He scowls at me. “So which is it?”
I shake my head and immediately regret it. “Could I have some Tylenol? And a cup of coffee, and some water, and, I don’t know, maybe one of those knives for hara-kiri?”
He disappears, and when he returns, I’m lying down again, and he has everything but the knife. Go figure. He places it all on the bedside table by my head. “Are we going to talk about this?”
“I am so hungover and you’re not making any sense, so no. I’ll pass on the chat.”
“I’m not making any sense?” He props his hands on his hips. “You told me you were pregnant.”
“I didn’t. I told you I was having a baby. There’s a difference.”
“How exactly?”
“I don’t know. Something with verb tense, and conditions, and . . . don’t make me talk grammar this early in the morning.”
“It’s ten o’clock, Ava.”
I grab the Tylenol from the bedside table and use the cold bottle of water to swallow it down, grimacing when it hits my stomach. “I want to have a baby, Jake. And last night, I told you about it because . . .” The only thing that could make this conversation more awkward is if he were holding the cup of jizz in his hand while we discussed the possibility of him handing it over to me. I take a breath and spit it out. “I need some . . . help.”
“With what?”
“Why are you making this so hard?” I throw a pillow at his chest. “Just go away. I’m tired and I feel like death, and last night was totally a mistake.”
“I’m not trying to be thick-skulled here. I’m just a little slow to understand what you mean.” He takes a deep breath and pastes on his most patient smile. “You want a baby. You’re not pregnant.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I say softly. The words never hurt less. Not at the beginning of my marriage, when my husband would pull me into his arms and promise we’d have better luck next time. Not in the middle, when the pink minus sign on those stupid sticks slowly formed a wall between us. And not even at the end of my marriage, when I was heartbroken by his betrayal and everyone told me I should be grateful we didn’t have kids involved. They always hurt the same. Not pregnant.
Jake exhales, and his shoulders sag as he turns away from me. “Fuck. That’s good news.”
Jake
“It’s terrible news,” Ava says, but the words come out in an uncharacteristic screech. “If I don’t start a family now, do you realize my chances of conceiving go down every year after thirty? Do you understand how hard it’s going to be for me to get pregnant?”
When I turn back around, she’s crawling back down the bed and pulling the covers over her head. “Can we talk about this?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her voice muffled.
I cross the room and pull the blanket off her head. I know she’s hungover, but I can’t just walk away from this conversation. I barely slept last night, freaking torn up about her pregnancy and all its implications, and now she’s telling me she’s not pregnant. She just wants to be, and she wants my help.
What the fuck does that mean?
“Talk.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“I want a family, and I’m sick of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, so I’m going to do it on my own.”
“And you want my help?” Hell. I’m trying really hard not to jump to conclusions here. Emphasis on hard.
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean . . .” She takes a deep breath. “It sounded like a good idea last night.”
Doing baby-making things with Ava sounds like a good idea to me every minute of every hour of every damn day, but I’m quite aware that doing that with me doesn’t cross her mind nearly as often. Okay, or ever. “Last night, when you asked for my help, you meant you wanted me to get you pregnant?”
She scowls. “Are you being dense on purpose?”
“I promise I’m not.” But if ever there was a conversation where I’m going to need things spelled out for me, this is it. “I just want to make sure I understand.”
She presses her palm to her forehead. “I just wanted you to jack off in a cup and hand it to me. Not the weird way.”
Right. Because that wouldn’t be weird. “I’m sorry.” I hold up a finger. “Give me a sec.” I walk around the room, scanning the ceiling and the corners. I check behind the lamp and crack the closet to look in there.