Do You Think You're Up For This?

“God only knows what I would say to you. You'd hear just some scattered parts of words I'd mumble to you, of words I'd mumble to you…” – The Early November

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Suzie’s driving me home from the doctor.

It’s official.

Apparently I’m almost a month along. It makes sense; Michael and I had gone out to dinner the night before he left on tour. I’m sure I don’t have to go into detail what happened after dinner that night.

She pulls up to mine and Michael’s apartment, parking in order to give me a hug before I get out.

“Good luck,” she whispers. I nod, swallowing nervously.

I promised her I’m going to tell him right now so I can’t chicken out.

“I’ll call you tomorrow when I get a chance,” she says, letting go.

“Thanks,” I reply, my throat dry. She smiles softly.

I get out and close the door. She drives off when I step inside. I slowly make my way up to our floor on the elevator. I stick my key in the lock, pushing the door open.

“Rae?” Michael asks, as soon as I close the door behind me and step inside the apartment.

I take off my coat and hang it up in the front closet before heading into the living room.

He comes in from the kitchen, smiling. I try to smile back, but it only comes out looking weak and tired.

“How was shopping with Suzie?” he asks.

“We…we didn’t go shopping,” I admit.

“No?” he asks in confusion. I shake my head. “Well…where’d you go?”

“Michael, I…” I start to say. “We should…I mean…I-I have to tell you…something. It’s important.”

“Um…okay…” he replies unsurely at my nervous tone. I sit down on the couch, pulling him down next to me by the hands. I take a few breaths while he watches me, eyebrows furrowed in concern. I open my mouth, but I can’t force the dreaded words from my lips.

“You know you can tell me anything, Rae. What’s wrong?” he asks encouragingly, running his fingers over mine, patiently waiting for me to answer.

“Michael, I…I’m…” I try helplessly. I tear my gaze away from his, but he raises his hand to my cheek, and when I look at him again, my eyes start to water. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper.

His light eyes widen in shock, and his hand drops back to his lap.

“Are…are you…positive?” he stammers, looking at me for confirmation.

“Yes. I went to the doctor today. It’s almost been four weeks.” He gives a long sigh, burying his face in his hands and then running them through his hair as he takes deep breaths. I can feel the tears stinging my eyes again. I hold them in, because his reaction is making me even sicker with worry and I suddenly feel very queasy and dizzy as a result.

The long minutes pass silently as he stares speechlessly at the floor. With every second that passes, my breathing shortens as if my lungs are constricting and blocking my airways and I feel a minor panic attack coming on.

“How did this happen?” he asks shakily, finally raising his eyes back to mine after what feels like forever.

A strangled sob escapes my mouth and he immediately pulls me into his arms while I try to get full function of my lungs back. “What are we going to do?” he murmurs, rubbing my back as my tears stain his shirt. I bury my face in his chest, clinging to him wordlessly for consolation as uncontrollable shaking racks my body from my excessive crying and worrying. “The timing is all wrong,” he mumbles to himself.

I pull away from him to catch my breath after I manage to stop shaking. I steal a glance at him, and he’s biting his bottom lip, a distant look in his eyes.

“I need…I need to…think,” he says slowly, sighing again. He briefly pulls me to his chest again and kisses the top of my head before standing up and heading for the bedroom. He pauses in the doorway. “Don’t cry, Rae. We’ll be okay. We’ll figure something out,” he says, sounding unsure of his own words.

I curl up on the couch, clutching a pillow and trying to stem my flow of tears.

When I finally manage to pull myself together and join him in bed, he’s already asleep, or at least I think he is. I don’t say anything, because if he’s awake, I’m sure I’ll start crying again, and if he’s asleep, I don’t want to wake him up and worry him some more.

He’s on his side, facing the wall, shoulder rising slightly every few seconds with each breath. I slide under the covers on the opposite side, tossing and turning for awhile, and eventually just watching the clock on the bedside table change every sixty seconds.

I can't sleep.