I step out of the bathroom pale and nauseous and face Tommy where he sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees, an alien expression of seriousness clinging to his handsome face.
He stands and moves to take me in his arms.
“It’s going to be all right, sweets.”
But I squeeze my eyes and shudder, turning away from him.
“No, it’s not.”
This is going to change everything. It already has for me.
I sit at the edge of the far end of the bed. And my grandmother’s voice joins the chorus of stupidity ringing in my ears.
Choices must be made. Sacrifices. And for women and wives and mothers—the sacrifices will always fall on us.
“If it’s positive, would you get an abortion?”
My head whips up. Because Tommy Sullivan is a Catholic boy—a crooked-haloed angel—through and through. But there’s no judgement or coaxing in his tone—he’s not trying to sway me in either direction—he genuinely just wants to know where my head is at.
“Would you want me to?”
“No,” Tommy says—quick and definite.
Then he swallows harshly, and looks at some spot beyond my shoulder.
“But if that’s what you wanted, I would understand. You won’t lose me over it.”
My answer is already set. I know it through and through, down to the marrow of my bones.
“I wouldn’t have an abortion, Tommy.”
And it’s the ramifications of that truth that has my throat narrowing and my heart trying to crash out of my chest.
Tension releases from his shoulders and a long, relieved breath slips from his lips.
“Good. That’s good.”
And he gazes at me gently—almost happy now.
I’m not.
However this turns out—whatever the little stick of chaos proclaims—there is no happy outcome for me.
Sixty seconds later, Tommy disappears into the bathroom. When he emerges, he sits beside me and takes my hand—his expression sweet and his words soft.
“It’s negative. You’re not pregnant, Abby.”
And there it is.
The crush of relief . . . and the vise of disappointment. A sadness over what could have been and a strange, out-of-body confusion at the planted seeds of new wants.
New dreams.
It’s an altering that sends my thoughts tumbling.
Because once upon a time I had a plan. A straight line and clear path to get to where I wanted my life to go. Perhaps I wasn’t precisely happy, but I was satisfied.
Then Tommy Sullivan came along . . . and he changed all my plans.
And now he’s doing it again. I could see that life with him. I can taste it—babies and a home, the scent of dinner cooking in the air and the sound of laughter and little feet.
Is that who I am now? Is that what I want?
And if so, when?
How?
“Could you . . . could you go for a bit, Tommy? I need to be alone for a little while.”
Confusion pulls at the corners of his mouth. He leans over to comfort me because that’s who he is—that’s what he does.
But his touch and his scent and the sheer presence of him muddles everything.
It always has.
I dart up from the bed and step back, not meeting his eyes.
I sense it when he rubs a hand down his face and when he speaks, there’s pain in his voice. I hate that I’ve put it there.
“Don’t do this, Abby. I’m begging you, don’t do this.”
“And I’m begging you to leave. Please. I just . . . I just need to think.”
I hate this. The short breaths and swirling panic and sickly spin of not knowing what I want or how I feel.
“To think about fucking what? It’s negative! It’s fine—we’re fine.”
It’s the first time he hasn’t been careful with me.
Because he doesn’t understand.
Every space Tommy occupies he controls—he runs the room. He’s confident, sure—in himself and his wants. Always. He makes decisions in a snap and it’s done. Nothing controls him, nothing sends him spiraling, nothing makes him falter.
But I don’t work that way. I never have.
I need time and distance and quiet—just a little.
“Come on, Abby. Just talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I push out the first thought that’s front and center in my mind.
“I don’t want to end up like Ellie.”
Or maybe that’s exactly what I want. Why I’m so flustered. It’s strange—the confliction. This tearing of desires that stem from the same beginning—like the end of a branch split in two.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tommy bites out.
He’s insulted now—defensive—and I don’t blame him at all.
“Do you know that she’d planned to go to graduate school? To become a psychologist? And then she met Logan and all that got put aside. And now she’s home, having babies, one after the other.”
“You have no clue what you’re talking about. Ellie’s mum was murdered when she was young—family is everything to her. She’s staying at home with the boys because it’s what she wants—what she chose! And if the day ever comes that she wants something different, Logan will break his back bending over to give her that.”