Page 114 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
Ha. Where to start?
“Technically there’s nothing wrong with me, Dad, it’s just . . . I um . . .” I take a moment to try to gather my courage. When my courage remains cowering under the sofa, I close my eyes and go it alone. “I’m pregnant, Dad. I haven’t seen a doctor yet, but I just took a home pregnancy test and it’s positive.”
Furious silence crackles over the phone. My mother says gently, “Thomas.”
“It’s all right, Mom. I’m mad at me, too.”
“It’s his?”
My father refuses to even speak A.J.’s name. I didn’t tell them about Heavenly, or really any of the details of what happened that day. I only told them we’d broken up, but they’ve witnessed firsthand the state I’ve been in over the past few months, and dislike him intensely just for that.
Well, my mother dislikes him intensely. My father might actually be plotting A.J.’s death.
I listen to my father’s irregular breathing on the other end of the line, and bow my head in shame. “Yes, it’s his. Listen, I know this is . . . it isn’t ideal—”
“Does he know?” my father interrupts.
The thought of informing A.J. he’s going to be a father makes my stomach drop to somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. Talk about awkward conversations. It occurs to me with a blast of disgust that my child might grow up spending alternating weekends with a hooker named Heavenly.
But no. A.J. won’t want any part of this. Remembering the look on his face when he dismissed me so callously is a grim reminder of just how much he won’t want to be involved with anything that has to do with me.
“No. I just found out, right now.”
“And I assume since you’re informing us that abortion is out of the question?”
I’m shocked at the hardness in his voice. “I’m not getting an abortion!”
My mother says soothingly, “Of course you’re not, darling. No one is suggesting that.” Her voice gains an edge. “Are we, Thomas.”
That last bit is directed to my father. I picture them on opposite sides of their bedroom, glaring at one another.
My father starts barking instructions. “You’ll go to London. You’ll stay with your grandmother until it’s born. Dr. Mendelsohn will handle the prenatal care and you’ll have to deliver at home, but it’s the only way to keep it out of the press so that son of a bitch doesn’t find out—”
“What’re you talking about?” I interrupt, hoping that somehow I’ve misinterpreted what he’s said. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying.
My father growls, “I’m talking about doing the only logical thing that can be done with this disaster, Chloe: private adoption. The records will be sealed, so no one will be able to find out the child’s identity. And once it’s over, we’ll put it behind us. You’ll come home and it won’t be mentioned again.”
He is saying what I thought he was saying. The wind is knocked out of me. Immediately following that, I erupt like Mount Vesuvius.
“You are not telling me right now that you think I should hide a child from his father, right Dad? I’m not hearing that, because if I am, I’m hanging up this phone and it’s going to be a very, very long time before you and I speak again. If ever!”
Dead silence on the other end of the line.
Finally, with chilling softness, my father says, “He abandoned you, Chloe. He took you in when you were most vulnerable, promised to protect you, promised me he would protect you, and then he threw you out when he was tired of you. You’ve refused to tell us the details, but I suspect that’s the case. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t, of course. He’s exactly right. But the fact remains, I have an obligation to tell A.J. about this baby, even if I’d much rather stab out his eyes with a fountain pen.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Dad. Because I know you’re upset, I’m going to pretend we didn’t have this conversation. Then I’m going to make an appointment with a doctor—not Dr. Mendelsohn, but a doctor of my own—and then when I’m sure everything is all right with me physically, I’m going to inform A.J. What he chooses to do with the information is his business. And then I’m going to prepare for being a single, working mother, who’s going to make the best of things—” my voice breaks because I’m crying again “—and be the best damn mother I can be. And if you’re interested in having any kind of relationship with your grandchild, you’re going to give me moral support even if it kills you. If you’re not interested, that’s your choice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go vomit!”
I hang up the phone and run back to the toilet, over which I suspect I’ll be spending the better part of the next few months hanging my head.
The two-week period between finding out I’m pregnant and the wedding are probably the two most bizarre and emotional of my life.
Because Kat and Nico both have posted pictures of their wedding flower samples to their various social media accounts with credit to Fleuret, the phones at work ring off the hook. Literally. I have to turn off the ringers because the constant shrill noise starts to drive me insane. Magazines request interviews. The local news requests a feature. Every socialite, event planner, and bride-to-be within the continental United States crawls out of the woodwork, clamoring for us to give them quotes on their parties. I have to hire three freelance designers just to handle the daily delivery orders that won’t stop pouring in.
It’s thrilling and exhausting, but most of all I’m grateful for the distraction. I’ve decided not to tell A.J. until after the wedding. It’s going to be bad enough posing for bridal party pictures together, I can’t imagine the hell it would be doing it after he’s told me the baby isn’t his.
At least, that’s the kind of dick move I assume he’ll pull. My expectations of him doing the gentlemanly thing and offering to be involved, even just financially, are nil. He’s already proven he’s not a gentleman. And if nothing else, he’s taught me to expect the worst.
