And some part of me is a bit afraid of Nate’s reaction.
Will he be upset with me for keeping this from him? Will he ever be able to understand my reasons for doing so? Will he welcome the baby as I have? Will he laugh, will he cry, will he stare numbly at me?
I have no idea.
So often over the last six weeks, I’ve imagined what he will do, what he will say, how he will react. I’ve pictured him ecstatic, walking with me through every day of my pregnancy, and then holding our child in his arms on the day of delivery.
Maybe that was all wishful thinking, but knowing Nate like I do, I think that’s how it will be.
But still, I won’t be able to rest easy—I haven’t been able to rest easy—until I know. Until he knows.
Now that the time is at hand, I’m nearly sick with anticipation. I go straight into the house, search him out in his office, take him by the hand, and lead him to our bedroom.
Of course, Nate’s smiling when I turn to face him, but not for the reason I was thinking he’d be smiling. This is the smile that says he’s ready for sex. This is a lazy, sensual curl of his lips that’s reflected in the smoke filling his eyes. This says he has no idea what’s coming.
“Whatever this is about, you know I’m always your willing sex slave. Do your worst!” he teases, running his hands around my waist.
I laugh nervously, coiling my fingers around his muscular forearms. “Nate,” I begin. I go no further when he goes completely still. His smile fades, and his features cloud with concern. He stills instantly, whether from my action or my tone.
“What is it?” His voice drips with trepidation. “What’s wrong?”
I cast a jittery grin up at him, one meant to be reassuring. “Nothing. Just…just come and sit with me.”
I back away from him, running my hand down his arm to his fingers, which I braid with my own. Tugging, I lead him to the settee that rests in front of the fireplace in our bedroom. I sit and urge him to do the same. He does so stiffly, apprehension evident in his every rigid muscle.
I realize the mistake I made in how I’ve approached this. The last time I took him aside for a “serious talk,” I had to tell him I’m dying.
Purposely, I smile broadly so he can see it’s nothing bad.
As I move my eyes over his handsome face, the face I’ve found even more appealing as the years have worn on, I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. My smile isn’t working. He’s trying hard to keep his anxiety from me. I love him all the more for that, but I feel horrifically guilty for causing it in the first place.
“I’m not going to mince words. All I ask is that you let me explain after I tell you this. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I draw breath into my lungs, feeling supported by the air in my thorax, hoping it’s enough to hold me upright if my strength fails me. “I’m pregnant.”
In any other situation, the cascade of emotions that flit across Nate’s features would’ve been comical. Only they aren’t funny at the moment.
I simply watch them chase each other, one by one, over the topography of his face as he processes the bomb.
All I can do is wait.
When I’m certain he’s passed through shock and is in clear understanding of what I said, I calmly continue.
“After the diagnosis, I wasn’t thinking about birth control. I mean, we’ve had so much trouble getting pregnant, I’m not sure I’d have thought it necessary even if I had happened to consider it. But…I guess I should’ve.
“At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on. Those mornings when I was sick in Rome, I thought it was the progression of the cancer, not…not…this.” Without thought, I reach for my abdomen. Nate’s eyes fall to my hand, and he stares for a few seconds. I see his expression change, and that’s when I know. I know for sure, for a fact, how my husband is going to react.
I feel his love swell like a tidal wave. I feel it stir the air as the whitecap whooshes toward me.
Before I can even continue, Nate is off the couch, kneeling before me with his hands pressed to my belly. He gazes at it as though if he stares hard enough, he might be able to see through my skin and muscle and tissue to the miniscule life growing within.
“Sweet God,” he whispers, dropping his forehead onto my lap. I thread the fingers of one hand into his hair and cover my mouth with the other. I don’t want my crying to steal this moment from him, so I remain absolutely still and silent until he raises his head and brings his misty eyes back to mine.
“Don’t move,” I tell him preemptively. I want to record this moment.
For me.
For Nate.
For our child.
Reaching into my pocket, I drag out my phone. I flick my finger over the small camera icon on the locked screen and then switch the perspective until it shows my own face. I’ve done it dozens of times over the last six weeks, unable to keep myself from speaking to our child, from recording my exuberance for him or her to watch one day.
I hit the video button.