Happily Ever Ninja(100)

“Too bad. I’m not a fucking mind reader. You can’t expect me to know without some direction. At this point I’ll even accept Morse code.”

“Fine.” I folded my arms over my chest and lifted my chin stubbornly. “I need you to help with the laundry. Fold it. And put it away, neatly, where it belongs.”

He opened his mouth as though he were going to give me a sarcastic retort, but then stopped himself. His eyes narrowed on me, examining my upturned face, and he blinked three times in rapid succession. “Wait a minute. This isn’t about the laundry, or the dishes, or the vacuuming.”

“Yes, it is. And it’s also about you leaving your socks all over the place, and your inability to find things or put them back where they belong, and—”

“It is, but it isn’t. Something has happened. Something has changed.”

I pressed my lips together and swallowed with effort, meeting his searching gaze. “I’ve changed. You leaving me in Enugu while you risked your life—without even discussing it with me, as though my contributions and abilities were meaningless—changed me.”

Greg gathered a deep breath and his voice was raw and ragged with blunt honesty. “I don’t know how to be sorry for that. I honestly don’t. But you must know, your contributions and abilities, they’re not meaningless to me. Rather, I hope one day you’ll understand my fear of losing you—or Jack, or Grace—my desire to keep you all safe surpasses even my respect for your feelings. And I don’t know how to change that about myself. I don’t know if I can, or that I want to.”

I stared at him for a beat, seeing this desire in him to keep his family safe at all costs as both wonderful and counterproductive. Any decision founded solely in fear, with no regard for evidence or common sense, is ultimately destructive. We needed to find a balance.

Before I could voice these thoughts, he asked, “Does it matter to you what I want?”

I thought about his question for exactly two seconds, then responded with honesty fueled by fury, my throat constricting with each word spoken. “Yes. It matters to me what you want, but I honestly don’t think I can do anything about it anymore. I am at the end of my rope. So, no. No, it doesn’t matter what you want. And it doesn’t matter what I want. Because, guess what? I’m pregnant!”

I paired the words “I’m pregnant” with frenetic jazz hands, a strangled and hysterical laugh, and two fat tears running down my cheeks. I sniffled, wiping the moisture away with shaking fingers.

Greg’s features, so inflexible and determined just moments ago, grew almost comically confused—as though I’d just announced I was a twelve-toed honey badger with a penchant for rose-scented drawer satchels. I continued to glare at him, watching the play of emotions wreak havoc behind his eyes as his mouth worked but no sound arrived.

At last he said, “I don’t understand.” I was fairly certain he wasn’t speaking to me, but rather was addressing the universe.

“When’s the last time you had your sperm count checked, Greg?”

He gaped.

I huffed another humorless laugh; I was shouting now, and I didn’t care one bit. “Of course. Of course you have autocratic sperm. Of course you have mandate-making semen. Because that’s who you are. You show up here, after being gone for months, and you make a giant mess of everything. You have no respect for my time, for what I do, for how hard I work. I may not be working sixteen-hour shifts on an oil rig, saving the world. I may be doing the “most mundane of tasks” as you call it. But guess what? I work twenty-four-hour shifts raising our children, managing the accounts, the household, cooking, cleaning, and loving you even though it’s unbearably lonely. Not just because you’re gone, but because when we’re together, you don’t see me as a full partner.”

“When did you find out?” Apparently, he was still stuck on the baby reveal. I couldn’t blame him. I was also still in shock.

“Yesterday on the phone with Liz, confirmed just this morning at Dr. Freeman’s office. And, by the way, thank you for drugging me with Ketamine in Nigeria. He now thinks I’m a recreational drug user.”

“You’re . . . welcome?” He seemed to have difficulty moving beyond the pregnancy news, so I gave him a moment to reflect, watched his handsome face as he watched me with an unfocused gaze, plainly prioritizing his cornucopia of questions.

Eventually, with wide and worried eyes, he settled on, “The baby is okay? Did I . . . did I—”

“Yes. The baby appears to be fine. The doctor said there shouldn’t be any adverse effects from the Ketamine, though he’s planning to run some additional tests.” I split my attention between him and my shawarma, suddenly no longer hungry for it.