I am crushed.
I walked out of the bathroom beaming, eager to share our good news, and the reception was dread-filled silence. I don’t understand why. I know Mateo told me a few months ago he wanted to wait a while for us to have a baby, but if he still felt that way he should’ve kept wearing condoms even after he and Meg split up.
I can feel the need to cry coming on, so I decide it’s best to desert dinner. “I think I’m going to go upstairs.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mateo says, taking my hand and leading the way.
I don’t want him to come with me, but I don’t say that.
I glance back over my shoulder and Meg gives me an attempt at a smile, but then she turns and heads back to the dining room.
This is the worst. This is not what I expected at all. Maybe he just didn’t want to share his excitement in front of Meg. Maybe he just didn’t want to make her feel bad. He wasn’t supposed to get me pregnant, and even though that’s obviously not the case now that they aren’t together and he’s marrying me, if he did get me pregnant in the Bahamas, that’s definitely evidence he wasn’t respecting Meg’s wishes. I can’t believe he cares so much about getting caught in that, though. So much that he would rob me of this mutual joy. That doesn’t make any sense. That’s so not like him.
Mateo closes the door behind us and follows me over to the bed. I take a seat on the edge, but I don’t look at him. I wish he hadn’t come with me. I need to cry, and I can’t do that with him here. I’ll have to feign wanting a shower so I can get some privacy to cry in peace—assuming he doesn’t follow me like he usually does when he can tell I’m upset.
I may have to text Adrian and ask him to take me somewhere. It’s the only way I can escape Mateo in these rare instances where he hurts my feelings so badly that I need to physically get away from him. I rarely want to get away from him, but when I do, that’s always when he won’t let me out of his sight. Luckily it doesn’t come up often, but Mateo does not give you space when you need it most.
Maybe I won’t need the space, though. Maybe he’ll be excited with me now. Maybe he’ll fix it and I won’t feel like crying anymore.
It’s not looking good though. He just remains standing there in front of me. I feel like I’m being chastised, and I have no idea for what. He doesn’t look mad, exactly, but he’s not sitting on the bed with me, he’s not touching me. He’s in boss mode, not lover mode.
So I just sit here, hands folded in my lap, and wait for him to explain why the fuck he doesn’t want to have a baby with me—or leave so I can cry about it.
“I’ll make an appointment immediately so we can find out how far along you are,” he finally says.
I nod without much enthusiasm. “Is that why you’re mad? The timing?”
“I’m not mad, Mia.”
He says this a little softer, so I finally look up at him. Tears burn behind my eyes again but I attempt a faint smile. “Well, you’re not happy.”
It’s so perplexing, because he doesn’t appear to know how to respond. Mateo never dances around what he wants to say like this, and I have absolutely no idea how to respond to it. This is the most confused I’ve ever been in his presence—ever.
Finally he responds with, “Maybe we should wait until after the appointment to discuss this.”
“To discuss what?” I ask, a little desperately. “You should be happy. We’re having a baby! You’ve had babies with stupid Beth and Meg, and now it’s my turn and you don’t care anymore? What the hell is that?”
“I knew they were mine,” he states, his voice rising slightly with an edge of impatience.
My heart stalls. It doesn’t just stall, it flings itself against my chest cavity, then slides down into my stomach. For a split second, betrayal slices through me. How could he say that?
Then the speed of life drops down to slow-motion as it starts to sink in. Horror blossoms within me as I process his words. It doesn’t make sense at first. I understand the words, but I can’t fit them together with meaning. I’m floating, lost, confused, rejecting the only possible implication until I can’t anymore.
I’m pregnant. But the baby might not be Mateo’s.
Vince may be the father.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head in denial.
It can’t be. It can’t.
Suddenly light-headed, I lie back on the bed, bracing my head between my hands to keep it from exploding. My chest fills up with anxiety, traces of fear taking root in my heart.