“Hey, are you going to be much longer? I left something in there… And I kind of…” she stopped, and I heard her groan. “Uh, I need it?”
That meant she hadn’t seen the results! If she wasn’t threatening to cut my balls off, and she wasn’t crying—she didn’t know.
So, mustering all the strength I had left in my dying body, I crawled across the floor and used the counter to pull myself up onto my knees to pick the test up.
There was no sign language to decipher, no cryptic code.
The words on the screen were enough.
I needed a plan.
Bexley
Six months ago, I’d had a miscarriage. I was only eight weeks into the pregnancy, which was a surprise for both of us, but we wanted that baby badly the second we knew about it. Four days later, I woke up bleeding and had to accept that our dream was gone.
I cried. No, I broke. I’d never met it, never held it, but I’d loved it from the first second I knew it was there.
Logan had been amazing. He’d held me during my downs, he’d supported me through the recovery and acceptance phase, and he’d helped me hide it from Santana so that she didn’t get upset, too.
He was always my anchor, but he was also my shield against the world, and I loved him more than life.
And my baby girl, who looked so like her daddy, but had the personality of her great-grandad, helped me realize that even though I’d lost a life, I’d still created a life, and I was so very grateful for that.
So, when I realized that I hadn’t had my period for three months, I immediately assumed it was a side effect of the miscarriage. It had to have an impact on hormones and things, right?
But after a week, I picked up a test just to make sure and waited for Logan to be comatose this morning to take it.
I had no idea that he was going to wake up after a night of puking and things right after I’d taken it.
What if it was positive?
What if it was negative?
What if I lost it or it didn’t have a heartbeat already?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize the door had opened until I felt a tapping on my foot and saw Logan face down on the floor.
“I realize this is the worst time to ask this,” he rasped, moving his face until he was using my feet as a cushion, “but I need you to marry me. You keep saying no, but I want you to have the same last name as Santana and me.
“I want the piece of paper that legally ties us together. I don’t know why it’s so important, but it feels more painful than the pain your Christmas dinner is giving me in my gut.”
I wanted that, too. “Yes.”
“I know it’s stupid,” he continued, pulling himself up until he was on his knees with his head on my stomach, “but not to me, it isn’t. Our lives have always been side by side and interwoven together, and I want to finally see you write Bexley Richards when you sign something. I want to see my ring on your finger and look down at work to see I’m wearing yours—”
“I said yes,” I repeated loudly, getting his attention.
Lifting his head weakly, he smiled—or grimaced, it was a close call on which one it was—at me. “Can you get the ring out of my underwear drawer, please? I bought it before I proposed to you the first time, so I think it’ll fit.”
Throwing my head back, I burst out laughing. “I’m not entirely sure this is the best proposal story to tell our grandkids.”
Sinking back down until he had his forehead on the cool, wooden floor, he mumbled, “What’s more romantic than knowing your grandpa loved your grandma her whole life and that their love story continued until they had kids and grandkids together?”
Feeling the first tear spill down my cheek, I got down on my knees beside him. “I love you.”
Turning his head sideways, he slurred, “Love you, too. Now, go and get the ring.”
I’d just gotten to my feet when he grabbed my ankle and held out his other hand. “By the way, you’re pregnant.”
That fear I had before was still there, but I had so much happiness that it didn’t cripple me hearing those words.
Then he added to it. “This one’s going to be okay, I know it. Once I can stop shitting, we’ll call the OB-GYN and get an appointment for a check-up, just so you don’t have to panic.”
My reply was easy. “Deal, but you’re taking me to see a Victorian fatberg for our honeymoon.”
About the Author
I’m a British author who grew up all over the world. My parents were diplomats, so we were posted to all of the corners of the earth and it was a blast. Some wouldn’t seem so awesome if you heard about them, but my parents always made it a fun experience and it molded my brother and I into who we are today.
I live in Wiltshire in the west country of the UK. At random times of the day, I’ll hear a moo from the fields around me, or get a whiff of that…uhhh…’country air’, and I love it! I might not have grown up in the UK, but I’m a British girl to the bone (regardless of the suspicious whiffs coming in from the fields).
I’m a single mother with a son who is nearing his teenage phase. Maybe he’s reached it early? Who knows. But he’s awesome and has a personality and sense of humor that I can only attribute to my family. We’re slightly bonkers, we have a wicked sense of humor and we find the positives in every situation. I’m so proud to be his mum and to watch him grow and mature.
Writing was something
