Jamie Sobrato - Baby Under The Mistletoe

“How can I help?” West asked as he went to the sink to wash his hands.

“Whatever you’d like to drink, you can get for yourself from the fridge. You and I can eat first, before I call the kids in.”

So she was allowing him a few moments alone with her. Did that mean she was ready to confess the truth? Over sandwiches and potato salad? It didn’t exactly sound like Soleil’s style.

“How about you? What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll have mineral water. It’s in the door of the fridge.”

They were still doing the awkward polite small-talk thing, conversing as though they didn’t really know each other.

Did they really know each other?

It was hard to say. He felt as if he knew the essence of her. But there had to be a lot he didn’t know, such as whether she was a woman with whom he wanted to share a child.

“Listen, Soleil, there’s something I need to say.”

She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. “Yes?”

“About last summer-what happened between us, I know we had our conflicts, but I’m willing to put all of that aside.”

She leaned against the old Formica counter. Sagged more than leaned, actually. “Okay,” she said vaguely.

“Besides, our conflicts were really more about having fun than they were serious disagreements, right?”

She frowned. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a left-leaning organic-farming peacenik, and you’re a dedicated member of the military-industrial complex. We had great sex, but that’s it.”

“Is your beef with me really because I’m in the military?”

“Partly. And it’s also because I know you want the traditional married-with-children life, and that makes us inherently incompatible.”

West laughed. “You’re the one wearing an apron and slicing freshly baked bread, not me.”

Her frown turned to a scowl, and West kept a close eye on the bread knife just to be safe.

“You’re not funny,” she said, her voice flat.

“Oh, and you’re pregnant with a child.”

My child, he almost said.

“But I’m not married, and I never will be. I don’t believe in it.”

They’d have to wait and see about that. If she was carrying his child, they’d be talking commitment. He didn’t see any harm in a shotgun marriage, if the situation called for it. And in spite of all her big talk, he’d have bet the sun and moon she was damn scared of raising a child alone.

It was time to find out the truth-pleasantries be dammed. Speculation was counterproductive. Only with the facts could he make a solid plan for the future.

“Soleil is there something you need to tell me about your pregnancy?”

SOLEIL FELT as if the words were lodged in her throat, refusing to exit. A wave of nausea the likes of which she hadn’t felt in weeks hit her, and her face broke out in a cold sweat.

West was not a man she wanted to raise a child with. She’d yet to meet anyone she wanted to raise a child with, but especially not a trained killer, whose politics and values were as opposite hers as they could possibly be.

Despite that, he deserved the truth.

“Yes,” she said, her mouth too dry.

No sooner did she speak than the nausea turned into a very real need to throw up. This wasn’t morning sickness-that had gone away around the twelve-week mark-it was a full-blown case of nerves.

Covering her mouth, she darted across the kitchen and down the hallway to the bathroom, and bent over the toilet just in time to lose it.

West followed her. She felt his hand on her back then, and he was holding her pigtails away from her face as she vomited.

When she was finished, he said, “That was pretty spectacular.”

“Shut up,” she mumbled.

She went to the sink and rinsed her mouth, then wiped her face.

She took a few deep, steadying breaths, then turned to face West again. But she couldn’t quite meet his gaze in this small, claustrophobic space. Instead, she edged past him and went into the living room, where she dropped to the couch and put her face in her hands.

West followed, and she could feel the couch sag as he sat next to her.

She could feel the tension in the air so thick it was hard to breathe, and she had to break it now before she suffocated. He was a good man, regardless of their differences. He didn’t deserve this.

She looked him in the eyes again.

“It’s your baby,” she said quietly.

Worry transformed into understanding, and he exhaled loudly, leaning back against the couch as he did so. But his hands, one on each thigh, remained tense.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said.

“You’re sure.” This time, a statement instead of a question.

Soleil watched the storm of emotions in his gaze, and she grew more terrified by the second. Before she could come up with any lame excuses for not having told him sooner, he stood and looked as if he might explode.

“What the hell, Soleil? What the hell? You didn’t tell me? You were just going to go on your merry way without letting the other parent in the situation know this key piece of information? It didn’t freaking occur to you that the father might like to know he’s the father?”

“I-I-”

“You thought maybe you could slip this one by me?”

His voice was too loud now, nearly a shout, and Soleil was painfully aware of all the adolescent ears nearby that could be hearing the argument.

“Could you please lower your voice? The kids-”

“Oh, what, now you’re worried about being a good role model?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You don’t need your baby daddy? Is that it? Is that what you tell the kids here?”

She winced at his bad imitation of a street accent. Any other time, she’d have given him an earful for that kind of comment, but now she didn’t have any room to talk-not literally or figuratively.

“West-” she said as calmly as she could, but he was closing the distance between them now, and panic rose in her chest.

“It’s crap!” he said, in her face now, close enough that she could inhale his woodsy scent. “You don’t do this to people. This is utter crap!”

She didn’t have any right to lose her temper now. It was his turn, and she had to take whatever he doled out. She owed him that. So she bit her tongue.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Her apology seemed to take the wind out of his sails. His shoulders slumped, and he retreated a step.

Shaking his head, he said, “How could you? How could you do this? How could you keep this from me?”

“I wanted to tell you in person. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

“You wanted to tell me in person,” he repeated numbly. “All this time, you didn’t even call me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I think this warranted a phone call before now,” he said.

He didn’t sound calm so much as he sounded defeated. West Morgan, in the time she’d known him, had never sounded defeated. In fact, part of what had made her so willing to spar with him was that he’d seemed undefeatable.

“You’re right. I kept putting off deciding how to tell you, another day, then another and another until all of a sudden there you were driving down the road toward my goat.”

His expression turned wounded. “Did you really plan to tell me?”

Busted.

Her mouth went dry, and she worked to find the ability to speak again.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew it would be wrong to keep it from you, but I…I put off deciding. That’s the truth.”

“Okay.”

She could see him processing the information, trying to decide on his next course of action, which was what she feared most.

Captain West Morgan would have a very narrow idea of the right way to handle this situation. Get married. Settle down. Make the best of it. She’d become the target of his next mission: Operation Family.

With the echoes of their last argument and his 1950s clichés ringing in her head, she had no interest in becoming a cozy family of three. She had no interest in any of the things that would entail-the compromises, the subjugation, the loss of freedom.

“I decided on my own to have the baby, and I don’t expect anything from you. Just so you know.” Though she knew these words were wasted and unnecessary.

“Of course I’m going to be involved,” he said.

“Of course,” she echoed weakly.

“I’m the father. I won’t let my own child grow up without a father.”

He looked stunned but determined, and Soleil knew she wasn’t going to convince him of anything now. But she couldn’t help standing her ground-she was just as unyielding as he when it came to her ideals.

“You live in Colorado, and I live in California. So what? You’re going to commute here to do diaper duty and midnight feedings?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. You’ve had months to think about this, and I’ve had a couple of minutes.”

Right. It wasn’t fair of her to be sticking it to him now.

“Maybe I should skip lunch and go,” he continued. “We’ve both got a lot to think about.”

She cast a glance at him, so much larger than her, so much more male. So foreign, so other…

He both intrigued and repelled her, even now. She wanted to run away from him, and she wanted to reach out and knead the tension from his shoulders.

“I’ll be around. You’ve got my number,” she said. “Feel free to call if you want to discuss this further.”

His posture, beneath the gray wool fisherman’s sweater he wore, remained slumped. She hated to acknowledge that she’d been the one to take that toll on him. Even at her best, she’d never felt as if she’d beaten him. Until now. It was a bitter win, if it could even be called that.

He turned to go, and as she watched him walk toward the door, she had a bewildering urge to grab hold of him and beg him not to leave. But she didn’t.