Do you know of that moment when you realize you have probably screwed things up, but then it could be that it’s just a blessing in disguise?
I sat there, in the kitchen, staring at the fireplace a full room across me, wondering how to break this news to H. I was running through the scenarios in my head—that he’d freak out, that his parents would freak out and probably hate me, that his bandmates will probably be happy about this because they love me and they want H to be happy (but then again, it all circles back to H’s reaction first).
But it’s here. It’s not something I can undo, you know?
“I’ve got the chocochip mint ice cream.”
H slid the pint of ice cream across the kitchen countertop towards me, and then turned, pulling a drawer and producing a spoon. I popped the lid off and he stuck the spoon into the ice cream. I scooped a big one, and then licked it good off the spoon.
“So why the sudden craving for ice cream on a snow day?” he asked me. It was a year ago, on the dot, from our first snow day. We were staying over at the house in the woods, spending some of H’s little downtime. It was three months after the ‘break,’ and things were back to ‘normal.’ H and I are like a well-oiled machine again.
“I have something to tell you, and you have to promise not to freak out, alright?” I said. His eyebrows furrowed on his head. “I think you saying that makes me want to start freaking out,” he replied along with a shaky laugh.
I paired his laugh with a shaky breath. “Not doing a good job at this, I see.” He took the spoon out of my hand—yay, finally, no more cringing when he sees the spoon—and scooped out some ice cream and then held the spoon in front of me. I took in the spoon, had a brain freeze, and that’s when I blurted it out.
The words came out in a garble because my mouth was so full with ice cream, but I think H got the picture, because he gaped, shouting, “WHAT?”
I took one, two, three spoonful of ice cream into my mouth just to avoid speaking and saying the words all over again. And then I fished into my pocket, brought out the three pregnancy kits that scream positive, tossing it across the table and they landed, fanned out, in front of H. He looked at them, wide-eyed, and then it slowly sunk in.
“Oh dear god.”
I swallowed the ice cream and it burned my throat, but I didn’t care. “I know.”
“How long…?” he asked, and I shrugged.
“Could be… three weeks.”
I could see the gears turning in his head, counting backwards. “Sydney.”
He took my silence as a confirmation. H and I had always been careful, and despite hating pills, I started to take them, all because I wanted to avoid this. But I was so busy, and I think I screwed it up when I skipped a couple of weeks’ worth of pills, and I was thinking that since I wasn’t seeing H because he was in Australia again for a couple of promo tours, it was fine.
But that night in Sydney…
He jumped down from his seat and started to pace, his hands in his hair, and I watched him. While I did, I kept on eating the ice cream, spoonful after spoonful. He stopped pacing just as I finished the pint, looking up at me, his eyes bright.
“It’s fine. We’re fine,” he said, his breathing steady. “We still can’t get married without my parents’ consent, but I’m turning 21 in a couple of months, so we can do that by then. If your estimate is right, then you’d be about three months along, and I don’t think you’ll be showing by then. And then we can tell everybody. And—”
I stood up, rushing to hug him, calming him down. “Hun, shhh. Nobody’s going to get married. We’re not going to jump into that,” I whispered, and I felt his protest. He held me around the shoulders and fixed me a serious look.
“K, we’re going to have a family, do you realize that?”
“Of course, I do!” I said, appalled. “And I want it, H. Badly. But not this way. It’s too early for you. Peak of your career and—”
He cursed. “I don’t care about that, K. I care about you, and the baby—our baby—in your womb—”
“Look at the bigger picture—”
He shook my shoulders, hard, and then said, his voice rising, “It’s here, K. You’re already pregnant. And we can’t do anything about it other than accept it. And we have to think of ways as to move forward. Because it’s here. We’re going to have a baby.”
It could have been the hormones, or the fact that I think I really just fucked up H’s career, but I just started to cry—no, bawl—at that moment. I was panicking, that instinct of wanting to run kicking in again, but I decided to ignore it.
I couldn’t run anymore, not at this point in my life.
I am going to be a mother.
H picked me up, hugging me tightly, and I sobbed into his shoulders. “Everybody’s… gonna… hate me,” I said in between sobs.
He kissed me, on the lips, on the temple, on the forehead. “Not everybody’s gonna be happy about this, but they need to understand. I want this, K. I love you and I want this. And we are going to make it work.”
“Why are you taking it so easily?” I said, hiccupping the words out because I was still sobbing so hard. I was frustrated that this 20-year-old is actually handling this way better than I do. He laughed, wiping my tears dry. “I asked you to marry me last year, K. Don’t you think I was already prepared for this when I asked you that?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “You’re just saying that.”
He pressed his lips against mine, quick but still meaningful. “Oh no, luv. I know you are the one.”
I chucked him at the top of his head, ruffling his hair. He gave me an encouraging smile. “We can do this,” he promised, and I wanted to believe him.
I really do.