Page 57 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“Okay then,” I say softly, ignoring the clenching in my chest. “As soon as we find Max, I’ll go south. Afterward, I’ll see a gynecologist and get answers for the future, and we’ll make decisions.”
He raises his gaze just enough to meet mine, his head still down, hands laced around the back of his head like he’s about to get sick himself.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
I force my expression to stay neutral. “I made a mistake. I missed the pills. We didn’t decide we wanted to try for a baby, and therefore, the ball is in your court. Whatever you want is fine with me.”
He runs his hands through his hair again and groans. “Can you not do that, Casey? Not now. Please.”
I’m taken aback. “Do what? I’m trying to be fair.”
“Fuck fair. This is not the time to be rational and tell me that you’ll do whatever I want as if it doesn’t make a difference to you. What do you want?”
I tense. It’s an old argument, one we haven’t had in a while. Maybe it’s my upbringing—emotionally distant and demanding parents and a sister with autism. Maybe it’s because I shot a man and spent over ten years of my life waiting to be punished for it. I didn’t come to Rockton because I wanted to. I didn’t want anything. I didn’t allow myself to want anything. Dalton has spent years propelling me into a place where I can want things and admit to it.
“This isn’t the same,” I say.
“Maybe not, but we’re talking about your body and your health. Even if it’s a normal pregnancy, it’s still a risk, and you’re still the one puking in the morning while I’m enjoying my breakfast.”
“That’s only the first nine months. After that, you’d be the one cleaning up the puke while I have my breakfast, because I am a lousy nurse. Just ask my sister.”
His lips twitch, just a little. Then he comes to where I’m sitting, picks me up, and carries me to the couch so he can sit beside me, my hands in his.
“All right,” he says. “I know you’re afraid to say anything one way or the other, for fear that I’ll feel pressured to agree. When we took our vows, we made it very clear that we are two separate people joined in partnership. That means I don’t need to share your opinion. We can both give ours and work out the differences.”
“Then why won’t you go first?”
He mock-glares at me.
I lean against his shoulder. “Neither of us wants to go first for the same reason we struggled with the baby question three years ago. What if I say I’m ready and you’re not. Or vice versa. This isn’t like disagreeing over whether to let Storm on the bed. It’s huge.”
“Agreed, but again, this is your body. Your health. Therefore, your opinion takes priority.”
“I don’t want my opinion to take—”
He puts his hand to my mouth. Now I’m glaring at him.
“Yes, I’m being rude,” he says. “I don’t care. I am rude. Ask anyone. Tell me your preference, Casey.” He meets my gaze. “Please.”
My eyes fill, and I swipe at them. “Great. This again.”
“Crying isn’t weakness.”
“No, apparently, it’s hormones.” I take a deep breath and try to look at him, but I can’t, as my voice drops to a whisper. “I want to keep it. If I can, I want to keep it.”
“And if you can’t? If a doctor says you are at risk—any significant risk to your health…” He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face to his. “This is the part I’m struggling with, Casey. This is the part where I need to be perfectly clear and perfectly selfish. Before I can answer the question of whether I want this, I need to know what happens if there’s a risk. I need you to say you’ll put yourself first. That for once in your damned life, you’ll put yourself first.”
I nod.
“Can’t hear you.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, okay? If there is a more than average risk to me, I will put myself first.”
“Good.” He shifts and meets my gaze. “This might not be what we planned, but I am ready. I do want it.”
It takes a moment for me to assimilate that. “So we both want to continue the pregnancy, then? If that’s medically sound?”
“Yes.”
