Which tells me that whatever Anders thinks this conversation is going to be about, he hasn’t guessed pregnancy. He wouldn’t be offering me an alcoholic drink if he had. Which makes me realize that he could be freaking out hardcore that I’m about to break up with him or something.
Oh god.
I have to tell him the truth now, before he can conjure up even more awful scenarios. Although for all I know, maybe me being pregnant is a worse scenario than me breaking things off with him.
The tears are rolling down my cheeks in an endless cascade now, and I just can’t stop them, no matter how hard I snuffle. Anders shoves some tissues into my hands and I try to wipe off the snot and mascara running everywhere.
“I did something stupid,” I finally tell him, when I can get past the knot in my throat. His eyes go wide and he takes a big swig of whiskey.
“Okayyyyy…” he says, drawing out the word as he stares at me.
I’m not making this better by making him wait, even I know this. It’s just so damn scary to pull the trigger. I finally draw in a deep breath and blurt out, “AndersI’mpregnantandI’mreallysorryfornottakingmybirthcontrolpillsmoreregularly!”
Whoosh
At least all the words are out now.
He just stares at me for a moment and I stare at him and we’re having a stare-off and I’m not really sure if he’s ever going to talk to me again, ever, he just might stand up and walk out the door and I don’t know what to do or say and finally, oh fucking finally, his whole face breaks out into a smile.
“You’re pregnant?!” he breathes, and his smile grows larger. “You’re pregnant?!” He puts his glass down and scoops me up into his arms, hugging me tightly. “YOU’RE PREGNANT!” he crows, spinning me around and around in his arms. We collapse down onto the couch and he’s hugging me tightly and I can hardly breathe but I don’t care. I don’t care at all. Anders is happy. Oh thank fuck, Anders is happy.
“Lord, Christine, don’t terrify me like that again,” he says, and starts laughing, the laughter that comes when you’re just relieved that whatever awful thing that was supposed to happen didn’t and you’re spared. “I thought you were breaking up with me. Or that you’d fucked the bell boy. Or that you wanted to move to a pig farm in Ohio.”
“A pig farm…” I sputter to a stop, unable to even repeat his words.
“I don’t know! You were damn serious there for a minute, and I thought it was something terrible.”
“But we didn’t plan to have a baby,” I protest, the tears threatening to bubble up in me again. He can’t be this nice. He can’t take it this well. “I screwed up by not being as good about my pills as I should’ve been.”
“Oh darlin’, there’s nothing I want more in the world than to have a baby with you,” Anders says reassuringly. “Nothing.” He pauses for just a moment and then says, “Hold on, why were you upset about the Aston Martin?”
He pulls back and studies my face as if the answer is going to be written there. And for all I know, it might be. I’m a shitastic poker player.
“Well, I can’t drive an Aston Martin as a mom!” I protest. “I have to drive a minivan. And wear sweats all the time. And have…have pretzels in my hair!” I wave a hand around my head to indicate my hair, which I have visions of containing pretzels and milk and bits of banana as I try to feed a screaming child.
“Christine, Christine, Christine,” Anders says, capturing both of my hands and holding them in his. He’s trying to smile in a warm way, consoling, but there’s a hint of laughter in there. I know I sound a little – okay, maybe a lot – irrational but I can’t help myself. I hadn’t expected this, at least not until I missed my last period. And even then, I’d held off actually peeing on a stick because that’d just make it more real.
“Christine, we’re going to be fine. Yes, having a baby will change things, but I’m pretty sure they allow you to leave the house in something other than sweats as a mom. And, you don’t have to own a minivan as a mother. It’s not like you get arrested if you don’t own one.”
“But I can’t put a baby into an Aston Martin,” I protest weakly, letting the warmth and strength of his body comfort me as I relax into his arms.
“No, but you can own more than one vehicle.”
Oh.
Right.
The logical part of my brain knew that, truly it did. It’s just that the logical part of my brain got lost somewhere in the last thirty minutes.
“Jaguar puts out an SUV – an F-Pace. I’m pretty sure that unless you and I pop out ten kids, the Jaguar will be just fine.”
“Ten kids?!” I howl. I’d just started to wrap my head around one!
“I was kidding!” he quickly assures me.
Right.
I knew that.