It shouldn't be so simple.
When both their lives are so terribly complicated, something like this shouldn't make her feel the way it does, as though the obvious answer isn't necessarily the right one. Doubt is easy. Decisions are difficult.
The reality is, her pregnancy was unintended, unexpected, and she is woefully unprepared for it. It's already affected her health—brought her anaemia roaring back with a vengeance—and day by day it continues to throw her entire personality off its axis, rendering her flighty and fickle and quick to give in to the feelings she usually carefully considers before allowing herself to have. The reality is, she wouldn't have chosen this.
But the truth is something different.
The truth is what she's had no choice but to tell him: that somehow—for some reason she's yet to fathom, in some heretofore unidentified aspect of herself—some part of Penelope must want this. If she didn't, it would already be taken care of. She knows herself well enough to know that it's as simple as that.
After all, being afraid to be pregnant is different from not wanting to have a child.
And losing a mother is different from never having known one.
And if Penelope has never before permitted herself to truly be in love with anyone, then she could never have expected just how much such a simple fact could change her entire life, and potentially her entire future.
"Hear me out," Penelope begins, as though she has an easy explanation waiting behind this little preamble, as though Gordon's protesting, somehow, and not just sitting in bed staring at her, as rapt with attention as he's ever been, as she tries to start, "I just—I need to…this is…"
But she trails off, floundering and helpless, unable to express what seems like such a simple concept when confined inside her, but which iterates into unspeakable complexity when she tries to put it into words.
Something about the way she looks at him then—imploring and frustrated—must resonate, because he snaps out of stillness and sits up, leans forward and reaches out to beckon her back, to gather her up into an easy embrace and let her settle comfortably against him. She does so with a dissatisfied sigh, annoyed at the way this conversation doesn't come easily, in the safest possible place, in the least judgemental possible company. "I'm sorry," she says as she nestles close, breathing deep and closing her eyes to better appreciate the faint scent of soap on his skin, the reassuring warmth of his body against hers. "I don't know how to explain."
"Just talk to me," Gordon urges gently, in that way he has that makes her want to, more than anything, and to tell the truth when she does. "It's why we came here. Anything you wanna say, Penelope, I'm listening. None of it could be wrong."
"Couldn't it?"
"No."
He sounds so stubbornly certain as he says it that she can't help but smile, nuzzling her face against the hollow of his throat. His arms are secure around her, but she shifts slightly against him, feeling for his wrist and adjusting his hand to rest lightly atop her abdomen. The clearest possible understanding of this particular reality seems important, especially as she tries again, haltingly, to explain something she hasn't even managed to fully understand herself. "It's just…with the way this wouldn't have happened on purpose, now that it's happened by accident…it just makes me think—it makes me feel—like there might be something…more…to this."
There's a very deliberate silence, the sort of delicate, thoughtful pause that Penelope takes to mean that she's being very carefully handled at the moment; that Gordon is taking great pains not to say anything that might divert her from an honest expression of her feelings. "More to what?" he prompts cautiously.
The only answer that seems correct is a vague wave of her hand, a gesture meant to encapsulate the both of them and their history—from the past few months, to the years that went before, all the way back over the course of their entire lives up until the moment they first met—separately and together, and now with a union of their very selves between them, waiting for a resolution. "This. Us. Everything."
"Oh."
Putting this into words makes her feel like an idiot, especially when he's so clearly perplexed by her answer. Penelope feels shame rising red and warm in her cheeks, a flush of embarrassment at not being able to explain this in a way that doesn't sound like the most absolute and utter tripe. It's immensely, incredibly frustrating not to be able to articulate her thoughts, because she can't quite tell where these end and her feelings begin. She shakes her head, failing to follow this statement with anything meaningful and letting out a stymied little growl as she tilts her forehead against his collarbone.
She falls silent, and he lets her. A minute passes, and the silence slowly fills with all the little sounds that kept it from being a real silence to begin with. Birdsong outside, the soft whirr of the motor that drives the overhead fan, running slowly in the center of the ceiling. The beat of his heart, his breathing. The way he isn't saying anything, as she tries to think her way through her feelings.
"I love you," she says, eventually, a statement of fact and not of affection.
Gordon shifts his shoulders against the headboard of the bed, kissing the crown of her head lightly, as affectionate as he is factual as he answers, "I love you, too."
Penelope was not fishing for this, and while the obvious affection is nice, it's the fact of the matter that matters more. If she didn't love him, this would be simpler, but she does, very much. And so it's complicated. She sits up in bed beside him, and looks at him directly, so best to gauge his reaction.
"I might want to have your baby," she says out loud, not because she's at all sure of it, but just to see what happens.
What happens at first is nothing. Penelope has learned to rely on the transparency of Gordon's emotions, but apparently he's either learned to mimic her own mastery of expression, or he's always had the capacity to maintain a neutral countenance, and this is just her first time seeing it. His only reaction is not to react at all, or at least, not at first. Not for a solid few seconds, in fact.
"Okay," he answers, eventually, as though that settles that. She can read no particular or obvious emotion in this answer either. There's another pause, but it's not long enough to concern her. "D'you think you also might want to have breakfast?"
Two mostly-untouched bowls of spaghetti and an associated moral dilemma are waiting for him on the counter of the kitchen island. On the one hand, he hates to waste food, and he's certainly survived worse than day-old spaghetti. On the other, if Penelope catches him in the act of wolfing down the day-old spaghetti in question, she'll probably throw up again, and this time it'll definitely be his fault. On those grounds, after a few solid minutes spent wrestling with the problem, in the end he reluctantly disposes of them both. They'd be a lousy breakfast anyway, and breakfast is the next item on the agenda, once they're both dressed and ready to go.
Penelope is in the bedroom, getting dressed. Gordon is in the kitchen, ready to go, but it's a substantially less involved process for him than it is for her, even if their destination is no better than a local diner, about twenty minutes away. He hopes she feels well enough to have a proper meal. It's been far too long since she's eaten, but he's trying very hard not to mention this, because she doesn't like it when he frets and fusses about the state of her health. Not that this is going to stop him.
Tomatoes are definitively off the menu, so a full English breakfast is out. But as far as other typical triggers of morning sickness, Gordon hasn't turned up very many useful answers. Pancakes are probably safe. Carbs in general are usually neutral, inoffensive ground. He doesn't know how Penelope feels about pancakes. Waffles are also possible. Toast. He isn't sure about eggs or bacon. Hopefully a cup of tea, if you can even get a cup of tea in your average American diner, better known for bottomless cups of barely passable coffee. Maybe she shouldn't have coffee, either. He's not sure why he thinks tea would be any better.
Thinking obsessively about their breakfast is easier and safer than thinking obsessively about their baby.
Up until about five minutes ago, Gordon hadn't permitted himself to think about their baby at all. Now he's in very real danger not being able to think about anything else.
Because she's said it. Penelope was the one who said it, because Gordon knows he hasn't, knows he's been fanatically careful not to. Because their baby is not a baby—morally, legally, medically, "their baby" is a clump of cells within the body of the woman he loves, and devoid of thought or feeling, and within the context of the beliefs he knows they share, not entitled to the use of that body purely on account of the accidental mischance of its existence. Therefore the use of the word "baby" seems as though it would indicate that his feelings on the subject tend one way or the other, when really his feelings don't matter at all when it comes to the matter of her choice. So Gordon very deliberately hasn't said the b-word.
She has.
She's also said that she would have dealt with this herself already, if she'd known for sure she didn't want to remain pregnant. And that makes sense. He can imagine her, landing at Heathrow, pulling whatever strings would need to be pulled in order to make an appointment with all requisite haste, and just getting it over and done with, as is well within her rights. Something seems to have given her pause, cast doubt into her mind, and increasingly it seems as though it must be something to do with him.
This is terrifying.
It's an advantage of the farmhouse that the open floor plan affords plenty of room for anxious pacing. Gordon settles into a meandering circuit of the recently cleared kitchen bar, the dining room (still with the massive wooden trestle table he can remember doing homework at) and the living room. The sun is well up, and the broad, bright windows fill the space with the brilliant clarity of early spring daylight. There's none of the soft, ambiguous intimacy of everything that had gone unsaid in the dim stillness of the bedroom. There's nowhere for a statement like the one she's just made to hide.
I might want to have your baby.
And it's not that Gordon doesn't want her to want to have a baby—his baby—their baby—he just hadn't expected she would. Not like this. Not with him. Not now.
Of course, it isn't now-now, not like right now. It's actually the measurably imminent sort of later that will be now in about seven months, give or take.
Seven months is forever. Seven months is no time at all. Seven months is nothing compared to how long they've known each other, seven months is an eternity compared to how long they've been a couple. It's only been months since they first got together. Only weeks since Penelope used the word official, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. It's only been days since Gordon learned Penelope loves him. The thrill hasn't worn off of hearing her say so, he can still count on one hand the number of times she's put it into words. In seven months, the question of whether or not they have a future together could be answered, definitively, by a brand new person, brought into the world by the both of them.
And apparently she might want that. With him.
He's not sure why, after everthing, it's still so hard to believe that Penelope could want a future with him just as much as he's ever wanted one with her. Maybe even enough to render that future into a reality of flesh and blood, love and life and the rest of their lives. He's not sure whose permission he needs to be happy about that prospect. He's not sure why it feels so deeply forbidden—although it's not like the blame for that particular feeling has far to fall before it lands squarely on Scott.
The idea needs adjusting to, there's no two ways around it. However open-minded Gordon claims to be, however completely he'd always planned to abide by the result of Penelope's choice, the truth is, he'd sort of expected her choice to tend fairly obviously one way over the other. He hasn't said the a-word any more than he's said the b-word, but he's absolutely thought it. Just in a detached, clinical, necessarily practical kind of way. Deep down, in his heart of hearts, if he's really and truly honest with himself, he can admit that he hates the thought of Penelope having an abortion—but mostly because he hates to think of her hurting in any capacity, and because he hates to think he's put her in a position where it's necessary. Not because he thinks Penelope having a baby would be the better option.
He's making himself dizzy with the pacing, and nauseated with the way anxiety roils in the emptiness of his gut. Circling the living room and fretting isn't getting him anywhere, and if she comes swanning out of the bedroom to catch him at it, he doesn't know what he'll say. So instead he returns to the kitchen and applies himself to the dishes. Red rinses into the sink and down the drain as he holds a white plate beneath running water. He watches for a long few moments until it's come clean, and then shakes himself, and tries to send his thoughts somewhere far away.
