of the bathtub between them.
Their faces were grim, she knew, because Randy and Beth had done double takes as they passed through the kitchen, the Walgreens bag stuffed down in Jo’s purse. “What’s the matter?” Beth had asked, and Jo had felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes because the thing she didn’t understand was this cool silence coming off Tam. They weren’t teenagers anymore; a plus sign on one of those sticks wouldn’t hasten the urgency of some forbidden affair. They were married, and even if she knew the timing was terrible, this was what they’d both hoped for in the future…wasn’t it? Little black-haired, blue-eyed bouncing pieces of the two of them? But Tam was, in a startling and clear way that didn’t need saying, angry with her, and that’s what was the matter.
The timer went off on his phone with a series of electronic beeps and he reached to silence it. “Check ‘em,” was all he said, and the tone of his voice set her hands to quivering as she got to her feet and stepped toward the counter.
Let them be negative , she prayed in a timid, ashamed internal voice. She didn’t want a husband who hated her, even if it meant giving this up.
But six positive test sticks stared up at her and all the breath left her lungs in a shattered rush. She glanced over her shoulder at Tam and didn’t want to tell him. He looked nothing like her friend, the man who told her she was incredible and who woke her up in the middle of the night with his hand sliding up her shirt. No, the man who stared at her now, his blue eyes flat, was the raging drunk who’d thrown himself at a rival in Ireland a year ago, the cold, unfeeling heartbreaker who’d left her standing up against her dorm building in the rain.
“You are, aren’t you?” he asked and it wasn’t really a question.
Jo swallowed around the ever expanding lump in her throat. “They’re all positive.”
“Great.” Goose bumps erupted down her arms as he got to his feet and moved past her to the door.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be , she thought, chest aching with the urge – the need – to cry. She wanted his chest against her face and his arms around her when the tidal wave came, but that was looking less and less like an option.
She gave him a head start, put all the test sticks back in their boxes, trashed them, and wadded up a fistful of tissues to cover them in the wastebasket. Then she took a deep, useless breath and followed him down the hall to her – their – room. He was shirtless and barefoot already and was in the process of unbuckling his belt.
“Tam.”
He didn’t react and she stepped in and closed the door softly behind her, sealing them in, her back against the only exit.
“Tam, please talk to me.”
He stepped out of his jeans and tossed them over the back of her desk chair, the belt buckle clanging against the wood. In his boxers, he sat on the edge of the bed and dug under the pillow for his white wifebeater where she’d stowed it and her pajamas that morning. “What do you want me to say?” he asked like the last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with her.
“I dunno.” A nervous, half-hysterical laugh bubbled out of her without warning. “Maybe you’d like to tell me you don’t hate my fucking guts for getting knocked up?”
The glare he shot her was awful. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Having a child is dramatic,” she fired back. She didn’t want to argue, but the defenses were coming up. She wasn’t going to let herself be painted a villain.
Their faces were grim, she knew, because Randy and Beth had done double takes as they passed through the kitchen, the Walgreens bag stuffed down in Jo’s purse. “What’s the matter?” Beth had asked, and Jo had felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes because the thing she didn’t understand was this cool silence coming off Tam. They weren’t teenagers anymore; a plus sign on one of those sticks wouldn’t hasten the urgency of some forbidden affair. They were married, and even if she knew the timing was terrible, this was what they’d both hoped for in the future…wasn’t it? Little black-haired, blue-eyed bouncing pieces of the two of them? But Tam was, in a startling and clear way that didn’t need saying, angry with her, and that’s what was the matter.
The timer went off on his phone with a series of electronic beeps and he reached to silence it. “Check ‘em,” was all he said, and the tone of his voice set her hands to quivering as she got to her feet and stepped toward the counter.
Let them be negative , she prayed in a timid, ashamed internal voice. She didn’t want a husband who hated her, even if it meant giving this up.
But six positive test sticks stared up at her and all the breath left her lungs in a shattered rush. She glanced over her shoulder at Tam and didn’t want to tell him. He looked nothing like her friend, the man who told her she was incredible and who woke her up in the middle of the night with his hand sliding up her shirt. No, the man who stared at her now, his blue eyes flat, was the raging drunk who’d thrown himself at a rival in Ireland a year ago, the cold, unfeeling heartbreaker who’d left her standing up against her dorm building in the rain.
“You are, aren’t you?” he asked and it wasn’t really a question.
Jo swallowed around the ever expanding lump in her throat. “They’re all positive.”
“Great.” Goose bumps erupted down her arms as he got to his feet and moved past her to the door.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be , she thought, chest aching with the urge – the need – to cry. She wanted his chest against her face and his arms around her when the tidal wave came, but that was looking less and less like an option.
She gave him a head start, put all the test sticks back in their boxes, trashed them, and wadded up a fistful of tissues to cover them in the wastebasket. Then she took a deep, useless breath and followed him down the hall to her – their – room. He was shirtless and barefoot already and was in the process of unbuckling his belt.
“Tam.”
He didn’t react and she stepped in and closed the door softly behind her, sealing them in, her back against the only exit.
“Tam, please talk to me.”
He stepped out of his jeans and tossed them over the back of her desk chair, the belt buckle clanging against the wood. In his boxers, he sat on the edge of the bed and dug under the pillow for his white wifebeater where she’d stowed it and her pajamas that morning. “What do you want me to say?” he asked like the last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with her.
“I dunno.” A nervous, half-hysterical laugh bubbled out of her without warning. “Maybe you’d like to tell me you don’t hate my fucking guts for getting knocked up?”
The glare he shot her was awful. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Having a child is dramatic,” she fired back. She didn’t want to argue, but the defenses were coming up. She wasn’t going to let herself be painted a villain.
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