7. Stephie
STEPHIE
Four weeks later
I’m pregnant. I stare at the two little lines on the test, and sink to perch on the edge of the bath. I’m not able to hold myself up.
The urge is there to buy five more pregnancy tests, and be sure, but honestly, I don’t need that. I’ve been sick nearly every morning for the last two weeks. I thought I had a weird stomach bug.
I guess it sort of is. A very surprising little life, in my tummy.
It will be Dane’s baby, eventually. There’s no choice. I’m having this child. It wasn’t planned, but now it’s a tiny spark of hope, I’m clinging onto it. I want to be a mother.
Would Dane like to be a father?
The question sours in my mouth. I haven’t seen him for a month, not since we were stranded and made some eyebrow-raising decisions in the cabin.
This is my baby, and I’m suddenly so protective of it, even though it’s the explanation for me feeling terrible every morning and will cause a lot of trouble.
I have to tell Dane.
I breathe in shakily. That’s easier said than done.
As soon as he’s in the country, and in the office, I’ll get a meeting with him face to face. I’ll tell him everything. About the night in Scotland, about the pregnancy, and that I’m keeping it. He can afford to help out, so surely it won’t be an issue?
Well. Aside from the fact he might not want a child.
I have to tell him in person. Informing someone via email that you’re not going to let them get away with pretending they can’t remember having sex with you and that you’re pregnant, sounds like a good way to be fired.
I don’t want that. I’ve got money saved because Dane pays generously, but I’d rather not be job hunting with a newborn baby and no reference.
Dane wouldn’t have suddenly disappeared for a whole month unless he knew we’d had sex. Shoving it in his face with a baby isn’t likely to go well.
But I’ll tell him. There’s no other option.