Page 81 of (Not) The One
Something few peopleknow about me is that, as a small child, I had a stammer. At first, it was attributed by doctors to a development thing. Apparently, these are quite common due to the rapid way speech and language develop at those early stages, and more common still in boys.The male of the species. Are we always so slow on the uptake?
But the issue persisted beyond the age these things are apparently considered normal, and help was sought from a speech therapist, I believe. It transpired that my stammer was linked to anxiety, perhaps in a child who wasn’t told but somehow knew anyway that his mother had cancer. By the time I entered puberty, I’d lost both the stammer and my mother.
But I digress as a modicum of those fearful feelings return when one word stutters out of my mouth.
‘P-pregnant?’
My gaze drops to the scarred tabletop, then lifts to a ceiling decorated with, of all things, antiquated gardening equipment. A glance at the walls shows they’re covered in the same kind of abstract detritus, and I notice the bar is stocked with a decent selection of gins. Because I find I can look everywhere, but I cannot look at Miranda. Until the wavering tone of her voice pulls my attention back to her.
‘Look, I am sorry to tell you here, and like this.’ She blows out a breath, soft wisps of hair around her face disrupted in the motion. ‘It wouldn’t have been my first choice of venue—or time. And I’m going to murder Heather.’ On her feet now, she drapes a light jacket over her arm before she slings a blue purse over her shoulder, seemingly suffering from the same attention problems. ‘And just so you know, I haven’t been to see the doctor yet. I’ve just done a home test.’
I wonder abstractly how effective these tests might be as I swallow over the large ball of actual physical panic wedged in my throat. The news is a headfuck. A shock. But my current panic relates not to her news, which is possibly a panic for another time, but to the thing I fear most; the almost paralysing dread of being unable to communicate effectively as one word struggles for freedom, hitting the air in a breathless burst.
‘When.’
‘When what?’ Her brow furrows as I swallow again, reaching out blindly for the glass and swallowing the contents. The whisky’s fiery burn seems to loosen the knot of muscled tension there.Thank fuck.
‘When did you do the test?’
‘This afternoon. After you left.’ There’s a challenge but no accusation. Maybe at this point, I should apologise for leaving her wet and pulsing and draped over her boss’ desk. Except I won’t. I don’t want to. How could I regret a moment so beautiful in its execution? In its result?It seems pointless to explain the point of my actions as a manipulation borne of my desire to see her again.
What I couldn’t have imagined is how it had happened so quickly or under such circumstances.
So, here we are, together again.
Perhaps if I’d stuck to fingering, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
I banish the unwelcome thought.
She’s pregnant, and I’m about to be a father.
Or am I getting ahead of myself?
‘How are you feeling?’ I’m aware this sounds like an asinine enquiry, but it does come from a place of genuinely wanting to know where her mind is. What her plans are. Even if I don’t know what my own reactions look like or what my own thoughts are right now.
‘Numb. Confused. Scared.’ Her knuckles are white where she grips the back of the chair, and she releases a shaky breath. ‘But maybe we should just leave this conversation until we know for sure. You know, before we start to panic.’
‘I’m not panicking.’ How my response sounds so cool, so ordinary and so like my regular self, I’ve no idea when the circumstances are anything but ordinary. But now that I’ve mastered my voice, I am calm.
‘Well, I have your card, so I’ll call you. Let you know.’
‘Sit down.’
Despite it becoming clear maintaining her dignified air is taking its toll, she raises her chin. ‘I’m not sure there’s any point.’
‘We have things to discuss. The test aside, I assume because you’re telling me that you’re sure—’ As I speak, her face works through a range of emotions, settling on a strange kind of determination as she cuts me off.
‘I’m sure about nothing except for the fact I haven’t had sex with anyone but you in months and months. You fucked me well, and now I’m well fucked, you might say.’
‘Except I wouldn’t. Put it in those terms, at least.’
So much to process but somehow, I know I can take her at her word as my eyes dip unbidden to her midriff before drifting to her face again. Is that dread? Worry glistening in her gaze?
‘Well, let me know what terms you would use when you can because I have to leave now.’
‘Miranda, sit down.’ Through the miasma of my own confusion, I reach for her hand. While she may allow me to take it, she doesn’t sit. ‘We should talk.’ How effective are pregnancy tests though, really? Are they more or less reliable than fucking condoms? I’ve used rubbers for twenty years and never had a failure, never been one of the one percent. The one percenter group I’ve never envisaged joining. ‘Talk to me, please.’
Her expression suddenly crumples then, and the weight of the world,herworld, buckles inwards, making her shoulders slump and her expression give.
