“Not even for me?” His jaw is set. I can see him warring with how he is going to respond to that question. “Jesus, Zeth. If not for me, will you do it for your unborn baby?”
The words hit him hard, like a slap to the face. He blinks, jerking, his back ramrod straight. He holds his breath, his lips pressed tightly together. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What have I done? I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I should have told him as soon as I found out myself, I know that, but I needed the time to think. And now I just let the news burst out of me like that? It feels like time is standing still.
I can’t gauge the look on his face. Is he happy? Is he angry? God, he just looks confused. He slowly rises to his feet, so that he’s towering over me. “You’re pregnant?” His voice is low and soft, like he’s scared to form the shape of the words with his mouth, let alone allow them past his lips.
I nod.
He’s not happy. I cover my face with my hands. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. I love this man so much. He is the blood that keeps my heart pumping. The oxygen that fills my lungs. The balm that soothes my soul. If he hates me for this, if he resents me, it will shatter me into pieces.
“How?” He says the word quietly, the sound of it weighty and resonant in the still air.
I explain about the antibiotics. “I’m sorry. I was sick. I should have remembered. I was so busy with work, though. When I started throwing up, I thought it was still the flu, and then…then I realized what had happened, and…”
“How long have you known?”
“Four days,” I whisper. Zeth doesn’t move. I wish he would. I wish he would pick something up. Throw something. I wish he would speak. Shout. Laugh. Cry. Anything. I need to know what he’s thinking. Either way, good or bad, I just want to know, so we can deal with it. He just stands there, staring, though. The muscles in his arms keep twitching, the tattoos marking his skin shifting as he fights to figure out how to stop his body from trembling.
“Zeth—”
He turns around quickly, picks up his leather jacket from the coat rack, and then he storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him. The house rings with the sound, echoing like a shotgun.
Oh shit. Fuck, shit, fuck.
I lean forward, bracing myself against my knees, trying to slow down the frantic racing of my heart. Now I really can’t breathe. I can’t even form a coherent thought.
He—he didn’t—he didn’t even say anything. How? How could he just leave without breathing one word to calm me, to make me feel better? How could he have stood there for all of those drawn out seconds and be able to hide his reaction so well? He’s angry. He’s angry and he hates me for this, I just know it. God, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t fucking—
The door swings open again, ripped open so violently that it’s a miracle it remains attached to its hinges. Zeth storms back into the house like a force of nature, a whirlwind, unstoppable, charged and snapping with energy. He throws his jacket onto the ground, coming to a stop three feet away from me.
“You’re pregnant,” he says, running his hands through his hair. It’s a statement this time, not a question. “You are pregnant. With a baby. With my baby.”
“Yes.” He’s not implying that I’ve been sleeping with someone else, and there’s a chance it’s not his. I can tell by the stunned look on his face that he’s just trying to get his head around the concept. I’ve had a couple of days to let this news settle in, after all, and it still has me reeling. It’s understandable that he’s so stunned.
“This…I wasn’t expecting this,” he says. “We never spoke about children, Sloane.”
“I know. It was a shock to me too, believe me.”
“How far along are you?”
“Not long. Only three weeks.”
He nods. Nods, and then starts pacing up and down. His fingers are still buried deep in his hair. “And…you…” He blows out a deep breath. Shakes his head. Growls under his breath. I’ve never seen him like this. He doesn’t know what to say. How to say it. I can already hear the words, though.
I put him out of his misery and voice them myself. “And I want to keep it?”
He freezes, eyes locking onto mine. The tips of his ears are bright red. “I know you’re not going to get rid of it, Sloane. I just want to know if…” He scowls, clenching his hands into fists. Frustrated isn’t the word for his emotional state right now. It’s something bigger, something more than that, but I just can’t seem to put a name to it. He sinks into the armchair opposite me, his head hanging, chin almost touching his chest. He looks defeated.