he color drains from his face. “What?”
he whispers, ashen.
“I’m pregnant.”
His brow furrows with incomprehension. “How?”
I blink at him. How . . . how? What sort of ridiculous question is that? I blush,
and give him a quizzical how-do-you-think look. His stance changes
immediately, his eyes hardening to flint.
“Your shot?” he snarls.
Oh shit.
“Did you forget your shot?”
I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he’s mad—really mad.
“Christ, Ana!” He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so
abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. “You ha一ve one thing, one
thing to remember. Shit! I don’t fucking believe it. How could you be so
stupid?”
Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words
fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Sorry? Fuck!” he says again.
“I know the timing’s not very good.”
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“Not very good!” he shouts. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes. I
wanted to show you the fucking world and now . . . Fuck. Diapers and vomit
and shit!” He closes his eyes. I think he’s trying to contain his temper and
losing the battle.
“Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?” His eyes blaze and
anger emanates off him like a force field.
“No,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about Hannah—he’d fire her. I know.
“I thought we’d agreed on this!” he shouts.
“I know. We had. I’m sorry.”
He ignores me. “This is why. This is why I like control. So things like this don’t
come along and fuck everything up.”
Thing . . . little Blip is not a thing. “Christian, please don’t shout at me.” Tears
start to slip down my face.
“Don’t start with waterworks now,” he snaps. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through
his hair, pulling at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His
voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic. And it all becomes clear,
the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless
adolescent. Oh Fifty, I am so sorry.
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