I let out a frustrated protest and grab my water viciously. I’m going to lose my mind and probably be on Prozac by the time these babies arrive.
I’m so busy having a mental sulk, it takes me a few moments to register my parents’ stunned faces across the table.
Oh shit!
“Do it in style, Ava,” Jesse mutters, placing his menu on the table. I shoot incredulous eyes to him. Me?
“You’re pregnant?” Mum blurts out, the information overload obviously registering.
“Ava?” Dad presses when I remain focused on Jesse, who is remaining focused on the menu that he’s just laid down.
I take a deep breath of confidence and bite the bullet. “Surprise,” I whisper, like a feeble copout.
“But you’ve been married for five minutes!” Mum gasps. “Five minutes!”
I watch as my dad places a calming hand on her arm, but that isn’t going to stop her. I can feel a rant coming on, in which case, I also feel a Jesse-style trample coming on. I can’t imagine him taking a critical speech from my mother too well. She’s right, though. We have only been married for a few short weeks. Not quite five minutes, but it may as well be. I dare not tell her how far pregnant I am. She’ll work out the time frames fast enough and soon calculate just how soon after meeting this man I got myself knocked up. I remain quiet, as does Jesse, as does my father, but not my mother. Oh no, she’s only just getting started. I can tell by the flex of her fingers on her wine glass and the drawing of deep breaths.
And then I get really worried because her eyes widen and swing toward Jesse. “It was a shotgun wedding, wasn’t it? You married her because you had to!”
“Thanks!” I laugh, thinking how obscene it is for her to say such a thing.
“Elizabeth.” Jesse sits forward, all stern, his jaw ticking. I fear the worst. “You know better than that.” He sounds so calm, but I can detect the irritation in his tone, and I can hardly blame him. He’s insulted, and so am I.
Mum huffs a little, but Dad interjects before she can retaliate. “So you didn’t know at the wedding?”
“No,” I answer quickly, taking my glass with both hands to prevent my natural reflex from failing me.
“I see,” Dad says and sighs.
“I can’t believe it,” Mum whines. “A pregnant bride suggests only one thing.”
“Then don’t bloody tell anyone,” I snap, feeling immensely pissed off with my mum and her reaction. I can’t blame her. It is shocking, more so than she’ll ever know, but to suggest I was rushed down the aisle because of it? That just makes me fuming mad. I don’t know how Jesse must be feeling. His twitching, tense frame should be a clue, and when he takes my left hand and starts twirling my wedding ring, I know that my mum is about to be trampled.
He leans forward, and I close my eyes. “Elizabeth, I’m not an eighteen-year-old lad being forced to do the right thing after a quick fuck about with a girl.” He’s not quite snarling at my mother, but as I open my eyes to gauge exactly how much fierceness we’re dealing with, I immediately notice him fighting a curling lip. “I’m thirty-eight years old. Ava is my wife, and I’m not having her worked up or upset, so you can accept it and give us your blessing, or you can carry on like this and I’ll take my girl home now.” He’s still twirling my ring, and even though he has just firmly put my melodramatic mother in her place, and quite harshly, I could kiss him. And slap him, too. He doesn’t want me worked up? Coming from him, that’s bloody hilarious.
“Now, let’s all just calm down a little, shall we?” my dad says, all calm and softly, ever the mediator. Not only does he avoid affection, but he’s not all that keen on confrontation, either. I notice he gives my mother a sideways glance in warning, something rare from my father and only delivered to his wife when he thinks it’s absolutely necessary. It is definitely necessary right now.
“Ava,” Dad says, smiling at me across the table, “how do you feel about this?”
“Fine,” I answer quickly, feeling Jesse squeeze my hand. I need to find a replacement for fine. “Perfect. Couldn’t be happier.” I return my dad’s smile.
“Well, then. They’re married, financially stable,” he laughs, “and they’re bloody adults, Elizabeth. Get a grip. You’re going to be a granny.”
I’m feeling pretty mortified. After what has just transpired, you would think we were a pair of teenagers. I smile apologetically at Jesse, who shakes his head in complete exasperation.
“I will not be a granny!” Mum chokes out. “I’m forty-seven years old.” She fluffs her hair. “I could be a nana, though,” she muses thoughtfully.