His child is growing inside me. Perhaps a dream come true five or more years down the road, but for now, the most confounding decision of her life.
They went through the usual ritual, Laurel hitting play and the two of them propping pillows up against the shelves behind the bed, sitting side by side, her leaning into him, chilly feet finding each other beneath the covers. Usually she had a glass or bottle of something in her hand at times like this, and there it was again—that guilty pang to register how much she wanted a drink right now.
Her hand sought his atop the covers, and she took comfort in the size of it, the familiarity. She didn’t trust her intuition. It had become a close friend in the past half a year, but right now it felt like a broken Magic 8-Ball. Like she might ask it what to do, but all she’d get back was blue liquid pooling in her lap and the rattle of plastic inside plastic. Or perhaps simply, Reply hazy. Try again. And again, and again, every answer the same, identically unhelpful.
For half an hour they each pretended to give the movie their full attention, Laurel lost in what-ifs and certain Flynn was equally preoccupied.
She squeezed his hand before letting it go. “Need the bathroom.”
“Pause it.”
“Nah, I’m fine.” She had no clue who any of the characters were or what they were up to, and wasn’t interested in finding out.
When she returned, Flynn had tossed the covers aside, sitting with his legs outstretched in a V—a familiar invitation. She climbed onto the bed and got settled before him, grateful for his warm chest at her back, his strong arms circling her middle. She pulled the blanket back over them and laid her hands atop his in her lap.
“You taking any of this in?” he asked.
“Not a single pixel. What are you thinking about?”
“Blue lines. You?”
“Mainly marveling how I can have absolutely no idea what the right decision is supposed to be.”
“You’ve got time,” he reminded her.
We, she wanted to correct him. We’ve got time. It felt scary and lonely having the choice shoved wholly into her lap. She wanted to resent him for it, but she knew where his insistence was coming from. It was always the woman’s choice, ultimately. Though fuck, that was a shitload of responsibility.
“It’d be easier if you were an asshole,” she said.
“Oh?”
“It’s obvious what decision would be best for me—this is the exact worst time possible for me to have a child. But if I could also say it’d be shitty for the kid, it’d make it all so easy. But I’m pretty sure you’d be a great father, so really, deciding to end it sounds completely selfish.”
“Not completely. It’s not easy growing up with a single parent. Or with two parents, if one of them isn’t up for it. I think you’d do a great job, don’t get me wrong, but I also think you’d do a better job if you were ready.”
“Mm.”
“You count, Laurel. What’s best for you matters. I know your own mom didn’t do much to drive that home, but it’s true.”
She felt emotion rush and rise at that, something breaking free in her chest, making her eyes sting. “How would you feel if I ended it? Disappointed or relieved?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’ll find out, and maybe I won’t.”
She sighed, exasperated and exhausted.
“I won’t tell you what you should do,” he said sternly. “I’ll do everything I can to help you figure it out—we can talk about it ’til we’re hoarse. But I dunno what I want any more than you do. I only know what I’d do if you decided to keep it, which is stick around.”
She frowned, stumbling over a question she’d never thought to ask him in all their months together. “Do you want children? Like, theoretically. Not even with me, specifically, just in general. Do you want kids?”
“I think so.”
She craned her neck to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Probably. I’m kinda on the fence, always have been. Some days kids seem great, like they’d make life have a bigger purpose or whatever. Other days it sounds like hell and I can’t figure out why anyone would want any. I think if I didn’t have any, I’d always wonder if I was missing out, always wonder if I woulda been a decent dad. But I don’t think I’d regret it, necessarily. What about you? You want kids?”
“I think maybe. I mean, my gut says I would like one, in ten years or something, but then you do the math and ten years from now my eggs’ll be all dried up and dusty.”
She felt him laugh, a silent shimmy of his chest at her back.
“But imagining having a baby five years from now?” she said. “I know I’d be thirty-five and that’s already kinda pushing it, but that sounds so soon. Fuck, I dunno. Maybe I’d feel different if I was using my degree. Or was married. Or basically did any of this shit in the right order.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and the answer will be so obvious…”
“Maybe.”
“But probably not.”
He gave her a hug and the sweet, clumsy weight of his chin came to rest on the crown of her head.
“Tell me what to do,” she murmured.
“Nope.”
“I feel so alone in this.”
“Your body, your choice.”