Kim fled to the bathroom and won’t let me in. While she could be sick, I don’t think so.

I’ve touched her enough recently to know she doesn’t have a fever. She’s not coughing.

Could she be with child?

Now I’m feeling nauseous, too.

While having a child would blow up my future plans like a firecracker at a town celebration, this isn’t the first time I’ve thought about it with Kim. Yet again, as I stand outside the bathroom door, I’m imagining her precious belly full of our kicking baby. A new de la Guerra with hazel eyes. Boy? Girl?

I don’t care.

I didn’t know I wanted a child until now. But I do. I fucking do. I’m already in love with it. Even if it’s the completely wrong time, it’s with the right woman. I know it down to the electron level of my cells.

First things first. I quietly knock on the door. I don’t want to create huge drama for her, I just want to help. “Kim? Can I get you something?”

“No.” Her faint, miserable voice wafts under the door like she’s curled up on the floor, and that makes my heart hurt. I need to hold her in my arms. “Nothing.”

“Can I come in?”

“No!” She’s gathered strength in her tone, but it’s still off. My stomach sinks.

“Okay,” I say quietly. I lean against the wall outside, then slide down to the floor, facing the door, and wait. If anyone asks me why I’m loitering, I’ll tell them to go to hell. Also, fuck school today. I need to take care of her. My poor little conejo.

The toilet flushes, then flushes again. If only she’d let me in. If only I could help her alleviate the pain. All I can think of is her. How do I help her?

Finally she emerges, and I struggle to get up, brushing off my hands and my clothes. “Kim?”

“I can’t talk to you,” she whispers. “Not now.” Her quiet pain is a dagger to my gut, but I’m not going to let her suffer by herself.

I stand in front of her bedroom door. “No, amor. You are not well. I will care for you.”

The look she gives me is so full of pain, the dagger in my abdomen rips down my torso, tearing me in two. She opens her mouth to argue with me, but gives up and nods.

I don’t know if her giving up makes me hurt less or more. I want her fight back. Her spirit.

Not knowing what to do, I follow her into her room and shut the door behind us.

She beelines to her bed and curls up, holding her knees to her chest while I take my place at the foot of the bed. I reach out to touch her ankle and draw back. This balance between caring for her but not wanting to pressure her beyond her comfort level is driving me batshit crazy. “Do you think …” I start. “Do you think it’s the flu?”

Lifting up her head, her tear-filled eyes meet mine. She shoves her face back into the pillow. “No.”

“Do you want to take the test? Do you still have it?”

A while passes before she answers. But she sits up and nods, hugging herself. Placing her feet on the floor, she starts to stand up, but I catch her wrist.

“Come here,” I say and tug her into my arms. She crawls into my lap, and I wrap my arms around her, cradling her with everything I have. Not just my body, but my love.

“What’s happening, Tavo?” Her voice is a low squeak.

“What’s happening is that no matter what, I will care for you. If you are sick with the flu, I’ll bring you soup. If it’s something else, we will … we will make a joint decision. But no matter what, I am with you. Always. You are not alone. You are never alone.”

Kim doesn’t respond verbally. But her arms snake up around my neck, and she clings to me. “Okay.”

“Is the waiting making it worse?”

She nods.

“Then go. I’ll stay here.”

Setting her feet again on the tile floor, she crosses the room to her bag and digs out the pregnancy test. Sliding it under her shirt, she opens the bedroom door, looks both ways, and scurries into the bathroom.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Her room’s a mess. Clothes everywhere in piles. The cork oak outside makes the room gray.

I lie back on the bed. If she’s pregnant, would I marry her?

In an instant.

Me, who has no interest in getting tied down before I travel the world. Me, who wants no obligations. Me, who has family up to my eyeballs.

I would marry her in an instant, because I know she’s the one I want to be with for the rest of our lives. I know we can do all the things we dream of because she’s proved to me it’s possible by coming here.

But does she want an instant wedding? She just got out of one. By no means do I wish to cause her another matrimonial crisis. I just want to be with her, whatever form that takes, and however that ends up.

After what feels like months, but it’s likely minutes, she comes back in, and her face declares the result plainly.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers.

I stand, hold her in my arms, and say, with all the feeling I can muster, “Te amo.”

I kiss the top of her head and hold her while she cries in my arms.

After a while, I go and make Kim some broth and weak tea and get a package of crackers. While I’m in the kitchen, I can’t help but think that I told her I love her, and she said nothing. Worse, actually, it made her cry.

I’ve never told any woman outside of my family that I love her. And I understand that she’s in shock.

But her silence stings.

While the water boils, I step outside and pick a large, late-season peony from the garden, placing it in a glass. With everything on a tray, I return to her room. When I present them to her, she bursts into a fresh wave of tears.

I am helpless.

For the next hour, I sit at the end of her bed, holding her ankle. She doesn’t eat or drink. She doesn’t talk. She just lies on her bed and stares out the window.

The only movement she makes is to turn the other way and stare at the floor. When she does this, I switch ankles. And after turning over one too many times, I can’t stand it. I won’t stay at the foot of the bed anymore. I lie down behind her, spooning her.

As I stroke her hair, I open my mouth to say something and stop. Repeatedly.

I don’t know what to say. I love her. I want her child. And she … doesn’t?

Finally, after an hour, I mumble in her ear. “You can talk to me, amor. I don’t want you to do anything just because I say it. But I must tell you what I desire. This is communication and a discussion, not me demanding you do anything.”

She nods, her back still pressed against my front so I can’t see her face.

“I want to be with you always. Stay and finish your degree. And then go to cooking school, either here in Granada or in Madrid or Barcelona. I will come with you. I will get an agent. Get a recording contract. Make music. And we will travel. If we travel as a family, that’s fine. But this is what I want. I want to be with you. And if you are to have a baby, I want it.”

No words come from her.

I’m close to telling her that I want to marry her immediately. But I need to hear from her.

“Can you talk to me?” I say.

Turning over on the bed, she faces me, her face streaked with red, her cheeks puffy, her eyes almost swollen shut.

“Tavo. I’m twenty years old. I came to Spain because I wanted to get away from Iowa. I wanted to see what else is out there.”

“Yes—”

“I dye my hair and drink alcohol and try smoking. I stay up until all hours of the night. New foods and new hours and a new language and culture. All of those things are outside my comfort zone, and I’ve felt free doing them. But this?” Her voice lowers so it’s almost inaudible. “We’ve been together for mere weeks. If we have a baby, what happens if I keep it and you resent me for tying you down?”

Shaking my head, I go to interrupt, but she keeps talking.

“What if your family insists you marry Sonia?”

“They won’t.”

“Where will we live?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

She bites her finger. “I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I just got started … Tavo, you’ve become my everything in such a short time, and I’m scared.” She’s looking at me for reassurance, and somehow down deep, even though I’m uncertain, even though I don’t have a crystal ball like the gitanos by the cathedral, I know we’re meant to be together.

As my heart pounds, I hold her hand. “We can make this work.”

“I don’t know. I mean, we’re talking about the future, and it’s so ideal. I’m a chef, and you play music. That’s all fine here in Spain, where everything is pretty and there’s tons of family around to help with a baby or cook or whatever. But where I’m from, I’m going to be judged. It’s frowned on to be a pregnant unwed mother, especially when I’m barely an adult. My parents aren’t going to like this. I came here to learn to live, but I’ve made one freedom-loving decision too many. And the problem is, this one is permanent.” She looks at me with her eyes full of tears. Her lip quakes. And she doesn’t move. Just like a statue.

Fuck.

As I wrap her in my arms for a fresh round of tears, I realize, as my chest tightens, that she still never told me she loves me back.