her head. She had been a great friend for overfive years now, but watching her now, I remembered what I'd once been toldabout pregnant women and dirty litter boxes.
“Ican't even clean your litter box anymore,” I muttered, planting my elbowagainst the arm of thecouchand resting my chin in mypalm. She placed her paw back on the floor and lazily turned her gaze on me.“What the hell are wegonnado?”
Mrs.Potter's only reply was a long-winded meow, telling me that it was dinnertime.I sighed and nodded, pulling myself up to walk toward the small galley kitchen.The space between the two rows of appliances and countertops was barely wideenough to open the oven door, but I had managed happily for the last year. Butnow, what? I grabbed the container of cat food from off the counter andimagined myself seven, eight, nine months pregnant. How big would I be? Would Ibe able to even turn around in this space with a giant baby belly?
Ibent over to fill Mrs. Potter's little black plastic dish, and it hit me harderthan it should have that, not too long from now, bending over would be a thingof the past, at least for a while. And in the stupidest display of hormonalinstability, I sank to the floor beside my cat, bursting into tears as shechewed.
***
Aftersitting on the kitchen floor for longer than I’d care to admit, I wiped my eyeson my sweatshirt sleeve, as a growl rumbled noisily in my stomach, reminding methat I hadn't eaten all day. My nerves hadn't allowed it. But the insistentpangs in my gut told me I needed something immediately, and I climbed to myfeet to raid the fridge of the pizza and Chinese I'd eaten the last two nightsin a row.
Itook my feast to the table, along with my phone, and sat down to dig in whiledoing a little calculating with the app I used to track my period.
Ihad known it'd been late, hence the reason for the pregnancy test. But just howlate, I hadn't taken much note of. Looking at the app though, it seemed asthough it was just a week overdue.
“So,five weeks,” I muttered, chomping into an egg roll.
Mygut turned sour as I thought back on the past couple of weeks. Hadn't I noticedthat something had felt a little off? My boobs had been a little more sensitivethan usual and my body had ached with periodic waves of cramps, but I'd brushedit all off. I’d assumed all those typical premenstrual symptoms, that I usuallyfelt, were just amplified for one reason or another. But there had been alittle voice of intuition, deep down, telling me something was up. For somereason though, pregnancy still hadn't seemed very probable. Possible, sure, butfar from definite.
Howthe hell could I not have realized it was more of a possibility than any of theother ailments I had diagnosed myself with via Doctor Google?
Ifelt stupid. I felt like a stranger to my own, rebellious body and the littlebean in my belly.
Groaning,I thrust my fingers into my hair and tugged at the roots. “Calm down,” Iscolded myself, closing my eyes. “Just calm down and relax.”
Buthow?
Intimes of anxious worrying, I usually found solace in watching a movie orspending money on something absurdly frivolous. But right now, the usualsuspects didn’t seem good enough, not nearly immersive enough. So, I thoughtharder, I thought dirtier, and with a forceful shove, my mind moved past thepregnancy and to things I probably should have left alone. Thoughts aboutburley bartenders with reddish-blond hair started to crowd my mind, as I stoodfrom the table with my empty plate.
Iknew I shouldn't have felt the twinge of lust, as I washed the dishes andremembered his laugh. That deep, bubbling chuckle that had made me feel so muchbetter than I had in two, long days. I knew I shouldn’t have recalled thewarmth in his eyes and the kindness in his voice, as I changed out of myclothes and into pajamas. And I knew Idefinitely shouldn'thave allowed my hand to slide beneath the waistband of my sweatpants at thememory of his broad, contagious smile. Not when I had a boyfriend, not when Istill needed to call him and tell him the news. But I needed a distraction fromthe hormonal turmoil in my head and the changes in my body, and I didn't havethe energy to tell myself that this distraction wasn't right.
Chapter Two
“Hey,Kendo,” Brendan answered when I called the following afternoon. “It’s beenforever since I’ve heard from you.”
“Yeah,I know, I’m sorry,” I replied, not entirely sure why I was apologizing. “I’vebeen a little distracted. But, you know,youcould’ve called or textedme.”
“Oh,yeah, I know. But I don’t like bothering you, you know that. I never know whenyou’re writing or whatever.”
Thishad been a topic of contention for as long as we’d been together. Brendan hadissues with initiation. He hadn’t asked me out or kissed me first, and he wouldnever be the first to reach out. I could never wrap my head around it, evenafter three years of being together.
“IfI'm working, I'll just get back to you when I'm finished.” I knew there wasn'tmuch point to continuing the conversation, but I always slipped that in there.Just in case one day he'd decide to text me out of the blue and miraculouslyprove to be better at communicating.
“So,what are you up to?” he asked, dodging the comment swiftly.
Isat up in bed atop a nest of six fluffy throw blankets and five pillows. Therewas no such thing as too much comfort, and right now I was particularlygrateful for it. This wasdefinitely nota topic Iwanted to discuss on a bed barren of furry, leopard print throws.
“Um,well, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Uh-oh,”Brendan laughed forcefully. “Am I in trouble?”
Iglanced at Mrs. Potter, balled up in the center of a pillow. I caught her eyeand resisted the urge to chuckle, as I thought,well, I guess that dependson your definition of trouble.
“Well,not really, but ...” I ran a hand over my face, rethinking my decision to havethis discussion over the phone. I thought it would have been much easier tosnap a picture of the pregnancy test and send it away in a text or drop thebomb when there was distance and air between us. But now, my mouth froze aroundthe words, unable to release them in the wild.
“But?”
Thelast thing I cared to do right now was see people, including my boyfriend. Iwanted time to think things over, alone. I wanted to come to my own conclusionsbefore allowing outside sources the privilege of throwing in their two cents,even if those two cents were from Brendan. But reason told me that this was hisbaby, too, and he should at the very least be given an opportunity to voice hisopinion.
