Jackson

I always believed when a woman told me she was pregnant with my child, my first call would be to my lawyers. The second to a DNA clinic.

The minute Angelic told me she was pregnant, the air left the room. My heart began pounding in my chest. Every fucking cheesy chick flick about how the guy got the girl was how I was feeling. My smile was so wide, my face was ready to split.

Every elated emotion screamed across my face. I was ecstatic.

Why did she look devastated?

I placed my hand on her taut belly. It wouldn’t be flat for long. It was filled with my seed. A life growing inside. A life we created.

“How far along?” I wanted to know every detail. I expected to attend every appointment. Every ultrasound. I didn’t want to miss a single day.

“I’m six weeks along. Apparently Plan B is only ninety-nine percent effective. That, with the reduced effectiveness of my birth control, who knows if it was in the shower, or when the condom broke, but it was definitely the weekend on the island.”

A single tear escaped. This was not what she wanted.

I pulled her to my chest and stroked her hair, “Angel, this is incredible. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling us we wasted eleven years already. It’s time to stop wasting time and get our shit together.”

She pulled away. “Get our shit together? Jackson, having a baby is more than us getting our shit together.” She was emotional. Maybe the shock of what she saw earlier and having to deal with telling me this had her defensive. Then again, it could be pregnancy hormones.

“I want to do right by you, Angel. And I want you to do right by me.” I couldn’t have her believing this was a bad thing.

This was a fucking great thing.

“I love you Angel, and I want to take care of you and our baby. The same way I want you to take of me and our baby. I want us to do this together.”

Her face softened, some of the tension from earlier disappearing. She needed to rest and let it all sink in.

I sent her home with my driver. I told her we would order in. All I wanted was for her to rest and we would talk as soon as I could clear my schedule and leave for the day.

I knew what I had to do. I knew how to take the stress away. To help her understand this was meant to be.

We were meant to be.

I entered the apartment to find her sleeping on the couch. She was covered in the afghan her grandmother made her. One of the few belongings she was able to hold on to over the years. She appeared peaceful.

I looked for the tell tale signs of distress. No tear stains on her smooth cheeks or pillow. No mountains of snotty Kleenex lying on the floor. She hadn’t spent the afternoon crying.

That had to be a good sign.

I leaned in and kissed her forehead. She stirred and sat up. She stretched and patted on the space beside her, signalling me to sit.

Her eyes were bright and clear. Not red from crying. This was a very good sign.

She tilted her head to the side and scrunched her forehead as she looked at me.

“You look tired,” she observed.

“I had a lot of loose ends to tie up before I came home.” I needed to take care of everything that would make her feel secure before I came to her.

“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” It was a statement, not a question. She’d decided and from all indications, she wanted the same thing I did.

“We’re going to be all right, Angel. Everything's going to be perfect.” I made sure of that, but I didn’t tell her, not yet.

“Mr. Cartwright sold the building.” I expected this would upset her.

“I know, Angel. He sold it to me.”

Her head snapped up. I was getting the death glare again. I didn’t get it. She should be hugging me. Thanking me for saving her business. Her home.

“You bought it. Without talking to me. Without asking how I would feel if you owned my apartment. My business.”

Yup, she was pissed. Not the reaction I was expecting.

“I did it for us. Now you won’t have to move and you only have to work when you want.”

Her voice raises a few octaves. “You mean I only get to work when you want me to. For you. The rest of the time I’m to what… stay home, barefoot and pregnant? Is that what you meant by taking care of me?”

She bolted off the couch, pushing me away. “You’re taking control of my life like every other man. How many times have I told you I won’t work for you? I guess now I don’t have a fucking choice. What am suppose to do, Jackson? Beg you to let me go to work?”

In a mimicking tone she pleaded with me, “Please, Jackson, please, can I go to work today? Can I do something creative and fun? Can I do something that gives my life meaning? Are the only things I’m allowed to have meaning in my life with now you and this baby?”

I didn’t understand where the animosity was coming from. I had never led her to believe I wanted any of those things from her. My goal was to make her life simpler. Not add more stress. She was not letting me explain.

She grabbed her purse and keys.

She seriously was not leaving, not right in the middle of this disagreement. Could I even call it an disagreement when I’d not even got a word in?

“Are you running away, Angel?” I knew I shouldn’t have taunted her in this frame of mind. I didn’t know what else to do.

“I’m not running, I’m walking. I need time to think. Alone.” She headed to the door and left.

Not looking back.

I was sitting on the couch, head in my hands. There was a tightness in my chest. I remembered the scene in Alien when the alien ripped the man’s chest open. That was how I felt. Like my chest was being ripped open.

Would the separation in my heart never be filled?

How could things have gotten so bad, so fast?

Was she right?

Was I trying to control everything?

She was gone.

What had I done and what the hell was I supposed to do now?