The Arrival of You

by Cranford, B.

  I waited for her to pick back up when she trailed off, not saying anything because there was a feeling in the air like any word from me could change everything. Just like I’d known it was her at the door, I knew that she needed to be the one who spoke next—and I needed to wait as long as it took for her to do so.

  I only wished that she’d hurry up, because the longer the silence stretched between us, the more certain I became that nothing would ever, ever be the same.

  And I was right.

  Finally, she shuffled a little closer, until her folded legs brushed against mine. “I’m not sick, I’m morning sick.”

  Morning sick. It bounced around my head for several overlong seconds, making sense but absolutely not making sense at the same time. “Morning sick? As in . . . morning sickness?” I asked, needing confirmation.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  * * *

  “I’m pregnant.”

  I heard the words, I did. But I heard them from a distance, like I was at one end of a tunnel and Bianca was at the other and she was calling out to me.

  Pregnant.

  I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it, so instead of saying something in response—especially something stupid, which I felt like anything I said in that moment would be stupid—I stayed silent. I watched Bianca, and she watched me, and in the small bathroom of my house, the air was filled with one word.

  Pregnant.

  A baby. We’d made a baby.

  After a few painfully quiet minutes, the weight of her stare became too much. Not to mention, my need to know what had happened between us, whether this pregnancy was the reason she disappeared on me, had grown so big inside me that I couldn’t hold back.

  “Is he—she—are they okay?” That was my first, most important question. Obviously, I knew she wouldn’t be telling me about the baby if it wasn’t viable, but still, cut me some slack. She’d just been vomiting, she was pale underneath her cocoa skin, and her eyes had a sheen to them that said she was struggling.

  But maybe she was just struggling with my lack of words, with the awkward situation that made us more strangers than we’d ever been. Even when we’d first met, we hadn’t felt this . . . unknown.

  She nodded, her hand reaching out as if to take mine, only to drop back to her lap almost immediately. “Yes. Yes, they’re fine.”

  “And you don’t know what it is?”

  Her smile was small but amused, and it hit me hard. “Other than a baby? No. Still a few more weeks before we can find out.”

  We. She’d said “we,” which meant she was already planning on including me. I liked that. Enough to tell her. “I’m glad you said ‘we,’ Bianca.”

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting her reaction to be, but the frown that pulled her face down definitely wasn’t it. “You don’t really call me Bianca, you know.”

  Thinking it over, I realized quickly she was right. I’d called her a lot of things, but mostly “Pretty girl.” Because that’s what she was—a pretty, pretty girl, inside and out.

  It wasn’t so pretty when she wasn’t talking to you, my still-angered brain reminded me, and I had to grit my teeth against the urge to say something to her.

  It wasn’t the time. Not when I had questions about the baby and the pregnancy first.

  Instead of acknowledging her comment, I asked, “Have you seen a doctor?” Something tweaked in the back of my mind—a memory that Ashton had said the doctor recommended Bianca rest a few days. “You have.”

  “Yeah. In Darwin. That’s how I found out”—she cleared her throat—“because I didn’t even consider that that might have been what was wrong with me.”

  I nodded, my next question already loaded up. “The text. You said you wanted to tell me something. Was that it?”

  Her forehead puckered and she looked so lost, I had to fight the urge to comfort her. I was so conflicted—drawn to her and needing to comfort her, but frustrated and all too aware that there was an elephant in the room with us. “Yes and no. I—Mason sent me an email too. I wanted to talk to you about it. Lucas”—she shifted on the floor, unfolding her legs—“do you think we could move?”

  Shame at not having offered that to her had me standing swiftly. I held out my hand to her and waited while she decided if she wanted to take it or not. Eventually, she did and the spark that zinged between us made me flinch.

  Just a little. It was just so . . . intense. Like an actual electric current had passed from her to me, then back again.

  Helping her to her feet, then leading her out of the bathroom after she’d had a chance to rinse out her mouth, I took her not to the couch where we’d originally planned to talk, but to my bed. I don’t know why I did that, and I wasn’t at all sure that it was a good idea. But I was filled with the need to see her comfortable, safe, and resting, and as comfy as the couch was, my bed was infinitely better.

  “I don’t know if I should be in here,” she commented, her thoughts mirroring mine. “The last time I was . . .” She cocked an eyebrow at me, and I let my memory finish her sentence. Memories of her watching me stroke myself melded with the phantom feel of her wrapped up and tucked against me.

  “I’m not going to try anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured her. “I just wanted you to be comfortable.” I shrugged, but the look on Bianca’s face told me the gesture wasn’t the small thing to her that it was to me.

  “Thank you.” She lowered herself onto the end of my bed, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Do you mind if we lie down? I am kinda tired now.”

  “’Course.” I moved around to my side of the bed—I’d thought of the other side as hers ever since the first time she’d stretched out there—and climbed on top of the doona. Patting the space beside me, I kept my eyes on her as she crawled up the bed to lie down, making sure to leave at least half a meter of space between us. There was nothing sexy or seductive about the way she’d moved up the mattress, even though she’d done so on her hands and knees, but still, I couldn’t help but change the picture into something dirtier. Something simpler. Because the fact was, everything was confused and complicated and far from being sorted out, while sex—sex was easy.

  It was just our bodies doing what they longed to do and did so damn well together.

  “Where were we?” she asked, propping her head on her hands, her palms pressed together and tucked under her cheek.

  “Your text,” I prompted her. “You said—”

  “I had something to share,” she finished. “I wanted to tell you, but I also wasn’t sure the best way to do it, you know?”

  “No, I don’t really know.” It came out colder, harder than I’d intended, but I couldn’t really bring myself to regret it. Because whatever decision she’d ended up making and why, it had left me in the dark and that felt . . .

  Shitty. It felt shitty as fuck, truth be told. And if it makes me an arsehole to admit that, then so be it.

  “I’m sorry,” Bianca whispered, repeating her oft-given apology. This time, I acknowledged it with a small but significant nod. I didn’t speak, however, because I could tell she was getting ready to explain and I wanted that. I deserved that.

  “I talked to Ashton, because I was scared and awed, and I needed someone to listen.”

  “I would’ve listened,” I protested, hating how effectively she’d wiped me out of the running for carrying her feelings and her fears on my shoulders. “You could’ve called me. You should’ve called me.”

  Her eyes fell closed and I bit back the demand that she open them and keep talking. It wasn’t easy but it was the right thing to do. I’d promised her friend that I’d let Bianca say her piece, and I would honor it. I knew she deserved it, that opportunity.

  Plus, I had hope that she’d say all the things I needed to hear and make it right, make it better, so we could go back to being us.

  Opening her eyes, now watery, she said, “I needed my best friend. I was sick and tired, and I felt so out of control, and I
needed her to tell me what to do. I know that sounds like an excuse, and it probably is, but I can’t apologize for that. Think about how you felt before, hearing that I’m pregnant, knowing that your life is going to change no matter what comes next. Then imagine hearing it when you’re alone and far from home and still battered and bruised from a marriage that was supposed to last forever. I’m not going to apologize, not because I don’t understand that in some ways it was the wrong decision, but because it was what I needed at that moment. Ashton was what I needed.”

  Begrudgingly—and that’s probably an understatement—I accepted her explanation. “Okay, so you talked to Ashton?”

  “I asked her what to do, because I felt like it was news that should be delivered in person. But I wasn’t ready to come back here yet. I still had more to see and more to figure out and the pregnancy news was—it was a complication I hadn’t predicted. I took the morning-after pill. I did the right things after we, I mean, after Christmas Day.”

  And there she confirmed something that I’d wanted to ask but hadn’t yet. What had happened? Had she not taken the pill, or had it just not worked?

  “You believe me, right? That I didn’t plan for this to happen and that I tried to do the right thing?”

  Her expression was so tentative, like she expected me to blast her or to yell or blame her, but how could I and why would I? “I believe you, of course I do.”

  “I thought—I wondered if maybe you’d ask if it was yours.”

  Anger twisted me up until I had to clench my fists to stop from saying something. I couldn’t believe that she’d think so little of me, sure, but I also hated the fact that she was probably right to worry. Not necessarily about me—I had faith in her, especially after we’d agreed to be each other’s—but in general. I wondered for a half-second how many women had had to answer that question and whether I’d have been the one to ask it if it had been anyone other than Bianca telling me I was going to be a father.

  Shit. I was going to be a father. For the first time, that reality really and truly hit home. While pregnant had taken up space in the bathroom and in my mind, I hadn’t fully appreciated what that meant.

  Me, a father.

  A baby, who might talk like me, or look like me.

  Or look like her. Like my pretty girl, with her curly hair and her full lips and her everything that made her the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  Realizing I’d been in my head for too long, the moments passing by with her looking at me for a response or a reprimand while I battled with my fluctuating thoughts. “I wouldn’t have asked you that. If it was mine,” I reassured her. “It didn’t even cross my mind that it might be otherwise.”

  Relief brought a light to her eyes that made something in me relax. I smiled, trying to be encouraging, wanting her to keep going, keep telling me her story.

  “I asked Ashton whether I should tell you right away—over the phone or FaceTime—or wait. Because I thought you’d tell me to come back. And like I said, I wasn’t ready for that yet.”

  Fair, I thought, evidently knowing myself as well as Bianca did. Because she’d hit the nail on the head there. “I wouldn’t have told you to come”—I cocked an eyebrow and waited a beat, enjoying being able to bring a little levity to the conversation—“I would’ve demanded it. Then come and found you in the back of beyond.”

  As intended, Bianca laughed, starting with a small, contained giggle that built into a much bigger, less controlled laugh. Sputtering, she said, “I can imagine it, is that bad?”

  Shaking my head, I smiled at her as her laugh slowed. Her dark eyes met mine when the last vestiges of humor left, and we were back to the serious stuff. “We joke, but I was a little worried about that and I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to resent you. But now, I think you resent me instead?”

  I started to shake my head again, stopped, then nodded. “Not about you not telling about the baby, not really.” I considered what I wanted to say, giving myself a moment to gather my thoughts. “The fact you disappeared so easily, the fact you didn’t say anything. Anything. Not even a ‘hey, I’m going to be out of contact for a bit, I just need time.’ I think maybe I would have been disappointed but the worry, Bianca. I don’t think you understand exactly how fucking worried I was.”

  19

  Bianca

  I flinched at the aggression in his tone, at the way he’d shifted so he loomed almost over me.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” He fell back against the bed, remorse on his face. “I didn’t mean to yell, or to scare you.”

  I sucked in a breath, realizing that the moment had gotten away from me. That I was screwing everything up—that I was hiding away from my responsibility to own up to what I’d done.

  I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.

  I wasn’t going to be that girl, not when I’d tried so hard to find me—the post-Mason Bianca who was her own person . . . and who wanted to be with Lucas more than anything.

  “No. Lucas, no. You don’t have to be sorry. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m handling this all badly because it’s hard and I’m nervous about what’s going to happen, but I am sorry. I’m sorry that I ghosted you. I’m sorry that I didn’t consider your feelings when I decided that I needed time. God, I’m so fucking sorry for that. That it made you worry. I’m sorry that I ignored you, because you didn’t—you don’t—deserve that.”

  “Bianca—”

  I sat up, the movement effectively cutting him off. I needed to finish, and I was afraid that if I didn’t do it now, I never would.

  “I was wrong. Epically, amazingly, terrifically wrong. And I hope you can forgive me for it. For being a middle-school bitch.”

  He pulled himself up until he was seated on the mattress facing me. In my head, two versions of him warred for supremacy—the one who accepted my apology versus the one who kicked my sorry ass out and told me never to come back.

  “We don’t have middle school. Did you know that? Primary school, which is what you call kindergarten through to grade six, then high school. Year seven to year twelve. Nothing in between.”

  “Oh.” I’m sure I gave him a mild what the fuck look, because it was not at all what I expected him to say. I’d braced for forgiveness and recrimination, but not for an education in, well, Australian education. But maybe he didn’t know what age middle school was and therefore didn’t get the reference? “Middle school is sixth grade through eighth grade. Imagine me as a puberty-laden, self-centered, overly hormonal, and kind of pimply teenager. Does that help?”

  His eyes lit with laughter and his mouth curved up. “Yeah, I knew what you meant, but now I have the best visual, so thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. I think.” I searched his face to see how true his amusement was. Had he accepted my apology, or did anger still lurk beneath the surface? “Lucas, I need . . .”

  “Sleep?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I need you to stop offering me naps.”

  “Noted.”

  “But in all seriousness, I need you to know that I am sorry. I handled it so badly and I can’t go back and change it. I wish I could.”

  “What would you change?”

  “Huh? All of it?” It wasn’t a question, though I knew it sounded that way. I would change all of it.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Well, maybe not meeting Anne and getting her perspective, having her guide me to the right answer. Although . . . I guess I wouldn’t have needed her if I’d just been a little more brave and a little less “woe is me.”

  He looked at me, consideration in his eyes. “Out of all that happened—Ashton told me that your ex emailed you and it wasn’t good—what do you regret the most?”

  Now, that was an easy question to answer. “Not replying to one of the messages you sent and letting you know I was okay, and I just needed some time. Because I did. That email Ashton mentioned? It hit me way harder than it should have, and it made me realize that I hadn’t gotten over anything—I
’d just shoved it aside or ignored it for the most part. But that’s no excuse. Hormones aren’t an excuse.” I didn’t mind that maybe I was repeating myself, because it was something I had to say.

  Something that Lucas had to hear.

  “I regret that I wasn’t able to take a deep breath and tell you that I needed time, because I know you would’ve understood.” Reaching out, I rested a hand on his knee, his legs crossed in front of him as mine were. “You would have, wouldn’t you?”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t have liked it, but yeah, pretty girl. I’d have understood. Or pretended that I did, anyway,” he added, looking sheepish.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he accepted my apology, even though I knew I had no right. I couldn’t demand forgiveness—I could only hope for it. “Do you-do you have any questions? I feel like maybe you do.”

  “Aside from if you want to rest? No. Wait. Yes. Do you mind if we go to the kitchen? I know you said before you didn’t want anything to eat, but I’m getting hungry.”

  I stifled a laugh and nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

  There was something comforting about how normal parts of our conversation were, just as there was something comforting about just being back here. With him.

  Lucas.

  As soon as I’d seen him, something had settled in me. I didn’t know what to make of that but for the same thought I’d had since this strange, wonderful thing had sprung up between us: we were special, whatever else we may be.

  Like crazy.

  Destined.

  Doomed?

  No, there was no reason for me to think that way, unless I wanted it to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was here and he was listening and we had time now to figure things out.

  But first, food.

  I moved to the edge of the bed and stood, waiting for him to do the same. He grabbed my hand, our fingers easily lacing together, and led me toward the kitchen. We’d just barely crossed the threshold, when he asked, “Did you ever think maybe you didn’t want it? The baby?”