Chapter Twenty-one
Holland brings her long, dark ponytail over her shoulder, playing with the ends of her hair as we sit with Tom and Kat on my couch.
Her crestfallen face hasn’t had a flicker of a smile on it in the past few hours, even when she asked me to make her laugh, tell her funny stories, do anything just to make her not feel so heartbroken.
I couldn’t, though. I didn’t have an ounce of humor in me.
So I got her one of my cats and silently prayed for her.
“I don’t want to go home.” She drops her hand from her ponytail to Tom’s fluffy back.
“I don’t want to face him.”
“What happened?” I watch her shake her head.
“Holland…”
“This pregnancy…” She gulps away another round of tears threatening in her eyes.
“We’ve both just become such different people. We’re mostly fighting, and I feel so sick and horrible, I just need someone to understand and all he does is pester and hover, and I need a break.”
“How long of a break?” I ask.
They’ve been together over ten years.
Even though I’ve seen them fight, and I’ve heard Holland complain about things losing their spark, I still believed they loved each other.
She lifts one shoulder, her mouth open like she’s at a loss for words.
I quickly lean forward, setting a hand on hers, her fingers unusually warm for her.
Holland’s always complaining about being cold.
“Why is he being so controlling?” I ask.
“Do you know how long it took to get pregnant?” She brings her eyes up to mine, and I shake my head.
“Four years.”
“What?”
“We’ve been trying for four years.”
My brow furrows, my brain trying to process.
Holland and I tell each other everything.
How did I not know about this?
“I thought you guys wanted to wait ten years to have kids.”
“I changed my mind.” She sighs and starts stroking Tom’s fur again.
“When I told Warren I was thinking about starting earlier than planned, he was so happy. His eyes… seriously, Maya, I’ve never seen them sparkle like they did. Almost like he was just waiting for me to say it.”
I shift uncomfortably on the couch, gaze drifting down to her baby bump.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She snorts, the first slip of amusement—however hollow—she’s had since she walked through the door.
“Yes, Miss Anti-Baby is going to be fully supportive of me changing my mind and becoming ‘one of them.’ I mean, I got enough grief over getting married so young.”
The joke has a jolting sting to it that I don’t expect, and it shocks straight into my heart and sends bolts of guilt through my stomach.
Have I really been so anti-family that even my best friend feels like she can’t talk to me about what she wants?
I guess I never saw it that way, always thinking about it defensively.
I grew up with the idea that family, love, babies, and marriage was the ideal to live up to.
That was the life that meant you’d be fulfilled and happy.
So when it didn’t happen for me, I built a life that I could be fulfilled and happy with.
Any time someone asked “Are you seeing anyone?” “You think there’s a ring coming?” “How many kids do you want?” and when I’d answer honestly, saying that I don’t want kids, I don’t want a husband, I’d get the followups.
“Why not?” “Aren’t you lonely?” “Kids are so different when they’re your own.” I grew tired of it.
Every time someone brought up family or marriage I instinctively thought it was a way to get me to “see the light.” Maybe I was a bit too hasty to accuse and a bit too vocal about convincing everyone how happy I was that I didn’t realize just how rude and disparaging I was to them for their choices.
I scoot across the couch, knocking Kat off my lap and wrapping my arms around my best friend again.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Please don’t feel like you can’t come to me about anything. I’ll be happy if you want a hundred babies.”
Her hands come up around my waist and squeeze back.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I can move past this,” she says, her voice wet.
“I feel like the man I fell in love with has been ripped away from me. How can I start a family with a stranger?”
I don’t have an answer for her, but Warren could be completely oblivious to how he’s making Holland feel.
Men usually are .
“You have to talk to your husband,” I tell her, pulling back and looking into her eyes.
“That man loves you.”
“What if he doesn’t?” And the look in her eyes tells me she actually thinks that’s a possibility.
“It’s getting bad, Maya. I’m not even sure if I…” Her hands circle her tummy, and she blows out a breath.
“I’d hate to bring a child into a broken relationship.”
I want to tell her how her relationship isn’t broken.
Maybe it’s a little bruised, but not irreparable.
But whatever brought her here is too fresh in her mind that there is no way she can hear it.
So instead, I pat her leg and offer her a can of frosting.
It’s not until she laughs and excuses herself to the bathroom that I remember the pregnancy test upstairs.