APRIL
I wasn't quite sure what result I expected to see on the pregnancy test, no less the results I wanted. In my heart of hearts, as I sat inside the bathroom and waited for them to load, I was sure I wasn't ready. I was sure a negative answer would come with relief, that a weight would lift from my shoulders. I'm not yet burdened with the stone of life in my belly, I'm not yet carrying the Avery legacy - Jackson's heir. But when I looked at the negativity staring at me, lined up on the bathroom counter, I felt no positive emotions. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why, but I felt heavy.
The look on Jackson's face didn't lighten me. I drop the result and his lips part, press together, then part again. He blinks rapidly and appears caught off guard, which isn't a common look for him. "Negative," he repeats, voice very small.
Nothing about my husband is small. His presence, his ideas, his stature. The word simply doesn't fit him; I doubt it ever will. So, when I hear his voice sound like it does, it sends me teetering sideways - so much so that I have to grip the dresser for support. "Yeah," I mutter, eyes still on his muddled expression.
In this moment, I know one thing for sure. Something that I can't believe took as long as it did to sink in. He wants my baby. He wants to create life with me and hold it in his arms; he wants us to be a family. He wanted, more than anything, for these tests to read positively. I'm not sure what to think about that. The look in his eyes is nearly decimating as he scans the sticks where they sit on the dresser, going over them like they might read something new if he waits long enough. But, in the way we both know they won't, they don't change.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, gathering them to hide the small screens. I don't want to look at them anymore. And even worse, I don't want to watch him look at them anymore. The desperation he's trying to hide is becoming too much to bear.
He loves me. I understand that and I fully believe it. He loves me and he wants a child, he wants to start a family with me. The feeling of being wanted is foreign and I'm unsure of how to process it. What if I do something to change his mind? What if one day, he leaves me to take care of everyone on my own, like I'd grown so used to doing? He told me that would never happen, but that's easy to say when everything in life has been handed to you. For me, a person who's had to work to the bone for everything I have, it's not quite so easy to hear - or fully believe.
"You don't have to apologize," he says. "It's not your fault."
"It might be," I answer instantly, like a reflex.
"We'll make sure you're okay," he tells me.
A beat passes where I shift the tests in my closed fist, listening to the clicking sound they make as they move against one another. "You wanted them to be positive, didn't you?" I ask. He doesn't answer with words, but he does answer. He gives me a small nod of his head, but can't meet my eyes. I wonder what he assumes I'm thinking. "I know," I say, sighing.
"Did you?" he asks.
"I… I don't know," I say.
Another pocket of silence. This time, he rests one hand on the dresser and leans his weight on it, shoulder collapsing towards his ear. "You don't have to agree," he says.
"I know," I say. "I just… I guess what I'm trying to ask is…" I sigh and chew on the inside of my cheek, unsure of how to word it. "I don't know."
"You're asking if I really want a baby, or if I want the money," he fills in, hitting the nail on the head.
"I don't think you… you want one for money," I say. "I meant for the inheritance, that's what I meant."
"I understood your point," he says. "I can see it all over your face."
"Oh."
"I want…" he begins, treading water as he navigates through his thoughts. "A family with you. Not for the money. April, believe me when I say that I could take or leave the money-"
"You can, but I can't," I say.
"Please, let me finish," he says gently. "In theory, I could take or leave the money, but I know it's important to you and your cause. It's important to me, too - I want nothing more than to carry out my father's legacy through art in public schools. But above all that, you are my wife. I know it makes you uncomfortable to hear this, but the reason I want a family with you is because I love you. Even if you refused my child, I would still love you."
His eyes shine when he says it and my heart squeezes in on itself; I want to make him happy - as happy as he's made me. I want his child not only for that reason, though. I wouldn't bring a baby into the world if I didn't wholly want it. Our child will be wanted, loved, and cared for. Our child will spend every day laughing and smiling, safe and warm, never having to worry or want for anything. Our child will stay a child for as long as time allows. I'll nurture them like my circumstances didn't allow me to be nurtured, and I have no doubt that Jackson will make the best father. I want a baby. I want his baby. But I'm still terrified of everything that encompasses.
I want to raise a child with him and I want the other half of the inheritance, because creating the foundation is the only thing that will make me like myself again. And not only like myself, but recognize myself - the same me I once was so familiar with. I want to know her again. Since the birth of my first child, I haven't looked in the mirror and known who I am. I liked the version of myself pre-pregnancy because I was familiar with her. And ever since she did something so out of character, I haven't wanted to get close to her again. Maybe, after putting good into the universe, that will change. I can only hope it will change.
I set the tests back down and close the space between us, winding my arms around Jackson's waist to give him a sturdy hug. I press my cheek against his chest and feel him take a deep breath, slowly wrapping me up in his grip after. "I want to keep trying," I murmur, face a bit squished.
"What?" he says, surprised.
I pick my head up and tip my chin so I can look into his eyes. "I want to keep trying for a baby."
"You do?" he asks.
I nod then reach to circle my arms around his neck. I latch my fingers together at the nape and he widens his palms across the small of my back, massaging me gently. "And it doesn't make me uncomfortable to hear you say you love me," I say, eyes wide open and vulnerable.
"I just thought-"
"I know," I say. "But it doesn't."
"Okay," he says, dipping to kiss me. Our lips meet and we pull away for a short moment only to come back for more. My chest buzzes, swarms with words that I want to say, but there's no getting past my lips. For some reason, I can't open my mouth and give him what he so badly wants. I'm not sure what's stopping me, but I don't want to think about it right now.
"But we can go to a specialist, right?" I say, hands flat on his chest. "To make sure that everything… works?"
"Of course, just like we said before," he agrees. "Whenever you want."
"Okay," I say.
So, a couple weeks later, we go to a renowned gynecologist who checks everything I was worried about. And though it pains me to do so, I tell her my history of birth without going into detail, and she tells me nothing should affect future pregnancies. Just to make sure, though, I get an ultrasound and a physical exam, both of which come back with healthy results. My body is ready to host a child and if we time things correctly, it shouldn't take long to get pregnant. I sit with that fact in the exam room after the OB/GYN leaves, eyes on my bare knees as I'm still in the cloth gown.
"What're you thinking, sweet pea?" Jackson asks, interrupting the silence.
I look up as he snapped me out of the thoughtful haze I'd found myself in. "Nothing," I answer. Then say, "Everything."
He gives me a soft, sympathetic smile before saying, "Me, too."
…
A few days later, I'm on the screened-in porch reading as gray clouds toil overhead. I can see them through the walls that are windows as I look up from the pages of the book that I've been reading all morning while Jackson's been at a meeting of finances, and up until now my concentration hasn't wavered. I hear movement behind me in the house, though, which means he's finally come home and will probably make his presence known at any given moment. I've found that, when we're in vicinity of one another, he doesn't like to be alone. He prefers to be near me at all times, even if we're not participating in the same activity. I think it's sweet, how he seeks me out without consciously realizing it.
"Sweetest?" he calls, right on cue.
"On the porch," I return, face still turned down as I try to absorb the words on the page.
He appears moments later a bit breathless. "Hi," he says brightly. "Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were reading."
I look up then, a smile in my eyes. "No, it's okay," I say. "Hi, honey."
"Hey," he says, both hands on my shoulders as he stands behind me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "How're you?"
"Fine," I answer, which is true. "How did the meeting go? How was your mother?"
"My mother," he says. "Was my mother, and I don't have much of a desire to talk about her - because that means thinking about her. And you, my darling, are the only one I want to think about right now."
I can't smile but smile at that, saying, "Jackson."
He winds his arms around to rest on my chest plate and kisses the side of my neck, causing me to tilt my head in order to give him more skin to touch. "Hmm," he says, moving to the round of my shoulder. "Am I bothering you? If I am, I'll let you read. I just couldn't stop thinking about you while I was away."
I rest my head on the back of the couch so I can look at him. "You're thinking about a baby again," I say amusedly.
"You've gotten impressively skilled at reading my mind," he says, pressing a few deliberate kisses to my left ear to make me laugh.
I close the book after marking my page and hold his head as he showers me with affection, unable to keep my giggles at bay. "Jackson, Jackson, come on," I say. "We can't do this here."
"Why's that?" he asks, hands sneaking lower in order to grab both of my breasts. He gives them a playful squeeze and blows in my ear again, which makes me squeal.
"The windows!" I shrill. "Anyone could see us."
"Anyone would be so lucky," he says. "Your beautiful body and mine creating a child only we could. We should start charging."
"Jackson, enough," I say, swatting him lightly. "Take me up to bed."
"Whatever you say, Miss Modesty," he says, lifting me easily into his arms. He carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom, then shuts the door as I crawl to the middle of the bed and wait for him to join me. I undress slowly, unbuttoning my blouse as he comes closer, and he makes a sound of approval in his throat. "You are so gorgeous," he says, eyeing me.
"Even without the paint?" I ask, referencing our intimacy from a few weeks ago.
"Even more," he says, hovering over me without a shirt on. "This way, I can see every inch of your beautiful skin."
To emphasize his point, he unclasps my bra and tosses it, putting his mouth on my nipples as soon as he does. My muscles go slack and I widen my arms out to either side, taking a deep inhale as I wind my legs around his middle. "Jackson, I…" I sigh, heat coiling between my thighs as he sucks roughly on my breast. "Shit."
"Yeah, baby?" he asks, picking his head up. He thumbs the nipple that he just abandoned, making sure it stays hard as he looks into my eyes.
"I'm ovulating," I say. "Are we… we're trying, aren't we?" He gives me a look that says I should be telling him, not asking. So, I change my tone and rewire my thoughts to do just that. "I don't want you to pull out," I say firmly.
"Then I won't," he says, lowering again to bury his face in my neck.
"We might make a baby," I say, dragging my nails down his back as he kisses my stomach, drawing random patterns with his tongue around my belly button.
Our process hasn't been easy. Sex in order to get pregnant feels different than it was before. Less spontaneous in a way, though on the surface it seems like it's not. I tend to get lost in my head and overthink things; I find myself getting jealous of TV and movie characters who get pregnant by accident. They make it look so easy, which makes women like me feel lesser when it doesn't happen right away. When I get too wrapped up in my own thoughts, sometimes I see my femininity as stripped away. My body can't do one of the most important functions that it was designed for right when I need it to. Sometimes, I feel betrayed by my own system.
"We might," he responds, kissing me soundly on the mouth. "I hope we do."
"Me, too," I say truthfully, watching him as he goes lower to press my thighs apart and widen then as far as they'll go. He keeps a flat hand on either one and looks at me with sparkling eyes, then descends to press a hot kiss right above my lips. "That's not how you make a baby," I say quietly.
"A little foreplay never hurt," he says, stroking my pubic bones with his thumbs. "I'll make you feel good, sweet pea."
"Okay," I say, then let my head fall back to hit the pillow. As he opens his mouth and slides his tongue inside me, filling the room with wet, salacious sounds, I stare at the ceiling and wait for my mind to clear. That's what I love best about when he goes down on me; I totally forget everything I might be worried about.
That's not the case now, though. My thoughts won't quiet or slow down, and my body retains its tension. Even when he parts my lips with two fingers and leaves no space between his face and my core, something in my brain just won't connect. I'm absent, not playing an active role in my own sex life.
The thought of faking an orgasm crosses my mind, but I push it away quickly. With Jackson, I don't fake it. That would go against everything we've ever done, and my feelings for him aren't superficial. It would be a lie, and he would see right through me. I refuse to do that, so I have to divert him elsewhere. It's clear that I won't come from oral tonight, which I'm thoroughly disappointed by.
"Baby," I say, one hand flat on the top of his head.
"Mmm, I know," he murmurs, voice lost inside my heat. "Lay back, I'll get you there."
"No, no, I don't want it," I say, and he picks his head up immediately to give me a confused glance. "I want you inside me, that's what I want," I amend. "I don't wanna wait."
"Oh," he says, licking his lips. "Alright, then." He kisses his way up my body to find my mouth again, sucking on my lips as he threads his fingers through my hair. He scratches my scalp with his nails as he guides his dick inside, and I sigh as I welcome his body within my own. "Mmm, god," he moans, kissing me again. "Amazing."
Without hesitation, he begins to move his hips at a regular, powerful rate. He scoops them with the skill of someone very practiced, and hits a spot inside me that only he can. It feels good, I like having his body so close, but it's still not enough to shake me out of the fog my brain is in. I'm not in the right headspace and it's becoming achingly obvious. It's clear on his face that he sees it, but he hasn't said anything yet. His brows are set in low in concentration, though; his jaw clenched and tight.
I try to make something happen, but all I can think about is the baby. The life we're trying to create that feels so unreachable, so out of touch. It feels like, now that I want it, it will never be mine simply because the universe doesn't want me to have it. I toss that thought around for a while, wondering if that degree of cruelty is something I deserve. Jackson would tell me no, but the version of myself from even just a few weeks ago would tell me yes. I'm not sure what I think now. I want a family with my husband. I will take care of this baby. This baby will be okay. This baby will be ours and it will make us whole. I'll do everything right and swear by it.
"April," Jackson says jarringly. "Where are you?"
"Right here," I say, though even I hear how disjointed my voice sounds.
"Are you?" he asks, and I notice he's gone still. "Is something wrong?"
"No," I say. "I'm just… I'm sorry. I was thinking."
He pulls out and I can't help but notice how hard he still is. His penis is glistening, veins bulging along the shaft, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch it. "You've been drifting away during sex ever since we decided to start trying," he says. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"No," I say.
"The female orgasm creates a more welcoming environment for healthy sperm," he tells me; I know he's done his research, so I trust his words. I have no doubt that fact is true, but it's not something I can so easily control.
"I can't stop thinking about what we're doing, though," I say. "The fact that we're trying. What if it doesn't work?"
"Then we'll try again," he states simply.
"What if it doesn't ever work?" I refute.
He sighs and rolls off to lie next to me, and I turn on my side to face him. "Here's what you need to do," he says. "Just forget that we're trying. Put it out of your mind."
"I can't," I say. "It's all I ever think about."
"But for the next hour, pretend that it's not," he says encouragingly. "Pretend we're… in the Maldives." I nod and he says, "Close your eyes." I do. He sets a hand on my stomach and drags his fingernails across my skin, giving me chills in the process. "Imagine we're on the islands, on our honeymoon. Remember how beautiful it was, how warm the breeze felt blowing on your skin?"
He breathes warm air into my arm and my whole body shudders. "I remember," I say.
He kisses my shoulder and moves his hand lower, cupping my core in one hand as I spread my thighs to give him room. "Remember our room," he says. "And how we would lay naked with the windows open, curtains blowing in. And how we could see the bright blue water instantly, right when we woke up."
"I can see it," I say, picturing the image so vividly behind my closed eyelids. It was the most gorgeous sight I had ever seen.
"Go back to when we had sex for the first time. When I made love to you like a husband should to a wife, and you made me your own. It all happened right there on that bed, and we soaked up every beautiful second. Remember how that felt?"
"Mm-hmm," I hum.
"I'll be right back," he says. "Sit up." I do as he says and wait, then lighten when he comes back holding a flute of champagne - and without having to ask, I know it's my favorite. Dom Perignon. "Here," he says, handing me the glass.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I joke, taking a sip.
"No," he says. "It's to make you happy. To put you in the moment, and to remind you that we're making love, not participating in a contest. I love having sex with you because it's you, April, not because I'm trying to race to an end goal. Don't overthink it. Just be with me."
"Be with you," I say, taking another drink. "Come here."
He scoots closer and I rest one hand on his chest as I tip my flute against his lips to give him a sip of the champagne. He keeps eye contact as he drinks, and I down the rest while he swallows and makes his Adam's apple bob. I set the flute down and straddle his hips as he rests against the headboard, then tilt my head to kiss him.
I trace the bow of his top lip and the pout of the bottom one with the tip of my tongue, sucking on the bottom one after to relish the taste of champagne. His erection is insistent as it presses against my leg, reminding me what it wants, and I can't deny that I'm now in the same mindset. I don't waste time for that reason - I sink down onto his length and undulate my hips at an even pace, hugging his head to my chest as I control the way we move.
As in sync as we could possibly ever be, we end up coming at the same time. My body vibrates and jolts on top of his as he shoots off inside me, emptying himself into a vessel we both hope will bear the weight.
After it's over, we don't move. I've found that neither of us like to jump into anything else directly after finishing, we like to stay and soak up the moment. I run the hair at the nape of his neck through my fingers and feel his heartbeat against my skin, and when I turn to kiss his cheek I taste his sweat on my lips. Everything about him is mine. I recognize it all. I come to realize that I know him better than I've ever known anyone, and I've allowed him to say as much for me.
By definition, there's no greater way than that to showcase love. So, I say it.
"I love you, Jackson," I whisper, lips moving against his ear, voice as quiet as it needs to be.
Instantly, his arms tighten around my lower back. He holds my body as close as it will come, then kisses my sternum. He doesn't raise his head when he speaks and he doesn't have to. Not only do I hear him clearly, but I feel it when he says, "I love you, too."
…
Four months later, I wake up shirtless as I sometimes do. The air in our bedroom is warm and soft with sleep, but I can tell Jackson is wakeful beside me. He's turned onto his side and I can feel his eyes, though mine aren't yet open. I smile to myself, then feel his lips on my outer arm. "Sweetest," he whispers, voice raspy in the morning. "You're showing."
I open my eyes right away. First to look at him, then my bare belly. "What?" I say.
He kisses my arm again, this time with a smile. "Look," he says, then rests a hand at the apex of my ribs. Then, he slides it lower and I watch it rise with the newfound swell of my stomach. We've been busy the last couple of weeks, seemingly without a moment to spare. I haven't studied my pregnant belly in a while, and this morning is our first slow one. At 15 weeks pregnant, I've begun to show.
"I have a bump," I say, gasping as he continues to trace its roundness.
"You have a bump," he says.
I giggle softly, overlapping his hand on my skin. "He's really in there," I tell Jackson as if he isn't aware.
"She is," he counters, flashing his eyes at me.
"He," I correct.
He clears his throat for effect, saying, "She."
I smile to myself and shake my head, my eyes still resting on our entwined fingers resting atop the baby bump. "I'm happy," I murmur, voice just loud enough for him to hear.
"Me, too," he says, kissing my temple and lingering after. 'You've made me so happy."
I pause for a moment, then ask, "Happy enough to cancel our dinner with your mother later?"
He laughs; the kind of laugh that lets me know he hadn't been expecting that. "Funny," he says. "You know how much I wish that were possible. But no. If we cancel again, she'll come to the house. And…"
"You're right," I say. We've already begun to set up the nursery, and Jackson and I have agreed that's not something Catherine should be allowed a say in. And if she were to see it, a say is exactly what she would have.
"I'll make sure it's not long," he assures me. "You're with child. Late nights aren't possible anymore."
I hold my belly as I get out of bed and stand sideways in the mirror, covering my bare breasts as I size myself up. "I see it," I say, using my free arm to rest beneath the swell.
Jackson comes up behind me, as shirtless as I am. "Don't cover these," he says, lowering my right arm. "You're beautiful. Everything about you."
"I can't handle you," I say, turning to look up at him.
He laughs a little and kisses me, holding my chin as he does. "Don't lie," he says. "Not only can you handle me, you have me in the palm of that little hand."
"Soon to be in someone else's even littler hand," I say, still skimming my belly.
"Very true," he says.
We go about our day as usual until it's time to leave for the restaurant. Jackson had suggested having dinner at Catherine's estate, but she quickly turned down the idea and demanded we go someplace expensive. I've only just begun learning how to dress my new body, so it takes me a while to find a dress that fits and makes me look pregnant instead of just oddly shaped. Once I do, though, I'm happy with the result and Jackson is, too.
"You look stunning," he tells me on the way to the car.
"Does the bump look okay?" I ask, adjusting the fabric as I sit down.
"Better than okay," he says, buckling in. "You both look perfect. Really, sweetest."
"Thanks," I say, wringing my hands.
"Don't be nervous," he says. "She's just a person."
"A person who happens to be your very controlling, very manipulative mother who would rather not have me in your family," I say.
"That's not true," he says.
"It's mostly true," I say.
I spend the rest of the ride as a bundle of nerves. I've been much more susceptible to anxiety and intrusive thoughts since becoming pregnant, both of which I have a hard time controlling. I'm still becoming familiar with this version of myself, and I've needed help in doing so.
As soon as I step out of the car, I'm bombarded with flashes, camera clicks, and loud voices. It comes as a shock; we haven't had a public spotting in months. I don't know why it happened - it's not like we've been in hiding. Instantly, tears spring to my eyes as I'm frozen in place, waiting for Jackson to shield me from the mob of people.
"April! Are you pregnant?"
"Are you carrying the Avery legacy?"
"How much did they pay you to do that?"
"Once the baby is born, where will you go?"
"How do you feel about birthing a child who's already famous?"
"April, over here! Can you give us a smile?"
"Come," Jackson says, swooping in just in time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and literally takes me under his wing to walk into the restaurant, matching stride as he bursts through the front door and leave the cacophony outside. "Are you okay?" he asks, keeping his arm around me while ducking to look at my face.
I nod shakily, sniffling while wiping under my eyes - carefully, so not to smudge my makeup. "I think so," I say, voice trembling.
"Shhh," he says, stroking my cheek. "It's okay. We're safe. We'll leave from the back; you won't have to do that again."
"Why were they here?" I ask, looking to either side to make sure no one's watching. With my luck, I'd turn into another headline about a mental breakdown. "How did they know we were here?"
Something sparks behind Jackson's eyes and his expression becomes flooded with thick disappointment. "My mother, probably," he says, defeated.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "She probably told them she was going to be here. She enjoys the attention; she finds it keeps her relevant. And when her people told the agencies, they probably tacked on the fact that we'd be here, too."
"Why?" I ask.
"Like I said, attention," he responds. "Relevancy. I don't know. I've never really understood; I just went along with it."
"I don't like it," I say.
"I know," he says. "I don't-"
"Son!" Catherine says, interrupting by appearing in the entryway of the dining room. "April."
I look up and attempt to make myself presentable. I don't like to show emotion around her because I'm sure she sees it as a sign of weakness. I try to be as placid and flat as I can because that makes me less of a target. "Hello, mother," Jackson says, never letting go of my hand.
"What are you doing out here? Did they not tell you I have a table ready?" She gives him a look. "You're late."
"Well, we got caught up with the photographers," he says sternly.
"Oh, them?" she says, then rolls her eyes. "Please, Jackson. After all these years, you still let them get to you? It's time to toughen up."
He doesn't bother with a response. Instead, she leads the way into the immaculate dining room and sits at a table by the far wall, one set for three. She's on one side with Jackson and me on the other, though I'm surprised that she didn't sequester me on the single side. Once we get settled and order drinks, Jackson asks politely, "So, how have you been, mother?"
She ignores his question entirely and looks at me directly. "You're showing," she says pointedly.
"Oh," I say, surprised. One hand gravitates to my belly due to her words, and I find myself stroking it absentmindedly. It comforts me in a way I hadn't expected. "Yeah. Yes. I am."
"So, the situation has become real," she says, taking wine from the waiter without acknowledging his presence. "Hasn't it?"
"Well, now that the tabloids know, there's no way it couldn't," Jackson snaps, and my stomach sinks. I hadn't even realized, but he's right. By tomorrow morning, everyone in the world will have access to the information that I'm pregnant and carrying an Avery child. I feel exploited and the violation of privacy makes me sick. I have nothing to say in response.
"They were bound to find out sometime," Catherine says.
"They were going to find out on our terms," he says, voicing what I so badly wish I could. "We were going to tell them ourselves, in our own words. But you've made that impossible. Now, they'll get to run with the story. Who knows what garbage they'll come up with?"
"I didn't do anything, son," she says. "All I did was simply arrive."
"Bullshit," Jackson says, which makes me jump. I've never heard him use such an acerbic tone around his mother, such malice laced in his curse words.
"I will not be spoken to like that," Catherine says. "I came here for a nice dinner. You will not ruin it." Jackson grits his teeth and his cheeks bulge because of it. It's clear he doesn't know what to say or how to dig his way out of the hole she always throws him into. "As I was saying," she continues. "I bet the baby is becoming all the more real to you now that you're showing." She addresses the statement at me, so I have to respond. I give her a terse, wary nod of the head and she seems adequately pleased. "And when the baby is born - pray it's a boy - when he's born, that's when you'll receive the money." She looks at Jackson. "And Jesus Christ, Jackson, please tell me you've given up on that silly art foundation idea."
"No, I haven't," he says confidently. "We'll be using half of the money for the art foundation and the other half for something close to April's heart."
Catherine looks to me and I wish she wouldn't. "And what's that, dear?" she asks. "I hope it's something better than the throwaway cause my son thinks he's donating to." She rolls her eyes. "Just like his father. Tossing money where it doesn't belong, to people who don't know how to use it."
My hands grow clammy and I'm sure my cheeks redden. The last thing I want to do is get shamed in the way Jackson did. "I…" I try and wet my lips, but my mouth is full of cotton. "I… well, um… I…"
"Good god," she says. "If you're going to be a part of this family, you're going to have to learn how to use your voice. That is, if you have one."
"She doesn't have to tell you anything, mother," Jackson says, cutting in. "It's not your business."
She narrows her eyes at him. "I don't know why you continue to say that when I continue to tell you that you're wrong," she says. "That mansion of yours is on my property. We're part of the same family, the same blood. This child is my legacy as he is yours. You think I won't have a say in how he's brought up and what kind of life he leads? Oh no, son. You're sorely mistaken if that's what you think."
I blink hard and thank the waiter effusively when he brings the appetizer, but I don't touch a single bit. Jackson and Catherine continue to argue across the table, throwing around words like 'boarding school,' 'heir,' and 'blue blood.' I begin to lose track of the conversation and removing myself works better than getting trampled by my mother-in-law.
So, I stay quiet. All through the appetizer, dinner and dessert, I barely speak a word. If I'm directly addressed I respond accordingly, but that's it. By the time it's over and time to leave, I've never wanted to be home more than I do right then. Jackson takes my hand and leads us out the back and, as promised, there are no photographers. Catherine, expecting just as much of a to-do as when she arrived, exited from the front.
In the car, we don't speak. Jackson is seething, that much is clear, and I don't know if I want to open that can of worms tonight. I'm not sure if I have the energy. By the time we get home, he's cooled down a little but I've only grown heavier with thoughts of everything that transpired over dinner. But instead of the uncomfortable, out-of-place feeling I had as we were eating, I feel protective and defensive not for myself, but for the tiny life that I'm growing.
I keep quiet as I get ready for bed. I change into a dark green set of pajamas that are silk and give my skin plenty of room to breathe, and I slip against the sheets as I crawl under them. When Jackson joins me his body is still rigid, so I beckon him closer without words and open my chest so he has a place to rest his head.
We lie like this for a while as I stroke his hair and listen to him breathe deeply. He doesn't fall asleep and neither do I; though my body is bone-tired, my mind could go all night. And if I'm not careful, it just might. He rests a hand on my belly and pushes up my shirt, rubbing his hand in circles over our little light.
I kiss his forehead and close my eyes, hearing his mother's voice reverberate through my mind. She wants everything for our child that I would never dream of, everything I'm dead-set against. I don't want to raise a spoiled, entitled child who gets everything they want. I want our baby to always be warm, clothed, and fed, but I don't want them to live the satin lifestyle that Catherine imagines. I want them to get dirty, to play in the mud, to have a handful of siblings to wrestle with. I don't want them in board meetings when they're 15 and I don't want them in private school - no less boarding school thousands of miles away. I want my children to be exactly that; mine. Mine and Jackson's to raise the way we want, not the way Catherine wants. I won't have her stealing my baby from me. I already had one ripped out of my arms against my will; I'll die before I let it happen again.
"Jackson," I say, and my voice surprises me. He lifts his head to look me in the eyes with a sober expression - so sober, it's like he's been reading my mind the whole time.
"Hmm?"
I blink hard, sure of what I want to say. I can say it to him. If there's anyone whom I can talk to, it's him. And this is something he needs to know. So, I say it. "I don't want to raise our child in this life," I tell him.
Shockingly, Jackson doesn't miss a beat when he answers. He looks at me with that same clear expression, opens his mouth and says, "Then we won't."