“We can talk about it for ages, still,” he said. “For weeks, probably, right? Until you have to make a decision?”
She wasn’t sure how long you could wait before getting an abortion, but she guessed she was only five weeks along, so there was time, probably. Although time sounded suffocating, same as the choices. “I’ve got a while, I guess… You’d really raise a kid on your own, if I decided I wasn’t ready?”
“If the choice was that or adoption, yeah. I would.”
“That’d be so hard.”
“It would. But Heather managed it.”
“I can’t imagine what…” She trailed off, lost all over again. What on earth would the kid think of her if she walked away, left it all in Flynn’s hands? To imagine saddling a child with the pain and resentment she felt toward her own mother opened up a pit in her stomach, raw and aching. She put her hand to the spot then quickly moved it away, remembering what was going on in there.
Would leaving it in his hands really be so bad, if the alternative was subjecting it to an unfit mother? A depressive, thoroughly not-ready mother? She couldn’t even seem to get her professional life in order. How the fuck was she qualified to raise a child?
“You’d be okay if I decided I wasn’t ready, period?” she asked.
“Completely.”
But could he be? If he knew already he’d be willing to take the responsibility on by himself, did that leave room for ambivalence? Did it leave room in his heart to keep loving a woman who might choose to end the pregnancy? Was it even okay, she wondered, to be so completely clueless about what she wanted to do? Both choices made her sick to her stomach.
“I wish I felt as certain as you seem to,” she whispered.
He laughed faintly. “Honey, I’m as lost as you.”
“You promise?”
She felt him nodding, his chin brushing her temple. “I’ve felt more lost, though,” he said. “Like after Robbie died, and after my dad walked out. I might be sure of what I’d do if you decided to have it, but my certainty ends there. Trust me.”
“Okay.” She wanted to believe that was true, but maybe he was only saying it so she wouldn’t feel pressured.
“There’s no way we’re gonna feel any more sure about what to do before bedtime,” he said.
“No, definitely not.”
“What should we do, then? Movie?”
“Maybe.” She wouldn’t take in a second of it and she doubted Flynn would either, but it sounded like a comforting farce. She left his lap to cross the room and open her bag, pulled out her computer. He didn’t own a TV, so they watched things in bed, the laptop propped on a milk crate between their feet. Half the time they just wound up messing around, but for some reason they never sat on the couch.
“I brought cheesecake back from work,” she said. “You want any?”
“Nah. Maybe for breakfast.”
Probably wise. Her stomach was a merry-go-round.
One with a single tiny rider. Jesus Christ.
“What movie?” she asked, voice half-breaking.
“You pick. No superheroes.” He headed for the bathroom. He’d no doubt find and study the pee-wand still sitting on the sink.
Laurel grabbed the milk crate and set up their makeshift entertainment center, sitting cross-legged before the screen. She scrolled and scrolled, finding little of interest. In truth, in no universe was there any movie half as engrossing as the unexpected drama currently unfolding in her middle.
In the end she settled on some generic action movie, cueing it up, waiting for Flynn. She left the bed, intending to get herself a glass of wine, then promptly sat down, realizing her drinking days were done until such time as she knew what her choice was going to be. It triggered fresh panic, to think she had to get through the immediate future without the aid of alcohol. And the fact that that panicked her panicked her further.
How the fuck can I have a baby? I’m not even sure if I have a drinking problem or not.
Plus there was her depression. Did that make postpartum depression a greater likelihood? She didn’t even need to wonder if having a depressed parent could hurt a kid—that was the story of her life. Plus the kid could inherit those same struggles, or Flynn’s anxiety, or her mom’s shit, or all of the above.
Flynn finally reappeared. He’d taken so long she wondered if he too had gotten caught up re-re-re-reading the test’s instructions and staring at the faint blue line.
“What kept you?” she asked, mustering a teasing smile.
“Just starin’ at a plus sign until my eyes crossed.”
“I guessed right.”
“What’re we watching?”
“We’re going to pretend to watch some movie about a hit man. But I imagine we’ll both be thoroughly stuck in our own heads.”
He nodded, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out some pajama bottoms and a clean thermal. Laurel watched him change, admiring his body with a reverent strain of appreciation. She was lost in biology just now, awed by Flynn in a way that had nothing and everything to do with sex.