A few hours later Thea drags herself out of the flat and heads for her classes; you get dressed and go to yours. You get another text from John, and you’re so buggered that you honestly don’t know what to answer. In the lab after lectures, you’re staring at the black screen of your turned off laptop.
A smart girl would do the following. Book an appointment at the uni clinic in two days, go, and let them take her blood, and know her answer. Meanwhile, that said smart girl would make her decision regarding what to do with… the situation. As you have undeniably established by now, you are not a very smart girl.
You send John a text and ask him if you can meet after your work. He graciously invites you over. You check the clock on the wall around seven hundred times, turn off the equipment, and take a bus to his flat.
You have twenty minutes to think of what you’re going to say. Instead you start thinking about everything that is wrong with your relationship with Dr John Thorington. You’re bloody shaking, and fidget with your earphones, your iPod predictably off.
Everything in your current relationship is uncomfortable. His bloody posh flat, going out with him, due to the age difference and his choice of restaurants. On the other hand, you can’t just go to your usual pub. You hate dressing up for those dinners, but can’t really make yourself eat a single piece in his giant living room. It’s like Louvre, you are pretty sure Monet on the wall is real. As well as Kandinski above his gigantic bed. You obviously can’t bring him to your dorm hall in uni. You probably don’t show it, but sometimes you feel that spending a night in a hotel with him would be still better than the crippling discomfort you feel in his poncy building. You feel even his concierge is questioning his choice in a girlfriend.
Fuck, even calling yourself this makes you squirm on your seat. He once called you his mistress, but you are not even that. You’re still waiting for him to change his mind and kick you out. And then you remember why you’re going to his flat now and think that the kicking out time has arrived.
You wring your hands and bite you lip. You hardly slept the last two nights, you’re wearing old denim and an oversized sweater down to you knee. You don’t give a fuck. You’re so bloody tired of buying new lingerie, planning your outfits, looking decent in a posh French place but not too overdressed the next day when you’re going to lectures from his bloody flat! You never have breakfast with him there, you probably wouldn’t be able to shove a single piece down your throat in that palace!
You step out of the bus and freeze in front of his building. Breathe, Wren, you need to breathe. You close your eyes and do your usual mental exercise. In the past eight weeks there’s only one thing that makes it all worth. Because, though everything is so fucking wonky in these relationships, the man himself is not.
You keep your eyes tightly shut and imagine his face. His blue eyes are honest, kind, tender, and he says, “I love you, Wrennie. I am in love with you”.
He says it whenever he can. When he sees you, when he says goodbye, when you grab a biscuit from his plate, when you orgasm straddling him. Every time it is determined, candid, not a pretense, not a joke, not an obligation. Every time it is a promise, it is an almost oath, and it makes everything so worth it. Everything is wrong in these relationships, except John. John is just right.
And then you think of an almost positive pregnancy test in your rubbish, and the memory of his face blurs. What will his face be like when you tell him? You have seen him cold and cruel, hateful, despising, intolerant. You have history with his bad side. And you don’t like it.
You take a long breath and come up to the entrance door. Ted, the concierge opens the door for you.
“Miss Leary.” He gives you a polite nod.
There’s a bit of concern on his face. You look like shite. Pale, purple shadows under your eyes, hair in a messy knot, old sweater, trainers. You don’t give a fuck. Repeat after me, Wren. You don’t give a fuck.
You push a button on the lift and feel nausea rising. You’re always sick when stressed. And you are very, very stressed right now. The door opens at his floor, and you knock on his door. Show time, Wren.
He opens the door, a glass of red wine in his hand, barefoot, the smell of lasagna hitting your nose. He’s smiling, his mane is a ponytail, and you feel you might vomit right there. He steps ahead and wraps his free arm around your waist. He kisses you, and spins, scooping you, pressing you into his body, transporting you inside. That’s one of his favourite tricks; apparently you weigh nothing. He kicks the door blindly to close it and proceeds kissing you. It’s been five days, and he obviously missed you.
You feel tears running down your face, and he lets you go, his face confused. Those who know you well are aware of that filter between your brain and mouth. The one that you are sadly missing.
“I am late.”
He looks at the Bornholm clock by the wall.
“You are actually perfectly on time; we said nine.” He looks you over and finally notices the ‘spinster with food poisoning’ look. “Wren, what is wrong?”
You gulp and feel you have enough strength for one more sentence. After that you will either throw up on his marble floor in the hall, or start bawling.
“I am four days late.”
He’s frozen in front of you, the glass is keeling, and a few drops of the wine fall on the floor.
“Fuck.” He straightens it up and puts on a table by the door. Then he looks at you, and his face is unreadable.
And then he steps towards you and pulls you into him.
“It’s alright, Wrennie, it’s alright…”
He presses you really hard, and you start shaking uncontrollably. Then wild sobs start, and he picks you up, and carries you into his living room. You’re in full scale hysterics, crying loudly and clutching to his shirt. He is making soft shushing noises, sits on his sofa, and envelops you in his arms. He’s stroking your hair, his button-up wet from your tears, your weeping getting louder and louder.
“It’s alright, Wrennie, it’s alright, I’ll take care of you, just breathe through it…”
It seems you’ve been crying for a few hours, but it’s probably been ten minutes, and you finally have nothing left in you. No energy, no sound, no water. He lets you go for a second, and you whimper pathetically.
“It’s alright, sweet, just a second…” He stretches his arm and picks up the posh Afghan quilt you always hated and were afraid to touch. It’s white and probably costs more than all your clothes put together. He wraps you both in it, and you are in cocoon of his warmth and the smell of his skin.
He is still rubbing your back and murmuring comforting nonsense in your ear. You start nodding off, but he seats your straighter and looks into your eyes.
“What are you going to do, Wren?” His face is serious and, to be honest, sad.
You croak, voice raspy from crying, “What?”
“If you are pregnant, what do you want to do with the baby?”