Kimberly
Resting a hand on the swell of my stomach, I examined my reflection in the full-length mirror in David’s master bathroom. I suppose it could have been considered our master bath at this point, but I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that my presence in his home would last. My lovely boyfriend had allowed me to move in, at least for the duration of my pregnancy, on the grounds that it would be much more comfortable than my cramped apartment. I couldn’t really argue with his logic, although an admittedly large part of me was hoping there was more to his invitation than convenience alone. There was nary a sliver of me that doubted my blossoming feelings — not even blossoming anymore; my feelings for David were in full bloom. I could easily see myself spending the rest of my days at his side, raising our child together, and spending every moment captured in the throes of love. I was fairly certain that this was just a fantasy of mine, a sad delusion wrought from my own enamored state. Still, from time to time, there was a certain way David would look at me, and I’d feel as if I were the only woman in the world.
Sometimes, I felt like that was the only instance in which I would deserve a man like David Strowman — if I were the only woman on the planet. It might be the hormones making me feel so poorly about myself, but in all honesty, I had no idea what he saw in me. I was just a frumpy kindergarten teacher that he’d had a one night stand with. Granted, things had evolved far beyond that initial night together, beyond what I could have ever anticipated. Gazing into the eyes of my own reflection, I couldn’t help wondering if things might, for once, work out in my favor. By no means did I expect David to stay with me just because I was carrying his child, but he had yet to kick me to the curb at that point.
He claimed that he wasn’t ready to be a father, but on the other hand, he had made the promise that he would never leave me. It just wasn’t terribly clear which side would emerge dominant — at least, not to me. He seemed to have no doubt that he would hold true to his vow, lavishing me with tender affections that seemed pulled from a dream. Every morning, he would wake me with gentle kisses to each of my eyelids, brushing the fringe of my hair back to properly catch my weary gaze. Every morning, he would offer me a smile filled with such adoration that my silly heart would catch and, for the briefest of moments, forget to beat. Just after sunrise, before he slipped out of bed and his day began in earnest, I could almost make myself believe he cared about me. Maybe it was a fool’s notion, but I could almost believe that David Strowman, a god among men, actually loved me.
Unfortunately, spending my entire day reflecting, both literally and figuratively, wasn’t the most productive activity in the world. It was Saturday, fortunately, which granted me a brief reprieve from the hustle and bustle of planning activities for a room full of rowdy children. Don’t get me wrong, I still adored my young students, but with a nearly fully formed infant in my womb, it was becoming increasingly difficult to get through class each day. The weekends had become a welcome pause, a time to come to terms with the reality of the new situation. It was a bit overwhelming, especially considering the years I’d been consumed with the certainty of my shortcomings. It was stranger still to think that I was actually achieving what had been my dream for what seemed like a lifetime. Smiling at the mirror, I reached a hand out to touch the cool glass. In spite of how impossible it all seemed, it was actually happening. It was only a matter of time before I would be holding my child in my arms. Things with David may not be certain, but I was confident that I could move forward — that we could move forward together, if given the chance.
Shaking off the thoughts that had created a vortex in my mind, I pulled my shirt down and strode to the kitchen. Although David usually ordered take out, insisting that he didn’t expect me to cook in my current state, I thought a home-cooked meal would be a pleasant surprise for him to return home to. I did have to brush up on my cooking skills, after all. I couldn’t very well raise my child on chicken nuggets and french fries alone. It had been some years since I’d made anything besides the occasional grilled cheese or frozen dinner. My mother had always tittered on about learning to provide for a man’s needs, and while I certainly appreciated the effort now, I had been less enthused as a snide teenager.
Just the same, I didn’t expect it to be horribly difficult to put together a decent meal for the man I loved. The pantries were always well-stocked, something that David made sure of, even if he never seemed inclined to use any of the ingredients. It was one of those unexplained mysteries about the man, mysteries that I could spend the rest of my life uncovering, if he were to allow it. For the time being, I settled for grabbing several boxes and jars out of the cabinets, scrutinizing each item before depositing it on the counter. If I could only describe myself using one word, determined would be well up there. Though I wasn’t exactly experienced, I was going to make the most delicious spaghetti to grace David’s refined palate. I know what you’re thinking. Spaghetti? Really, Kim? Rome wasn’t built in a day, though I planned to make a valiant effort on forming the aqueducts.
The problem with packaged spaghetti, as a rule, is that it does not include heating directions. I was not dense by any means, and it wasn’t as if spaghetti were the most complex of culinary creations. I knew the preparation involved bringing water to a boil, although I wasn’t quite sure how to approach the length of the noodles. If broken in half, they would fit properly in the pot, but was it a major faux pas to go around snapping pasta left and right? I wasn’t dense, but I wasn’t exactly experienced either. Either way, regardless of the social repercussions of snapping the group of noodles in half, I did as much and tossed the remains into the warming pot of water.
I’d read somewhere that you were supposed to salt the water when preparing pasta, so I shuffled away from the stove to scour the counters for David’s salt shaker, which in all seriousness had probably cost more than a year’s worth of rent at my apartment. That may have been an exaggeration, but if it was, it was only by a slight margin. The doctor knew how to enjoy the finer things in life, and while I couldn’t see spending more than a dollar on something like a salt shaker, far be it from me to tell the man how to spend his money. It was something of a blessing, in any case, that the crystal of the shaker reflected the gleam of sunlight peeking through the blinds. I was fairly certain I’d have been unable to locate it otherwise. A strange sense of satisfaction washed over me as I added several dashes of salt to the boiling pot, pausing for a moment before shaking once or twice more, just for good measure. What was intended as a good measure had potentially gone well above the call of duty, however, as the silver top of the shaker popped off and plopped into the water, which was now boiling and thoroughly saturated with salt. I made a face but resolved to deal with it once the pasta had finished cooking. I wasn’t particularly bothered by the glimmer of metal in the midst of my starchy design — it would be easily taken care of in the grand scheme of things.
It occurred to me somewhat belatedly that spaghetti would be rather unappetizing without any sort of sauce, so I grabbed the blessedly premixed marinara that had been stashed in the pantry. It would need to be heated as well, but mixing the hot pasta with the room temperature sauce would work out somewhere in an acceptable range, as far as I was concerned. I was so entranced in my work that I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t even notice the other presence in the home until a pair of large hands rested on the swell of my hips. I smiled to myself, glancing over my shoulder with a knowing expression. David looked utterly entertained by the scenario he had walked in on, though I could only hope he had overlooked the glimmer of steel in the midst of the noodles that were just beginning to soften.
“Looks tasty,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I hummed in acknowledgement. I could hear the slap of his expensive shoes as he strode across the kitchen to deposit his things on the dining room table. If someone had told me that my idea of bliss would be cooking spaghetti while barefoot and pregnant in a gorgeous man’s home… well, I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised. Just as well, I was still a bit startled by just how much pleasure I gained from what should have been a menial task. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, Kim,” David said calmly from his place at the table, and though my heart caught for a moment, I managed a smile in his direction.
“Well, I’m all ears,” I teased, busying myself with fishing the foreign object out of my fine cuisine. He cleared his throat, and immediately, I could sense that something was wrong. I paused in my efforts, looking at my lover with trepidation. He had a look that could only be identified as uncertainty. There was only one circumstance under which I could understand his trepidation, and the thought of it sent a wave of dizziness through me. I gripped the counter, steadying myself as I tried to force a somewhat believable grin.
“Well… I’m not really sure how to say this, but…” he trailed off, staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination. I grunted in response, unable to do much beyond that visceral reaction. The fear of being abandoned once again gripped me like a vice, clutching me in icy cold tendrils and spreading between my thighs in an unpleasantly damp sensation. Briefly confused, I glanced down between my legs, my eyes widening at the puddle that had formed there. “Oh… oh God. Kim, your water just broke,” David gasped, rushing forward to gather me in his arms. I felt dazed, trying to focus on his face as I sputtered out what haunted my thoughts.
“What… what did you need to talk about?” I asked, ashamed of the pleading tone in my voice. He looked briefly confused, shaking his head and guiding me toward the door.
“Later, honey, later. We need to get you to the hospital. You’re going to be a mom, Kimmy. Can you believe it?” he said cheerfully, entirely oblivious to my morose outlook on the situation. Well, not on the situation in and of itself. I was thrilled at the idea of having a child, and that feeling was made even better by the fact that my baby had been fathered by a man I was head over heels for. No, my dismay came from the staunch realization that he had made no mention of his own venture into parenthood, as if he were entirely detached from the situation. The implications seemed obvious, and in spite of the sudden pain in my abdomen, it was devastation that pushed the tears from my eyes. “Oh, hold on. It won’t take long. You’ll be fine, baby. I promise,” he murmured, kissing my forehead before fastening me into the passenger seat. I sagged against the window, having no doubt that he was right — at least, as far as the physical sense went. I was less sure of how okay I would be once he realized it was time to cut the cord and move on to someone with less baggage. It was inevitable, had been invariable in every relationship I’d been in.
Which was why I could only wonder why, in this instance, it hurt so damn much.