Page 36 of Made for Us

“Your aunt said she’s going to have them cleaned,” Tristan replies, “I told her to throw them away.”

I feel so bad when he says this that I look up at him. “I’m so sorry,” I finally say out loud and all the chatter from the table suddenly stops, or maybe it was stopped beforehand, but I just noticed now that I wish there was noise around me.

“Like I said, no worries.” He cuts his own piece of chicken. “Penelope throws up on me at least once every six months.” He chews his piece of chicken. “Hopefully, your baby is better.” He laughs at me, and I can tell he’s not sure what else to say. “How are you feeling?”

“Actually, this is probably only the third time I’ve ever thrown up,” I admit to him honestly.

“Morning sickness will do that to you,” Erika cuts into the conversation.

“But that usually lasts the first trimester,” Chase butts in, and I want to tell him to shut up, but he’s literally just minding his business as he eats his food. “After twelve weeks, it usually subsides.”

“It can last longer,” Alex adds. “I think I was sick for nine months when I was pregnant.”

“I remember with Parker, I was sick in my second trimester and not in the first,” Erika shares. All I can do is nod, hoping they find something else to talk about.

“How far along are you?” Tristan asks, and I feel Gabriella put her hand on my leg. I don’t know how I thought I would be able to hide this from him. I don’t even know why I even convinced myself that it was better this way. At this moment, staring into his eyes, I wish I could go back to when I found out, but we all make choices in life. Some we regret, and some we don’t.

I take a deep inhale as I look at him and answer his question, “I’m fifteen weeks.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

TRISTAN

I’m sitting at the table listening to her family talk about when they were pregnant, and all I can do is try to look down at my food. Coming face-to-face with her at the front door was a shock. Technically, I knew she might be here, and it would have been a lot easier if I just watched her from across the room instead of having no choice but to come face-to-face with her. I don’t think anyone was expecting her to throw up on me. She ran away from me, and I didn’t even have a chance to go after her because Matthew came running to the front door to make sure she was okay. He took one look at me and pointed at the stairs. I followed him up the stairs as he took me into the spare bedroom, showing me shorts and shirts that were still brand new. I walked into the bathroom and undressed before putting the new clothes on. I washed off my hands and made sure I was better before walking out with the dirty clothes in my hands. Allison met me at the bottom of the stairs and took my clothes. I was actually just going to toss them out.

“But that usually lasts the first trimester,” Chase cuts in, chewing on a piece of his chicken. “After twelve weeks, it usually subsides.”

“It can last longer,” Alex adds. “I think I was sick for nine months when I was pregnant.”

“I remember with Parker, I was sick in my second trimester and not in the first,” Erika shares. My stomach gets sick when I think about if she was dating this guy before the vacation. But she was a virgin when we had sex. Did she come back and go straight to his bed?

“How far along are you?” I ask, though I really wish my mouth and my head would get the memo about minding my fucking business. I put down my fork because I think this time, I’m the one that is going to be sick when she tells me.

“I’m fifteen weeks,” she says, and I just sit here not sure I understood what she said. All I can do is blink at her as I play her words over and over in my head.

Did she say fifteen weeks? It’s impossible, I think to myself. There is no way. I mean, there is a way since we didn’t even use protection. Something that made me feel like an asshole, but I was so caught up in the moment. We both were. The fork in my hand is playing with the food on my plate.

“I can’t believe you are almost four months along,” Vivienne says, and all I can do is look down at my plate. Everything inside me goes cold. I sit here, my head spinning around and around as I try to go back in weeks in my head. The chatter keeps going on around me, but the only thing I can do is think about the weeks since. I don’t say anything to her as she gets up to use the bathroom. I watch her walk inside, wondering if she will take off.

I bide my time at the table for a couple of seconds longer before I get up. “I’m going to check on Penelope,” I tell everyone at the table, pulling the phone out of my pocket and opening the calendar as I walk across the yard to where the kids are. “Hey,” I say when I’m close enough for her to hear me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, confused, before she turns around and goes back to playing. Instead of returning to the table, I walk inside and go to the bathroom. The door is still closed, giving me the time to pull up the calendar and start counting down the weeks. The blood rushes to my head as I count the weeks from July when we were on vacation to today.

“Could this be?” I ask myself as I hear the water turn on in the bathroom and then the door opens.

She jumps back, shocked to see me there. “Oh, you scared me,” she says, putting her hand to her chest.

I look around for a second before I walk to her. “I think we should talk,” I state as calmly as I can. My insides feel like a hurricane and a tornado are coming together, if that is even possible.

“Yeah, sure,” she says. “What’s up?”

“I don’t think we should talk here,” I suggest and turn my head toward the hallway entrance when I hear voices. “I think we should do it privately.”

“Um, I don’t really think we need to,” she replies as she moves her hand from her chest to her stomach. I can’t even see a bump because of the baggy sweater.

“Did you drive here?” I ask, afraid for a whole different reason. What if the baby isn’t mine? Then what? The need to just ask her if it’s my baby is so strong, but I know this conversation can’t be done here. Even if it’s not mine, I want her to know what our night meant to me.

“No, Michael picked me up,” she says, and I nod.

---