A/N: Howdy. I fell in love with Sarah Dessen's book, Just Listen, and I've always thought about how Annabel and Owen's lives would turn out, so I wrote a story about it. Don't think or judge. Just read. (And review, please.)
It was simple math.
Addition.
A plus.
A positive.
And so how could I be so stupid?
How was I going to tell Owen?
My heart was racing and, as I stared at the little blue plus that appeared on all three of my tests, I caught myself as I absentmindedly raising a hand to my stomach.
I wanted to cry—weather they'd be tears of joy or of some other pent-up emotion that was welling inside of me, I didn't know.
Before I could decide, I heard the door swing open and close, and then the jingle-jangle of keys dropping onto a counter.
"Babe, I'm home."
Owen.
I sucked in a breath—panicking, I shoved all three tests into my drawer on the right side of the bathroom vanity and straightened my clothes, trying to compose myself.
"Annabel?" he called again.
"I-I'm in here." I said, as I twisted the knob and met him in the hallway.
He leaned down and kissed my cheek, but I found myself staying rooted to the spot, frozen in place.
The same words just kept running through my head.
I'm pregnant.
"Are you okay?" Owen asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, I'm fine." I said quickly. "Um, what's for dinner?"
I had to talk about something—anything—else. Something to get my mind off of the fact that I'd had another human being growing inside of me for the past three weeks without my knowledge.
"I was thinking… breakfast?" he said, going to the kitchen.
"Sounds great." I said.
I numbly sat down on our well-worn leather couch and stared at the wall, listening as he got two bowls out of a cabinet. He filled them with cereal and milk, and then brought one over to me, setting his on the coffee table and pulling a CD case out of his back pocket.
"I found some great new stuff today." He said with an excited smile, heading over to the stereo system that dominated an entire wall of our apartment.
He popped the CD into the slot and after a moment of empty silence, something with a bouncy beat and some throaty tuba tones came over the speakers. He cranked the volume up and joined me on the couch, placing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.
"How was work?" I asked mechanically.
"Good." He replied.
He slurped his cereal from the bowl as I silently maneuvered my spoon in a circle, barely touching the food.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I think I'll just turn in early tonight."
Before Owen could say anything else, I rinsed my bowl in the kitchen sink and wandered into my bedroom, sinking into the comforter and curling onto my side with the lights off.
It was rare that I slept alone, because more often than not, I fell asleep in Owen's bed, talking with him into the late hours of the night. Sometimes he fell asleep in mine, his head on my lap, listening to music as I read a book or listened with him.
We'd been living together for almost a year. After high school, I'd become a regular DJ at the radio station and had taken a job at the World of Waffles.
Owen was also still a DJ, although he'd finally gotten a job at his favorite music store, PLUG.
We'd bought an apartment together—something with two rooms, good acoustics, and enough space for Owen's music collection. The building was a crumbling three-story red-brick that I called "rustic" and Owen called "affordable".
I was incredibly, undeniably, almost intolerably, happy.
We still had our separate things—like my side of the bathroom vanity, for instance—but almost everything else had become "ours", or something we shared.
Like the stash of rainy day money, kept in an old jelly jar on the kitchen counter—not "mine" or "his", but "ours".
And in the mornings—sometimes I'd be taking a shower while he brushed his teeth, or vice versa. Sharing the space.
We had settled into a routine so easily, and everything about this new life just felt right.
But then came Owen's twentieth birthday, almost a month ago. We'd gone out to dinner with Clarke, Rolly, his mother, and Mallory, but as soon as we got home, we'd been glued to each other.
I knew he'd wanted a more... physicalconnection for a long time, but he'd been so patient with me, so loving. He knew that after Will Cash, I was a little hesitant for action.
I was sighing, thinking of all of the changes a baby would bring, when Owen came in and sat down next to me on my bed.
"What's wrong, babe?" he asked, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder and trying to meet my eyes.
"Nothing." I replied coldly.
He was still doubtful, but he said nothing. Instead, he shifted his position, kicking off his heavy boots and shrugging his jacket off of his shoulders, trying to fill the void of silence that had fallen between us.
Owen finally spoke.
"Is this about…" He hesitated. "About what happened on my birthday?"
Yes! I wanted to scream. We had sex and I was stupid because my birth control didn't work and I should have made you use a condom!
But I danced around the truth—something I hadn't done with him in a very, very long time. It felt wrong, but I just wasn't ready to tell him. Not yet.
"No." I answered. "I'm glad we did it—I'm just tired, okay?"
This was not a lie—I was, in fact, very happy that we'd did it, although I wasn't sure how I felt about the effects of our consummation.
He nodded, but instead of getting up, he laid down next to me.
His presence was comforting. His broad form curled around mine, and he swung his arm over my body, his fingers intertwining with mine.
I was fascinated by the way my body fit so easily into his, and how comforting his daunting presence could be when it was just the two of us, in the dark.
Owen had always been my shield. He was sheltering me, and once I'd tilted my head back and pecked him on his cheek, I waited until his breathing steadied and I was sure he was asleep.
The music in the other room was still on, but I was glad. It played over the sound of my sobs in the darkness.