2. Ana
ANA
C ollege is supposed to be where you sow your wild oats, or at least that’s what my grandmother used to say. Back then, when I first laid eyes on Tristan at a pub on main street at the university, I thought he’d be a fun time.
And I thought that’s all it would ever be.
We burned hot together. The casual glances that held on a little too long, the small touches with the passing drinks as a football game played in the background that neither one of us seemed to care about although the rest of the bar roared with excitement or disappointment every other play.
He was tall, dark and handsome. I was wearing my tightest jeans and a flowy top that gave away a little too much cleavage. I thought the moment he leaned down to kiss me, his lips tasting of pale ale and all male, my hand gripping his bicep through a polo, that we’d have a wild night together. One to remember.
I didn’t expect him to call me the next day and tell me he was taking me out that weekend. He didn’t even ask me. He later told me, he was terrified I’d say no if he asked. So he took a risk.
That night I wore a red dress, red is supposed to give you more confidence. And a matching shade of red on my lips for lipstick courage. Complete with my best black heels and a little clutch.
That was the first night he told me I looked beautiful.
A week later was the first morning he made pancakes before I woke up and told me I wasn’t allowed to sneak out in the morning like I had been.
A week after that, he told me he had feelings. Seeing each other every few days, turned into every other, which turned into us spending fairly equal time, always together, at each other’s place.
A month went by before I told him I loved him and he told me he knew, before admitting he loved me too.
I remember it all. Every moment we had. First kiss, first night, first date, first everything.
Each one felt like I wasn’t worthy. It’s scary to fall in love.
He’s the one who said, “I love you for always first.”
In the kitchen, at our first apartment together, he brushed his nose against mine while we were making dinner together and he said it.
I believed him because it felt like it was meant to be. Like we were simply made for each other.
My phone vibrates on our bed and I barely hear it, the distant memories of our past still lingering, but I do. As I toss the red chiffon dress onto the bed, I don’t know why I was crying. I guess it’s the pregnancy hormones and the fact that I don’t know how I’m going to tell Tristan. We didn’t plan it and I don’t know how to tell him. But I have to.
How did we get like this? To the place where we have another first we’ve both wanted since we got married, but I have no idea how to tell him?
Taking the phone in my hand, I smile at his text: I’ll pick you up at seven.