Out On a Limb

Nine Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a grape.

Inhaling feels nearly impossible as I approach the end of the counter to pick up my order. Everything on the café’s menu sounded disgusting. Just as most foods have for the last week. Even better, when the food is acceptable to my brain, I still throw it up later.

Doctor Salim calls it morning sickness, as if it doesn’t happen every hour of the damn day. She did say it would most likely stop in the second trimester, and I pray she’s right.

But today’s nausea is not from the tiny baby growing inside me. No, this is the result of a week spent mulling over an imaginary conversation and still not being sure of what to say when Bo arrives. It’s from not knowing how he’ll respond or what my reaction to his response will be.

Granted, my emotions have been extremely up and down—again, to be expected—but this conversation is pit-in-your-stomach, sweating-when-it’s-cold-out scary.

During this past week, I’ve begun attempting to calm myself with a peaceful visualisation entirely from my imagination. Me, on the beach in July. My belly huge, sticking out far past my bikini, and my brightly painted toes pressed into the sand, with a warm breeze blowing my hair off my face. I have both hands on my stomach, feeling the baby kicking up a storm as the seagulls fly overhead and the waves crash ashore.

I think, deep down, I’m reminding myself that either way, it will be okay. I’ll still have me, the beach, and this baby come summertime, even if Bo reacts poorly. Even if he wants nothing to do with us. I’ll still have my peace. I just might have to work a little harder for it.

I thank the barista, taking my London Fog to a small round table tucked away in the most private corner of the café. I sit facing the door and wait for the blond giant to arrive, fighting the urge to flee through the back exit or a bathroom window.

It was a little embarrassing to have to ask Bo to grab coffee, considering the last time we were together, he was getting dressed to leave moments after he’d been inside of me.

I’m sure he was under the same impression I was—that we’d never see or hear from each other again. There would be no follow-up, no dates, certainly no coffee meet-ups on a random Sunday morning two months later. But he agreed to meet me. So that’s a start. Enthusiastically so, actually.

ME: Hey Bo, this is Win. The other pirate from Halloween… I was wondering if you’d be free to grab coffee this weekend?

BO: Win, hey. You didn’t have to follow up your name. I remember you, obviously. And yeah, I’m up for grabbing coffee. Do you know Saints on Cosgrove Ave? Sunday at ten?

The café door chimes, and in walks the unknowing father-to-be. And dammit, he’s even more gorgeous when he’s not dressed as a swashbuckler. He’s got on a long beige sport coat and scarf with a green knitted sweater underneath. Black jeans with matching black boots. His beard is a little longer than it was on Halloween, and his hair is still just as unruly. He waves at me from the doorway as he kicks the snow off his boots, a broad smile overtaking his face. Then he points to the counter, silently asking, do you want anything?

I hold up my mug in response. He throws me a thumbs-up, turning toward the barista to order.

Poor guy has no idea his whole life is about to change.

I realise, suddenly, that I’m the Doctor Salim in this situation. I have to try to remain cool, factual, and compassionate. But shit, I don’t know if I can be. I’m still reeling too. And I’m flustered around him. I’ve run into past hookups accidentally. The city isn’t so big. But I’ve always been able to play it off. This, I certainly can’t play off. There’s nothing cool or casual about this.

Eventually, he makes his way over with a wide-mouthed mug and a plate filled with three different pastries. I grind my teeth, wondering if he’ll wish he’d gotten them to-go.

“I thought we could share these,” Bo says, setting the plate on the table between us. “And, uh, hi,” he chimes warmly, lowering into the seat across from me, unwinding his brown scarf. “This was a pleasant surprise.”

“Hi,” I force out. My voice already has the I’m so sorry lilt to it. “Um, how are you?” I ask.

“I’m okay.” Bo tilts his head and pushes his tongue against the corner of his mouth, eyeing me sceptically.

I can tell I look nervous, so it’s not exactly surprising that he’s already watching me with such concern. My lips are rubbing together against my will, and my eyes are twitching slightly, probably blinking a little too much. Plus, I can’t seem to sit still.

I attempt to force a smile, but I can tell it’s unconvincing when Bo’s eyebrows knit together subtly.

He clears his throat with a fist in front of his mouth and continues. “Work has been busy. Um, it always picks up the closer we get to the holidays. Before we shut down for a little bit. But honestly, er, not much else is going on.” He laughs half-heartedly, studying my expression some more.

“Right,” I agree.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, his eyes darting to my bouncing knee at the side of the table. “Win, are you—”

“I’m pregnant,” I interrupt loudly, all the breath leaving my lungs at the same time the words pass through my lips.

Bo pales instantly. His shoulders fall like he’s forgotten how to support his own weight. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “I couldn’t hold that in any longer.”

“You’re…” He swallows, looking at the table between us. He raises his hands from his lap and places both palms flat on the table as he hunches over. “Did you say,” he tilts up to look at me, his eyes wide and unblinking, “that… you’re pregnant?”

“Yes. I-I did.”

He nods. Then, again. Then so many times it seems like his neck might be broken. “Okay. All right. Okay. And I, uh, I gather you’re telling me because…” He inhales a long, trembling breath, still nodding to himself.

“Yes. You are,” I answer.

“Wow.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Then he rocks gently in his chair, his palm placed overtop his mouth with his fingers cradling his cheek. “Okay,” he says into his hand. “Okay,” he repeats, dropping it away.

“I know it’s a lot.” Wringing my hands in my lap, I look at the next table over and wonder how many times in my life I’ve sat next to life-altering conversations and remained blissfully unaware. “I’m sorry,” I offer again.

“No, uh, I—” His breath shakes some more as he reaches for his coffee and takes another long sip. “Wow,” he says, swallowing.

“Yeah,” I agree. I look over to the end of the counter and notice a pitcher of water and glassware. “Would you like some water maybe?” I offer. Mostly, I just want to leave the table, even if only for a few seconds.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

I stand and pour two glasses, grateful for the momentary distance between myself and the bomb I just dropped. “Here,” I say, placing it in front of him and taking my seat.

He chugs the whole thing in one go. “Shit, sorry. Um, how are you feeling? How are you? How—how are you?”

“I’m okay,” I answer honestly. “I’ve been sick a lot. Nauseous. But I’m okay. We, er, we’re okay.” I place a hand on my belly under the table and out of view from him.

Meet your dad, kid.

“I really didn’t see this coming.” Bo’s eyes finally stop bouncing around the room, and he holds them on me, confusion overtaking him. His whole face droops in concentration. I can practically see his brain replaying our evening together and the exact moment he gets to the missing condoms.

“Neither did I.” I clear my throat. “I… I wasn’t lying when I said I was on the pill.”

“No, I didn’t think that.” His brows furrow as he quickly shakes his head.

“I wasn’t trying to… you know… get knocked up or anything.”

“Right.”

“These things just happen, sometimes.” I shrug, trying to act nonchalant where all I feel is chalant. Very chalant.

Bo rubs two palms down his face, dragging his skin in their path. “So… do we—do we get married?”

“What?” I jump back. “No! What? Why would we get married? We don’t even know each other!”

He sits straighter, blowing out a breath. “Sorry, I’m not sure what came over me just then.”

“The ghost of your great-grandfather, evidently,” I say.

“But then, what do I do? How do I help? What can I—”

“Bo, I’ve decided to keep the baby,” I interrupt. “I don’t expect anything from you, but I will work with you here. However involved you want to be is fine by me, but you should know that I will expect you to stick around if you agree to be in their life. This isn’t going to be a game of hide-and-go-seek father. You want the baby? You also have to be there for the kid, the teenager, and the adult too. Understand?”

That was the only part I rehearsed. It came out slightly different from how I planned, but I do feel a weight lifted having said what I came here to say. At least part of it. The rest, now, is up to him.

“Okay,” he says, his lips slightly parted and his eyes distant once again.

For whatever reason, that perplexing expression on his face slows me. He’s so forlorn—like something even heavier is weighing him down. Heavier than this, somehow. I want to inquire, but it might be none of my business. We’re practically strangers, after all.

Still, sympathy for him builds. He’s handling this relatively well, and from what I know so far, he seems like a good guy. Maybe I was a touch harsh. “You don’t have to decide right now, obviously,” I say gently, attempting to soften the blow.

He comes back from the far-off land, his stare focused and certain as he threads his fingers together in front of him on the table. “No, I-I am in. However much I can be. However I can support you most, I’m in. Definitely.”

“Oh,” I whisper involuntarily. “Right,” I concur.

“I’m sorry,” he says on an exhale.

“It’s no one’s fault.” I bite my lip, reconsidering. “Well, actually, it’s definitely our fault. Both of us. A collective fault. I suck at taking my birth control on time, neither of us had condoms, and you probably could have pulled out.”

“I didn’t think—” He stops to take a python bite of some sort of chocolate pastry from his plate—chewing and nodding to himself. Then another bite, in which he finishes the whole thing. After, he reaches for another pastry and does the same. “I thought I couldn’t,” he says, mouth full.

“Couldn’t what?” I ask. Have sex? He said it hadn’t happened since he’d lost his leg. But that certainly happened. I already know that’s why he wasn’t carrying around condoms, if that’s what he means.

He swallows the food down in a large gulp. “Win, there’s something I think I should tell you…” Bo picks up another pastry, clearing the plate at a record-breaking speed.

I decide that he’s a nervous eater once he throws the final pastry back whole and struggles with it until he swallows and takes a sip of coffee after to wash it down.

“Things in my life were not going according to plan a few years back, and I didn’t…” He glances from side to side, appearing as if he’d rather crawl out of his skin than say whatever’s next. It’s now that I notice he barely fits in the café’s chair, his frame overtaking it. For someone so physically large, he appears so small right now. He’s shrunken in on himself, his face younger than before. When he finally stops fighting it, he rolls his neck and sits up straighter, his chest rising on a considerably long breath.

“I had cancer,” he says abruptly. “Bone cancer. Stage three. I was diagnosed shortly after my twenty-eighth birthday and had my surgery last October. It was a—it has been a dark time for me. I didn’t freeze my sperm before treatment. I didn’t think I’d be around to use it, and I didn’t think I’d want to. I had just gotten out of a relationship, and it all felt pretty hopeless.”

“Oh,” I say, startled. “I’m so sorry, I…” My voice fades away to nothing. What is there to say? Nothing useful. Nothing that could possibly capture how much I wish he hadn’t had to go through that.

I attempt to slot cancer into the timeline I’ve begun crafting in my head, filled with mostly useless information from Caleb. I realise that this would be around the time of the sudden engagement and subsequent breakup with Cora.

I drag my eyes up from the corner of the table toward his face. “Bo, I am so—”

“I just… I didn’t think this was possible,” he interrupts, wiping a tear from the apex of his cheek. His smile-risen cheek. “Shit, sorry,” he says, coughing. “I just…”

This is a much bigger conversation than I planned for. My heart breaks for the man across from me and yet feels put back together at once. Relieved by the promising, wonder-struck expression in his features.

I reach across the table, placing my hand against his elbow. When he feels my touch, he removes his hand from his face and moves to hold my hand instead, bringing my wrist to his mouth and pressing his lips to my pulse point.

It’s not sexual at all. It’s for the purpose of giving and receiving comfort. It’s because neither of us knows what to say next.

“I’m going to be honest. I was not expecting happy tears,” I say, half joking, trying my best to give him a reassuring smile as he drops our hands to the table between us.

Bo’s laugh is bittersweet. “Neither was I.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make this about me.”

“I had my star-of-the-show moment at the doctor’s office. And every day since,” I say.

“You seem… calm?” he asks, sort of.

“Um, yeah. I think I am. I feel okay. When I’m not throwing up. I was really scared about telling you, actually, but other than that, I feel weirdly at peace about it all. I’ve always wanted a kid; I just didn’t think it would be this unplanned.”

He nods, studying me as if he’s memorising my words. It’s too much. Almost. Him staring as if I hold the answer to this predicament of ours. “Plus, as far as baby daddies go, mine has pretty good DNA,” I say, putting the attention back on him as I remove my hand from his and place it back onto my lap.

“Minus the cancer,” he says meekly, his eyes holding on me like an apology is being whispered between us.

Then it dawns on me. The reason for his far-off look earlier—his uncertainty about being able to commit to every future stage. “Are you still sick?” I ask cautiously, my heart in my throat.

“No. I’m not. I get tested every few months, and it’s been clear for over a year now. But—” He breathes in through his teeth, shuffling in his chair. “There’s always the chance it could come back somewhere else.”

Nausea rises again.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a tilted, uneasy frown. “I know that a guarantee would be nice.”

“No, Bo… Don’t.” I shake my head that’s hanging between us. “There’s no guarantee for any of us. We just have to do the best with the time we’ve got,” I say, tilting up to look at him.

His nose twitches, along with his lips, an unexpected grin appearing. “We’re speaking in clichés now, huh?” he teases.

I scoff, despite my own smile growing. “Shut up,” I whisper, laughing. “Sorry. There’s no finding-out-your-surprise-baby-daddy-had-cancer how-to guide. I don’t know what to do here. I thought I’d be the one with all the juicy news today.”

“No, I appreciate it,” he says with no sincerity, “try adding something like there’s a reason for everything.”

I roll my eyes.

“Ooh! Or you’re so brave—I always liked that one.”

“You know, actually, this was all an elaborate ruse. I’m not pregnant. I’ll be on my way.” I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair and smirking.

“No?” he asks. “Wow, you are full of surprises.”

“I was just bored, you know? Figured maybe I could get a free cup of coffee out of it. But it’s not worth it. You’re far too annoying.”

He licks his lips. The mischievous gleam in his eye tells me he’s thinking of his next quip. I wait impatiently, remembering how fun this rapport between us is. Then he blinks and shakes himself, wiping the expression from his face entirely.

“When did you find out?” he asks softly.

Oh, right. I suppose we’ve got more important things to discuss.

“Last week. The baby is due July twenty-fourth.” I look at the emptied plate between us, covered in sugar dust and crumbs. “And I have an ultrasound booked for next Friday.”

“Friday?” he asks, pulling out his phone. “What time?”

“Yeah. Four.”

“Where?” He looks up, thumbs poised to type.

“The clinic on West Ninth—it’s a blue building.”

He types that into his phone, nodding, then tucks it into his front pocket. “Want me to pick you up?”

“You… you’re coming?” I ask.

“Obviously.”

“No, uh, I’ll meet you there.”

“So…” He smiles weakly, taking a breath that seems to calm him some. “What happens now?”

“Can you get us more snacks?” I point to the graveyard of pastries. “I’m hungry.”

The abruptness in which he stands and walks over to the counter to order makes me shake my head, a small smile forming.

A dangerous feeling erupts in my chest. A goofy, body-possessing type of affection for this man. I shove it down and blame the hormones, some primal part of my DNA telling me to stick close to the man I procreated with.

At least, given that we’ll have to spend—you know—forever in proximity, he’s not entirely intolerable.