Man of My Dreams by Faith Andrews

Too. Fast. The three words resonate in my ears like a deafening gong. So I repeat them, this time as a question; and I’m fearful of the answer. “All too fast? Define all .”
    He doesn’t even hesitate or try to spare my feelings. “This. All of it. Everything. We’re still kids ourselves. We were stupid to think we could play house and it would all just fall into place. For Christ’s sake, Mia, I just graduated college. I’m not even twenty-two years old!”
    It’s hard to wrap my brain around what he’s just said. I’ve never seen this side of him…all cynical, uncertain, hesitant. All along Declan’s been the one convincing me that we could do this. “You weren’t worried about how old you were when you proposed to me at the Alibi on stage in front of all of our classmates, were you? Then it all seemed romantic, it seemed right. But now that we’re about to solidify this marriage, take the next logical step, you think you’ve made a mistake?” Life as I know it feels like it’s come to a disastrous ending. The apocalypse, Armageddon, Judgment Day…whatever you want to call it. “God, Declan, why didn’t you tell me this before you put that ring on my finger two months ago? You are such a coward. And an asshole!”
    His inability to look me in the eyes, his silence, speaks volumes. Everything about this night is ruined and cold—the dinner, the ambiance, the mood, the love I thought was stronger than this. How did I not see this before? He was always the one so sure of our future. His hopefulness had me believing that all you need is love . Turns out, now that Declan’s been given a dose of reality he’s acting like a petrified, immature little boy.
    I have the sudden urge to defend myself and our child, but the tears block my voice from making its way out. It’s probably better this way. I have too many irrational things to say. Too much I will probably end up regretting.
    I watch my husband as he evens out his sharp breathing, trying so hard not to erupt with what he must be holding back. He rakes his hands through his hair again, still silent. In this moment, I feel so alone.
    I’d always imagined being overjoyed at the news of becoming a parent and then sharing that news with my husband. We’d talk about baby names, and colors for the nursery, call our families and friends to spread the wonderful news. Today, instead of all that joy, I’m stuck worrying about what comes next. And not in the good, nervous, expectant parent way. Instead of wondering when this baby will be born, I’m stuck worrying if this baby will be born. No! I’m keeping this baby . Whether Declan wants to be a part of his or her life or not.
    As the tears finally free themselves, I get the courage to speak, “What do we do, Declan?”
    He shakes his head, eyebrows arched, emulating the disappointed expression of a parent who’s been lied to. It’s belittling and it makes me cry harder. I am in this alone, but I certainly didn’t get here alone. This baby is as much his as it is mine and we have to figure this out together . Even though, for me, there isn’t much to figure out.
    “I don’t know, Mia. But right now I feel like I can’t breathe.”
    He walks past me, into the kitchen to retrieve his suit jacket from the chair I draped it over. He grabs his car keys from the table and leaves through the back door, turning his back on me and his unborn child.
     

     
    I turn over to the bedside table to look at the clock. Three thirty in the morning. My bed is still half empty and my head is still pounding from all the crying.
    I dangle my legs over the bed, unwilling to move. If I had my way I’d stay in this bed forever, but I have to pee. Yup, the pregnancy symptoms have already kicked in. Thank you, baby, for this and scaring off the love of my life.
    I walk into the bathroom, dimly lit by the tiny motion-detected night light. I reach to flip the switch and that’s when I hear the sound of clanking dishes