Colin swallows again as he continues to stare at the little Nikes. I can’t tell if he’s in shock, or simply too overwhelmed to comprehend that we’re actually pregnant. “But that means that they’ll go on a baby,” he says after some time.
I reach up with my thumb and brush a tear that’s trickling down his cheek. “Yes. They’ll fit the baby.”
“Our baby,” he whispers as if he’s trying out the words for the first time. “Our baby,” he repeats a little more loudly with awe in his voice.
He turns and stares at me. “Our baby.” His wet eyes glisten, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a beautiful little smile. “You mean that you’re pregnant with our baby.”
I can’t resist, because the air is thick with way too much emotion. “Well, I never said that the baby is yours, but yes. I’m pregnant,” I reply trying to hide my smile.
He pulls me onto his lap, and tickles my sides while I scream. Pancho leaps to his feet and barks incessantly at Colin. His tickle-torture only lasts for a few seconds before he captures my mouth in a soul-searing kiss. It starts out as a sweet kiss and turns into a hunger for each other that is palpable.
His mouth leaves my lips, and he begins trailing delicate kisses along my jaw, over to my right ear, and down my neck following my pulse. When he reaches the sweet spot between my neck and my shoulder, he gives it a nip. A small cry escapes my lips, which further fuels him on. He stops just long enough to unbutton my aqua sleeveless blouse. As my top falls open, exposing my swollen breasts, he lets out a gasp. “What the fuck is in your bra?”
“Oh.” My cheeks blush. “Those are pictures of the baby.”
He reaches into my lingerie and extracts the small, folded sheet of pictures and holds it up, letting them unfold accordion-style. “What? Were these some sort of kinky surprise?” he asks with a smirk.
I begin defending myself, explaining how he came home too soon, and I panicked but he stops my rambling with a wet kiss. “I don’t care. Tell me about these.”
He repositions himself with his legs spread, and I scoot in between, pressing my back against his chest, nuzzling into his pale chest hair. His chin rests on my shoulder as I walk him through each image. He’s entranced with every shot. Asking questions. Pointing at details.
The last picture is the one with our due date. When he sees the date, there’s a brief pause, and then his body stiffens. “How far along are you?”
“Seven weeks, she thinks.” I lean back, hoping to read his eyes.
Before I can say anything, he shakes his head. “But you had a period. You drank in Cabo like a damn fish. You got so drunk that you’ve been hung over for days.” His chin resting on my shoulder tenses becoming painful as it digs into my collarbone.
I attempt to scoot away, but he grasps my hips securing me against him. “I did have a period, and I did drink. Doctor Starr says that we have a very healthy baby with a great heartbeat. There’s no need to worry. And as for my long hangover, it’s called morning sickness, baby. We’ve had a preview of what the next seven weeks will likely be for me.”
“But you got shitfaced, Charlie.” He leaves the statement dangling out there. There’s an accusatory undertone that bothers me more than I care to admit.
Finally, he releases my hips so I’m able to move out of his comforting triangle that now feels hostile, and turn around to look him in the eyes.
“I did get drunk,” I say, in the same voice that I use to pacify my mother when she’s lecturing me about something or other. “If I had an inkling that I was pregnant, I would not have let anything unhealthy touch my lips. What’s done is done, Colin. I can’t reverse time.” I silently add, But I sure wish that I could.
I pause and collect my thoughts to make sure that I say the next part exactly as I mean it. “Honey, I can’t spend the next seven months living with a neurotic crazy-man. You can’t control this pregnancy. The only thing that I need for you to do to help me through this is be supportive of my needs. Hey! I’ve already decided to give up coffee.” I drop my chin, raising my eyebrow. He knows how much I like my morning coffee. “That’s got to mean something, right?”
“If that means that I want pickles and ice cream at four a.m., I need for you to rush to the store and buy it. I need for you to go to my appointments, and watch this baby grow. What I don’t need is for you to micromanage my life. I might crave greasy, slimy pizza, and you just have to keep your mouth shut and let me eat it.” He grimaces at my food comments, but I watch his face as he processes what I’m saying.