Chapter 18 Jonah
I wake to sunlight streaming through my childhood curtains and the pleasant ache of well-used muscles.
My calves burn when I stretch, my thighs protest when I shift.
I’m not used to that kind of exercise. It’s the evidence of hours spent dancing, trying to keep up with Alex's easy rhythm on the nightclub floor.
God, the dancing.
I finally understand why he loves it. The way the music gets into your bloodstream, how your body finds the beat before your mind catches up.
The freedom of it. No one watching to judge, no one caring if you're doing it right, just movement and sound and the heat of bodies in motion.
For those hours, I wasn't Jonah Wells from the Faith Heritage Fellowship.
I wasn't the omega who'd left his alpha. I was just... me.
And Alex. The way he'd moved, completely uninhibited, then caught my hand to spin me through the crowd. His eyes bright with pure joy, not the glazed look I'd expected from alcohol. He'd kept his promise. He was stone cold sober, just like he said.
And we'd talked properly at Diana's. Real conversation, not the arguing that we usually fell into.
We'd carefully avoided the subject of children, like dancers avoiding a hole in the floor. Both of us knew it was there, both of us moved around it, neither willing to risk the fall.
But that’s okay. It was a start.
My stomach churns slightly—the same low-grade nausea that's been plaguing me for days. I’ve got three pregnancy tests in the bottom of my dresser. The day after tomorrow is the earliest I can check.
The nausea might be nothing. It might be too early for that too. It might just be exhaustion--my immune system finally catching up with me after running on empty for so long.
I push the thought away and check the time on my alarm clock: 11:47 AM.
I never sleep this late. But then, I didn't get home until almost three, slipping in through the back door like a teenager breaking curfew. My parents' bedroom door had been closed, their soft snores audible. They hadn't waited up, trusting me to make good choices.
The smell of coffee draws me downstairs, where I find Mom at the stove making brunch—her way of ensuring all her scattered children might drop by. Dad's reading the paper at the table, glasses perched on his nose.
"There he is," Mom says, turning with a smile that dims slightly when she sees me. "Late night?"
"Sorry. I should have called."
"You're an adult," Dad says, though his tone suggests he's reminding himself as much as me. "How was dinner with Ms. Norris?"
I pour myself coffee, buying time. "It was... good. Really good, actually. Alex and I actually talked. Like, really talked."
"About?" Mom's trying to sound casual as she flips pancakes.
"Our families. Our childhoods. What we want from life." I sit at the table, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "It was the first time we've had a real conversation without fighting."
"That's wonderful, sweetheart." Mom brings over a plate stacked with pancakes. "Maybe there's still hope."
“Maybe.”
I catch Mom and Dad exchanging a glance and a smile. I put my head down and eat my pancakes. They are perfect.
Things might actually work out, but I need to think about how best to do that. Mom and Dad have been right about one thing. I can’t reconcile with my husband while I’m still here but I also think that if I just go back to the estate, we’re going to pick up the same bad habits.
I need to be in contact with him. I’ve never had my own phone. I don’t even have his phone number. For that matter, I don’t have my own email address either. I’ve only ever used our family address. I have a card somewhere with Diana’s phone number and email but that’s it.
It feels strange to ask someone to ask for money, but I’m getting used to doing things outside of my comfort zone.
I’m going to ask Diana if she can arrange for me to get a phone set up for me with my own number and email address.
I’m sure she’ll say yes. The money is a drop in the ocean to someone like her.
After I’ve finished helping Mom wash up, I settle down at the old family computer in the corner of the kitchen. This is nothing like Alex’s sleek laptop. It’s been in the family fifteen years with a bulky tube monitor that takes a minute to warm up.
Diana’s response is almost instantaneous.
The phone arrives almost as fast, coming by courier that afternoon in a sleek black box.
With it, someone has printed out instructions for me on how to turn it on and get into the accounts.
A handwritten note paperclipped on top reads: “My number, Alex’s and Ricky’s are all pre-programmed in. Let me know if you need anything—D”
Mom sits by my side as I turn it on and work out how to navigate the controls.
“How much did this cost?” she asks.
“I have no idea.” It looks expensive. It’s slim and glossy, and the colors are super vivid.
The lock screen has a wedding photo of me and Alex.
Diana – or one of her assistants – have personalized it to me exactly.
I notice that along with the numbers mentioned, they’ve also added one to the office at the estate, my parents’ landline and those for each of my siblings.
I open up the messaging app and add Alex’s number.
Hello! This is Jonah. Diana kindly arranged a phone for me. Thank you for such a lovely time last night.
I don’t know how to end it.
Love Jonah?
Kind Regards, Jonah?
What’s the etiquette? In the end, I just add my name and press send. There. Contact has been initiated.
Two days later, he still hasn’t replied. Diana has.
Sorry, Jonah. I’ve not heard from him either. Mrs. Atkins says he’s not at the estate. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.
I don’t know whether to be worried or angry. Amicable indeed. He can’t even reply to a single message.
My parents haven’t asked if the marriage was consummated. I can only imagine the horror they’d feel at the thought of even asking, and I certainly haven’t volunteered the information. Pastor David knows, of course, thanks to the drunken crudity that Alex put him through at the summerhouse.
So when it’s time to take my test, I don’t tell anyone. I just sneak into the bathroom upstairs and close the door.
I need to know.
My hands shake as I tear open the packaging. I follow the steps mechanically. Cap the test. Set it on the counter. I haven’t worked out how to set the timer on the phone yet. I imagine Alex would find that hilarious but I’ve got Mom’s egg timer from downstairs and that will have to do.
I pee on one stick, then another one just in case. Then I wait.
I sink to the floor, back against the tub, knees drawn to my chest.
My stomach churns. What am I hoping for? A negative result that lets me keep living in this limbo? Or positive?
Two minutes.
I think about the naked panic Alex's face when I mentioned pregnancy that morning in the kitchen.
One minute.
Maybe he's right to not want children. What do either of us know about being parents? My own childhood was good but sheltered, controlled. His was lonely, marked by loss. What kind of parents would we make?
Forty-five seconds.
My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat, still giving no outward sign if anything is happening inside. If I'm pregnant, it's been growing for three weeks already.
Fifteen seconds.
I close my eyes, trying to pray, but no words come. What do you pray for when you don't know what you want?
The timer buzzes, sharp in the quiet bathroom.
I stay on the floor for another moment, prolonging the before. Once I look, there's no going back.
Finally, I pull myself up, grip the counter edge, look down at the test, then the second one.
Two lines on both. Clear as day.
Pregnant.
I stare at it until my vision blurs, then sit on the bathroom floor, back against the tub.
I'm pregnant with Alexander Colborne's child.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up. Three weeks ago I was a virgin. Now I'm pregnant by a man who doesn't want children, sitting on my parents' bathroom floor.
The doorknob rattles. "Jonah? You okay in there?" Mom's voice, concerned.
"I'm fine," I manage. "Just... give me a minute."
Her footsteps retreat, but she’s hovering. I wrap the test in toilet paper, bury it deep in the trash under tissues and an empty shampoo bottle. Evidence hidden, as if that changes anything.
Then I rethink it. Why am I hiding this? I did nothing wrong. I submitted—sort of—to my alpha. I am married. I am still married. Why should I hide my pregnancy?
Mom's right there, as I knew she would be. Her eyes go immediately to the test in my hand, and I watch understanding dawn across her face.
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathes, pulling me into her arms. The test is trapped between us, those two lines pressed against her church dress. "Oh my goodness. A baby?"
"Yeah," I whisper into her shoulder. "A baby."
She pulls back, cups my face in her hands, and I see tears in her eyes. "Does Alex know?"
"Not yet."
I head to my room, pull out my phone—the one Alex insisted I get, despite Pastor David calling it an "unnecessary temptation." My fingers shake as I type:
I'm pregnant. I hesitate then add. I’m not expecting anything. Thought you should know. Jonah.
Simple. Direct. No room for misunderstanding.
I hit send and wait for a response. Surely, if anything will make him reply then this will.
But I get nothing.