Page 8 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
But what if…? What if I didn’t “accidentally” forget to take the pill? What if I’m ready for kids and I subconsciously sabotaged myself?
That’s ridiculous. I know it is. I would never take that choice from Dalton. We make every decision together, and this is the most important decision of all.
But what if, subconsciously …
No. The mind doesn’t work that way. The problem is that I’m not sure how I feel about the possibility I could be pregnant, and a tiny part of me whispers it might not be the worst thing ever.
That’s why I’m making up nonsense about subconscious sabotage. If part of me would be okay with this, that sets me spiraling into “Ack! What if I somehow forgot those pills on purpose!” as if maternal instinct and my fertility countdown clock conspired against me.
We had the chance for a baby once, when we found an infant in the forest and had to decide what we’d do if we couldn’t locate her parents. We’d concluded that we’d keep her. When we did find her parents, the pang I felt made me acknowledge it was time to consider “the baby” question. If we had been willing to keep her, did that mean we wanted to start a family? The answer was no. We were too early in our relationship, too “selfish” as we’d put it, wanting the other person all to ourselves for a little while longer.
That’s what this is. A possibility. If I feel that I might be okay with it, then we need to have that conversation again after I take the test and confirm I’m not pregnant.
Have the conversation. Decide on a timeline. Then get to a damn gynecologist for answers on the state of my reproductive organs.
When I come downstairs after checking in the bathroom, Dalton looks up from the couch, where he’s settled in with a novel to wait. He studies my face, and I try to school my features, but it’s too late.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
The word “nothing” pushes up, but I keep my mouth shut against it. He’ll know I’m lying, and we don’t do that. We don’t lie about how we’re feeling, and we don’t make excuses when we aren’t ready to talk about it. Oh, we’ve done both in the past, but we’ve realized that we need as much honesty as possible. Respect each other’s privacy and respect each other. That means I don’t require an excuse.
“Just something I’m working through,” I say. “I’ll talk about it when I’m ready.”
There. Simple honesty. He nods, and there’s no sign that he’s hurt. We need that space, and we need to give it to each other.
Someone pounds on our front door, and Dalton glares in that direction.
“Remind me why we didn’t build our place a mile from town?” he says.
“Because the folks in charge can’t be a mile from town?”
“Sure they can. They shouldn’t be, but they can be. That’s why we’re in charge. So we can make shitty choices that benefit no one except ourselves.”
I put out a hand. “Don’t get up. I’ll answer it.”
“Wasn’t getting up,” he says. “Because I wasn’t answering it.”
I shake my head. I understand his point, and I secretly agree. We did build our chalet outside town. There are woods between it and Haven’s Rock. A privacy buffer for a guy who really would rather live in the forest and for a couple who’d really rather live too far from town for anyone to come wandering by.
That strip of forest does help. Residents aren’t allowed into the woods, which they know includes crossing that strip. It’s just not safe, you see. If they need us, they can find one of the other staff and pass along a message.
Most of the staff also won’t traverse that strip for anything other than an emergency or a planned social visit. There are a few exceptions, and I have a pretty good idea who has breached the border this time. The one person who doesn’t see a border.
I open the door to a woman just under a decade older than me. Curly black hair clipped back. Skin a few shades darker than mine. Brown eyes flashing in annoyance, which if I’m feeling grumbly I’ll say is her usual expression. This is Yolanda, Émilie’s granddaughter.
Yolanda was the woman in charge of building Haven’s Rock—she runs her own construction company. The town is done except for a few small things that we’re working on ourselves. So why is she still here? Because she wants to be. She’s decided she’s staying, and there’s not much anyone can do about that.
When I first met Yolanda, I couldn’t wait to get her out of Haven’s Rock. The more I got to know her, the more I admired and respected her, and the more I thought we could even be friends. That hasn’t happened. No one gets close to Yolanda. She’s brilliant and driven and prickly as hell. I still admire her. Still respect her. And I still kinda can’t wait to get her out of Haven’s Rock … at least when she’s standing in my door, glaring like I short-sheeted her bed.
“Hello, Yolanda,” I say. “Come to walk us to town for the meeting?”
“Come to talk about the meeting. The one I missed.”
I frown.
“You, Eric, Will, and the shrinks,” she says. “Deciding what to do about this bear. I should have been there.”
I try not to sigh. At least not out loud. Yolanda has declared herself Émilie’s representative in Haven’s Rock, here to look after her grandmother’s interests and make sure we aren’t running a con game on an old woman. Except that’s entirely a self-appointed role. Émilie’s role is advisory—she’s made it clear that she’s available if we need help, in addition to finding residents, but otherwise, this is our town to do with as we like.
