The Choices We Make. Karma Brown

was ordering our appetizers and main courses and I was trying to figure out how to open up the Lyla conversation when my phone buzzed again. I nibbled the crostini our server placed in front of me, topped with grilled octopus and spiced mango marmalade, and glanced at my phone under the table. Lyla. But an email this time. I quickly opened it and tried to read it discreetly.

      “Medium rare?”

      “Sorry?” I asked, looking up to find Ben and the server watching me.

      “Your steak. Medium rare?” Ben asked.

      “Sure. Yes, that’s perfect.” I hadn’t had a steak rare in a while, always eating everything fully cooked just in case I was pregnant.

      While Ben and our server debated if he should have the flatiron steak or the paella, I scanned the email.

      Sorry to tell you this... Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple... I’m sorry to get your hopes up... I’ll be praying you find your perfect match...

      I felt dizzy and hot, my face surely going fiery red in the candlelight. The half-eaten crostini dropped from my hand, hitting the table and leaving an oily splotch on the tablecloth.

      “Hannah? You okay?”

      My mouth open, I looked at Ben and tried to get the words out. No, I am not okay.

      “What’s up? Is something wrong?” He gestured to my phone resting limply in my hand.

      I looked back at the screen, which had since faded to black and tried to reconcile what I’d just read. Only half an hour ago Lyla had written she was looking forward to getting started. What changed? I racked my brain, thinking of our conversations. Everything was fine until I sent the photo. What happened?

      I couldn’t hear Ben but could see his lips moving. The whooshing in my head grew louder; then everything focused on Ben’s face. On the errant eyebrow hair that grew longer than the others, the one he made me pluck out monthly. On his crystal-blue eyes, which were perhaps the slightest bit too far apart and were now filled with worry. On his beautiful brown skin—much darker from a week in the sun in the picture I’d sent to Lyla. Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple...

      More traditional couple. In a flash I knew what had happened, why Lyla changed her mind, and that I could never, ever explain any of it to Ben.

      “I’ll be right back,” I sputtered, getting up so fast my napkin and purse fell to the floor. Ben stood quickly, too, looking unsure about what to do. I asked a passing server where the washroom was and practically ran there, grateful for the individual stalls. Once inside a stall, I locked the door, then sat down when I thought my legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore.

      I read the email again and then once more, tears coming fast. I heard the bathroom door open and a woman’s voice calling my name, identifying herself as the hostess.

      “In here,” I said, mentally willing the young woman to leave. “I’m okay. I’ll be right out.”

      The door squeaked shut and I heard her exchanging words with Ben, who was obviously right outside the women’s restroom.

      Shit. I couldn’t tell him now. I had fucked up big-time, not to mention the promise I made all those years ago to always tell him the truth—especially about the big stuff. Why had I even sent that first email to Lyla? I was being punished—for lying to Ben, for being so desperate to have a child I didn’t see the warning signs right in front of me, for that time, long ago, when I’d wished motherhood away.

      Pulling myself together, I flushed the toilet even though I hadn’t used it and splashed water on my face. Taking a deep, shaky breath I walked on unstable legs to the door and paused one more moment before opening it.

      Ben stood right outside, frowning, the lines on his forehead thick with concern. He took a quick step forward and wrapped an arm around me. “What happened?”

      I shook my head, staying in his protective embrace a moment longer. “I think it might have been the octopus?”

      “Are you sick?”

      “I’m not sure. Maybe I’m allergic?”

      “All of a sudden?” Ben led me back to our table, where I sat down and sipped the glass of water he handed me. Then he crouched in front of me, hands on my thighs. “You’ve had octopus so many times before.”

      “I don’t know. I had a bite and suddenly felt awful. Sorry. I’m mortified.” I drew a shaky hand over my forehead and attempted a smile. “You can’t take me anywhere.”

      He let out a long breath and gave me a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just glad you’re all right.” He stood, and I took his outstretched hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

      A few minutes later—after multiple apologies to the waitstaff for leaving before our meals came out—we were in a cab on the way home, my head resting on Ben’s shoulder, his arm around me. It was still raining, and I felt empty inside. Gutted by the most recent defeat, which lay overtop of so many other setbacks like a thick woolen blanket.

      I would never tell him what I’d done, or why Lyla had gone back on her decision. And I hoped I could forgive myself for it.

14

      HANNAH

      We’d been living together for three months, dating for six, when I realized I was late. The first few days I ignored it; then a few days later I double-checked the calendar to be sure I had counted properly. Then I looked through my pills, and in horror discovered I’d missed a day. I was so panicked I didn’t even tell Kate.

      Ben knew something was up and kept asking if anything was wrong—clearly I wasn’t hiding my anxiety well. I said things were fine, just stress at work because I was up for a promotion, which I didn’t end up getting.

      At the two-week mark I told Ben I had an off-site meeting so we couldn’t commute in together, kissed him goodbye, then called in sick the moment he left the apartment. After buying as many pregnancy tests I could fit in my hands at the pharmacy—five—I went back home, where I hoped to prove I wasn’t about to become a mother.

      It was too soon. We hadn’t seriously talked about marriage, let alone kids. I hated my job at the newspaper, creating and testing recipes the guy with the byline took credit for, but knew it was a necessary stepping-stone. I was taking night classes to become a pastry chef and wasn’t ready to trade any of that for diapers or late-night feedings. And I’d started rowing again a few mornings a week, liking how taut my stomach had become as a result. I didn’t want a baby, didn’t see how a baby would fit into our lives—not yet.

      Ben came home early—around three in the afternoon—and about one minute into the wait for test number five. A nearly empty two-liter bottle of soda was on the bathroom counter beside four used test sticks, all with two blue lines.

      I was pregnant.

      I heard the front door unlock. I froze, clenching test number five—which also turned out to have two blue lines—in my hand. “Hannah? Where are you?” Ben called down the hall.

      “Bathroom!” I shouted. Our first apartment was so small you could literally get from one end to the other in mere seconds.

      “You weren’t answering your phone, so I tried you at work. Rebecca said you called in sick?” His voice got louder as he came closer to the bathroom. “Why didn’t you call me?” We were still in that sweet spot of our relationship, when the sniffles that sent me back to bed warranted a call to my boyfriend, who would worry and fawn over me and make me his mom’s pepperpot soup and leave work early to pick up aspirin and cough drops. Not that Ben wasn’t caring now, because he was still concerned if I wasn’t feeling well, but we had moved past the soup and care package delivery and into the more realistic scenario of a “feel better” text and finishing out the workday.